MISGIVINGS
Hilda Forest's wedding was one of the events of the season. All London
went to it. Lord Percy Davenant, the bridegroom, was a man of many
friends, and the bride's mother prided herself upon the width of her own
social circle.
In the midst of the fuss and tumult the bride, very grave and serene,
with shining eyes, went her appointed way. Everyone was loud in her
praise. Her bearing was admirable. She was as one on whom a veil of
happiness had fallen, and external things scarcely touched her.
She went through her part steadfastly and well, forgetful utterly of the
watching crowds, conscious only of one being in all that critical
multitude, holding only one thought in the silent sanctuary of her soul.
And Chris, the chief bridesmaid, walking alone behind her, watched and
marvelled. She liked Lord Percy Davenant. He was big, good-natured,
rollicking, and many a joke had they had together. But no faintest tinge
of romance hung about him in her opinion. She could not with the utmost
effort of the imagination see what there was in him to bring that light
into Hilda's eyes.
It was odd, thought Chris, very odd. If it had been Trevor, now--She
could quite easily have understood it if Hilda had fallen in love with
him. And they would have been eminently well suited to one another, too.
Yes, it was very strange, quite unaccountable! Here she remembered that
Trevor was probably somewhere in the crowd behind her, and peeped over
her shoulder surreptitiously to get a glimpse of him.
She was not successful, but she caught the eye of one of the bridesmaids
immediately behind her, who leaned forward with a merry smile to whisper,
"Your turn next!"
Chris turned back sharply. The words had a curious effect upon her; they
gave her almost a sensation of shock. Her turn next to face this ordeal
through which Hilda was passing with such supreme confidence! Would she
feel as Hilda felt when she came to stand with Trevor before the altar?
Would that thrill of deep sincerity be in her voice also as she repeated
the vows irrevocable which were even now leaving Hilda's lips? Would her
eyes meet his with the same pure gladness of love made perfect?
A sudden tremor went through her. She shivered from head to foot. The
scent of the flowers she held--Hilda's flowers and her own--seemed to
turn her sick. She felt overpowered--lost!
Desperately she clutched her wavering self-control. This ghastly,
unspeakable doubt must not conquer her. No one must know it--no one must
see!
But she was as one slipping down a steep incline, faster and faster every
second. The beating of her heart rose up and deafened her. It was like
someone beating a tattoo in the church. She could not hear another word
of the service. And she was suffocating with the nauseous sweetness of
the bridal flowers. Wildly she looked around her. Where was Trevor? He
would help her. He would understand--he always understood. But she sought
him in vain. There was only the long line of bridesmaids behind her and
a sea of indistinct faces on each side.
She lifted her head and gasped. She felt as if she were being smothered
in flowers. Their heavy perfume stifled her. She understood now why some
people wouldn't have flowers at their funerals. She had always thought it
odd before.
She was slipping more and more rapidly down that fatal slope. The
sunlight that lay in a great bar of vivid colours across the church
danced before her eyes. She no longer saw the bridal couple in front of
her. They had faded quite away, and in their stead was a terrible abyss
of flowers--bridal flowers that made her sick and faint.
She swayed as she stood. Who was that speaking? Certain solemn words had
pierced her reeling brain. She heard them as if they came from another
world--
"Those whom God hath joined together let no man put asunder."
Those words would be uttered over her next. Perhaps they were meant
for her even now. Surely it was her own wedding and not Hilda's,
after all! She was being married, and she wasn't ready! Oh, it was
horrible--horrible! And where was Trevor, or Bertie, or someone--anyone
to hold her back from that dreadful, scented darkness?
Ah! An arm supporting her! A steady hand that took the flowers away!
Trevor at last! She turned and clung to him weakly, crying like a
frightened child. Her knees would not support her any longer, they
doubled under her weight. But he lifted her without effort, almost as if
she had been a child indeed, and carried her away.
He bore her to an open door that led out from the vestry, and there in
the fresh air Chris revived. He set her on her feet, and made her lean
against him. Jack hovered in the background, but he dismissed him.
"She is all right again. Go and tell your mother. It was an atmosphere to
asphyxiate an ox."
Chris laughed very shakily. "I'm so sorry, Trevor. Did I make a scene?"
She would have withdrawn from his support, but he kept his arm about her.
"No, dear. I chanced to be looking at you, and I saw you were going to
faint. I am glad I was able to get you away in time."
"I couldn't help it," she said, not looking at him. "It was--it was--the
flowers."
"I know," he said gently.
She leaned her head against him. It was throbbing painfully. "Oh,
Trevor--it wasn't--only--the flowers," she whispered.
He put his hand over her aching temples. "Tell me presently, dear," he
said.
She reached up and found the hand, drew it down over her face, and held
it so for seconds, speaking no word. She touched it softly with her lips
at last, and let it go.
"I'm well now," she said. "Take me back."
He looked at her searchingly. "You are sure?"
She smiled at him, though her eyes were still heavy. "Yes, I'll be quite
good. I mustn't spoil Hilda's wedding by being silly, must I? You haven't
brought Bertie, I suppose?"
He smiled a little. "He didn't get an invitation."
"Of course not. Trevor, you didn't think I was--flirting with him that
night?"
"My dear child--no!"
"Because I never flirt," said Chris very earnestly. "It's a horrid thing
to do. You'll never think that of me, will you? Or that I have ever
trifled with you--or anyone?"
Trevor's eyes rested upon her with grave kindness. "My dear, why should I
think these things of you?" he said.
She shook her head. "I don't know. Lots of people do. But you are
different. I think you understand. You'll stay after it's over and have a
talk, won't you?"
"Yes," he said.
She slipped her hand into his. "Now let's go back."
