THE MOCK MARRIAGE.
"Thus grief still treads upon the heel of pleasure,
Married in haste, we may repent at leisure."--_Congreve_.
It seemed to Anna when Friday came, that human experience had nothing
further to offer in the way of mental anguish and suspense. She had
thrashed out the question of her secret marriage to Sanderson till her
brain refused to work further, and there was in her mind only dread and
a haunting sense of loss. If she had only herself to consider, she
would not have hesitated a moment. But Sanderson, his father, and her
own mother were all involved.
Was she doing right by her mother? At times, the advantage to the
invalid accruing from this marriage seemed manifold. Again it seemed
to Anna but a senseless piece of folly, prompted by her own selfish
love for Sanderson. And so the days wore on until the eventful Friday
came, and Anna said good-bye to Mrs. Standish Tremont with livid cheeks
and tearful eyes.
"And do you feel so badly about going away, my dear?" said the great
lady, looking at those visible signs of distress and feeling not a
little flattered by her young cousin's show of affection. "We must
have you down soon again," and she patted Anna's cheek and hurried her
into the car, for Mrs. Tremont had a horror of scenes and signals
warned her that Anna was on the verge of tears.
The locomotive whistled, the cars gave a jolt, and Anna Moore was
launched on her tragic fate. She never knew how the time passed after
leaving Mrs. Tremont, till Sanderson joined her at the next station.
She felt as if her will power had deserted her, and she was dumbly
obeying the behests of some unseen relentless force. She looked at the
strange faces about her, hopelessly. Perhaps it was not too
late---perhaps some kind motherly woman would tell her if she were
doing right. But they all looked so strange and forbidding, and while
she turned the question over and over in her mind, the car stopped, the
brakeman called the station and Lennox Sanderson got on.
She turned to him in her utter perplexity, forgetting he was the cause
of it.
"My darling, how pale you are. Are you ill?"
"Not ill, but----" He would not let her finish, but reassured her by
the tenderest of looks, the warmest of hand clasps, and the terrified
girl began to lose the hunted feeling that she had.
They rode on for fully an hour. Sanderson was perfectly
self-possessed. He might have been married every day in the year, for
any difference it made in his demeanor. He was perfectly composed,
laughed and chatted as wittily as ever. In time, Anna partook of his
mood and laughed back. She felt as if a weight had been lifted off her
mind. At last they stopped at a little station called Whiteford. An
old-fashioned carriage was waiting for them; they entered it and the
driver, whipped up his horses. A drive of a half mile brought them to
an ideal white cottage surrounded by porches and hidden in a tangle of
vines. The door was opened for them by the Rev. John Langdon in person.
He seemed a preternaturally grave young man to Anna and his clerical
attire was above reproach. Any misgivings one might have had regarding
him on the score of his youth, were more than counterbalanced by his
almost supernatural gravity.
He apologized for the absence of his wife, saying she had been called
away suddenly, owing to the illness of her mother. His housekeeper and
gardener would act as witnesses. Sanderson hastily took Anna to one
side and said: "I forgot to tell you, darling, that I am going to be
married by my two first names only, George Lennox. It is just the
same, but if the Sanderson got into any of those country marriage
license papers, I should be afraid the governor would hear of
it--penalty of having a great name, you know," he concluded gayly.
"Thought I had better mention it, as it would not do to have you
surprised over your husband's name."
Again the feeling of dread completely over-powered her. She looked at
him with her great sorrowful eyes, as a trapped animal will sometimes
look at its captor, but she could not speak. Some terrible blight
seemed to have overgrown her brain, depriving her of speech and
willpower.
The witnesses entered. Anna was too agitated to notice that the Rev.
John Langdon's housekeeper was a very singular looking young woman for
her position. Her hair was conspicuously dark at the roots and
conspicuously light on the ends. Her face was hard and when she smiled
her mouth, assumed a wolfish expression. She was loudly dressed and
wore a profusion of jewelry--altogether a most remarkable looking woman
for the place she occupied.
The gardener had the appearance of having been suddenly wakened before
nature had had her full quota of sleep. He was blear-eyed and his
breath was more redolent of liquor than one might have expected in the
gardener of a parsonage.
The room in which the ceremony was to take place was the ordinary
cottage parlor, with crochet work on the chairs, and a profusion of
vases and bric-a-brac on the tables. The Rev. John Langdon requested
Anna and Sanderson to stand by a little marble table from which the
housekeeper brushed a profusion of knick-knacks. There was no Bible.
Anna was the first to notice the omission. This seemed to deprive the
young clergyman of his dignity. He looked confused, blushed, and
turning to the housekeeper told her to fetch the Bible. This seemed to
appeal to the housekeeper's sense of humor. She burst out laughing and
said something about looking for a needle in a haystack. Sanderson
turned on her furiously, and she left the room, looking sour, and
muttering indignantly. She returned, after what seemed an interminable
space of time, and the ceremony proceeded.
Anna did not recognize her own voice as she answered the responses.
Sanderson's was clear and ringing; his tones never faltered. When the
time came to put the ring on her finger, Anna's hand trembled so
violently that the ring fell to the floor and rolled away. Sanderson's
face turned pale. It seemed to him like a providential dispensation.
For some minutes, the assembled company joined in the hunt for the
ring. It was found at length by the yellow-haired housekeeper, who
returned it with her most wolfish grin.
"Trust Bertha Harris to find things!" said the clergyman.
The ceremony proceeded without further incident. The final words were
pronounced and Anna sank into a chair, relieved that it was over,
whether it was for better or for worse.
Sanderson hurried her into the carriage before the clergyman and the
witnesses could offer their congratulations. He pulled her away from
the yellow-haired housekeeper, who would have smothered her in an
embrace, and they departed without the customary handshake from the
officiating clergyman.
"You were not very cordial, dear," she said, as they rolled along
through the early winter landscape.
"Confound them all. I hated to see them near you"--and then, in answer
to her questioning gaze--"because I love you so much, darling. I hate
to see anyone touch you."
The trees were bare; the fields stretched away brown and flat, like the
folds of a shroud, and the sun was veiled by lowering clouds of gray.
It was not a cheerful day for a wedding.
"Lennox, did you remember that this is Friday? And I have on a black
dress."
"And now that Mrs. Lennox has settled the question of to wed or not to
wed, by wedding--behold, she is worrying herself about her frock and
the color of it, and the day of the week and everything else. Was
there ever such a dear little goose?" He pinched her cheek, and
she--she smiled up at him, her fears allayed.
"And why don't you ask where we are going, least curious of women?"
"I forgot; indeed I did."
"We are going to the White Rose Inn. Ideal name for a place in which
to spend one's honeymoon, isn't it?"
"Any place would be ideal with you Lennie," and she slipped her little
hand into his ruggeder palm.
At last the White Rose Inn was sighted; it was one of those modern
hostelries, built on an old English model. The windows were muslined,
the rooms were wainscoted in oak, the furniture was heavy and
cumbersome. Anna was delighted with everything she saw. Sanderson had
had their sitting-room filled with crimson roses, they were everywhere;
banked on the mantelpiece, on the tables and window-sills. Their
perfume was to Anna like the loving embrace of an old friend.
Jacqueminots had been so closely associated with her acquaintance with
Sanderson, in after years she could never endure their perfume and
their scarlet petals unnerved her, as the sight of blood does some
women.
A trim English maid came to assist "Mrs. Lennox," to unpack her things.
Lunch was waiting in the sitting-room. Sanderson gave minute orders
about the icing of his own particular brand of champagne, which he had
had sent from Boston.
Anna had recovered her good spirits. It seemed "such a jolly lark," as
her husband said.
"Sweetheart, your happiness," he said, and raised his glass to hers.
Her eyes sparkled like the champagne. The honeymoon at the White Rose
Tavern had begun very merrily.