They went back. The ceremony was very nearly over. Chris took her place
again, and followed the bride into the vestry afterwards.
Later, at the crowded reception, she was among the merriest, and very few
noticed that she was paler than usual or that her eyes were deeply
shadowed.
The wedded pair left early, and immediately afterwards the guests began
to disperse. Mordaunt, who had been making himself generally useful,
looked round for Chris as soon as a leisure moment arrived. But he looked
in vain; she was not to be found.
He went through every room in search of her, but all to no purpose. For a
while he lingered, waiting for her, talking to the few people who
remained. But at length, as there was still no sign of her, he prepared
to take his departure also, with the intention of presenting himself
again later.
He was actually on the doorstep when Jack came striding after him. "I
say, Chris wants you. I forgot to mention it. Make my apologies, for
Heaven's sake! She must have been waiting an hour or more."
"What?" Mordaunt turned back sharply, frowning.
"Don't scowl, there's a dear chap," said Jack. "I'm awfully sorry. I had
such a shoal of things to see to. She's upstairs, right at the top of the
house, first door you come to. She said you were to go up and have tea
with her and Cinders. Really, I'm horribly sorry."
"All right. So you ought to be," Mordaunt said, and left him to his
regrets.
He was somewhat breathless when he arrived outside the door of Chris's
little sanctum, but he did not pause on that account. He knocked with his
hand already upon the handle, and almost immediately turned it.
"I can come in?" he asked.
A muffled bark from Cinders was the only answer--a warning bark, as
though he would have the intruder tread softly.
Mordaunt trod softly in consequence, softly entered, softly closed the
door.
He found his little _fiancée_ crouched on the floor beside an ancient
sofa, her arms resting upon it and her head sunk upon them. Cinders, very
alert, bristling with importance, mounted guard on the sofa itself.
For Chris was asleep, curled up in her bridesmaid finery, a study in
white and blue, with a single splash of vivid red-gold where the sunlight
touched her hair.
Cinders growled below his breath as Mordaunt approached. He also wagged
his tail, though without effusion. The visitor was welcome so far as he
was concerned, but he must make no disturbance. A canny little beast was
Cinders.
And so, noiselessly, Mordaunt drew near, and bent above the child upon
the floor. He saw that she had been crying. Even in repose her face
looked wan, and there was a soaked morsel of lace that had evidently been
quite inadequate for the occasion crumpled up in one hand.
What was the trouble? he wondered, and wished with all his heart that
Cinders could impart it. He had no doubt that Cinders knew.
It seemed almost cruel to awake her, but neither could he bring himself
to leave her as she was. He looked to Cinders for inspiration. And
Cinders, with a flash of intelligence that proved him more than beast, if
less than human, lowered his queer little muzzle and licked his
mistress's face.
That roused her. She stretched out her arms with a vague, sleepy murmur,
smiled, opened her eyes.
"Oh, Trevor!" she said. "You!"
He stooped over her. "Chris, is anything the matter?"
She looked at him. "I don't know," she said slowly. "I forget."
"Poor child!" he said. "It's a shame to make you remember. But I'm afraid
it is inevitable. Won't you lie on the sofa? You will find it more
comfortable."
"No," said Chris. "I like the floor the best. You can sit on the sofa, if
Cinders doesn't mind. Has everyone gone, downstairs? Hasn't it been a
dreadful day?" She leaned her head against his knee with a sigh of
weariness. "I do think getting married is a dreadful business," she said.
His hand was on her hair, the beautiful, burnished hair that Mademoiselle
Gautier had deemed one of her most dangerous possessions. He did not try
to see her face, and perhaps for that very reason Chris leaned against
him with complete confidence.
"So you don't want to be married?" he said, after a moment.
"No, I don't!" she said, with vehemence. "I think marriage is
dreadful--dreadful, when you come to look at it close." She moved her
head under his hand; for an instant her face was raised. "Trevor, you
don't mind my saying it, do you?"
"I want you to say exactly what is in your mind," he made grave reply.
"I knew you would." She nestled down again, and pulled his hand
over her shoulder, holding it against her cheek. "I know I'm very
unorthodox," she said. "Perhaps I'm wicked as well. I can't help it.
I think marriage--except for good people like Hilda--is a mistake.
It's so terribly cold-blooded and--and irrevocable."
She spoke the last words almost in a whisper. She was holding his hand
very tightly.
He sat very still, and she wondered if he were shocked by her views, but
she could not bring herself to ascertain. She went on quickly, with a
touch of recklessness--
"It's only the good people like Hilda who can be quite sure they will
never change their minds. In fact, I'm beginning to think that it's only
the good people who never do. Trevor, what should you do if--if you were
married to me, and then you--changed your mind?"
"I can't imagine the impossible, Chris," he said.
She moved restlessly. "Would it be quite impossible?"
"Quite."
"Even if you found out that I was--quite worthless?"
"That also is impossible," he said gravely.
She was silent for a space, then, "And what if I--changed mine?" she
said, her voice very low.
"Have you changed your mind?" he asked.
She shrank at the question, quietly though it was uttered.
His hand closed very steadily upon hers. "Don't be afraid to tell me," he
said. "I want the truth, you know, whatever it is."
"I know," she said, and suddenly she began to sob drearily, hopelessly,
with her head against his knee.
He bent lower over her; he lifted her till he held her in his arms,
pressed close against his heart.
"Yes, hold me!" she whispered, through her tears. "Hold me tight, Trevor!
Don't let me go! I don't feel so--so frightened when you are holding me."
"Tell me what has frightened you," he said.
"I can't," she whispered back. "I'm just--foolish, that's all. And,
Trevor, I can't--I can't--be married as Hilda was to-day. I can't face
it--all the people and the grandeur and the flowers. You won't make me,
Trevor?"
"My darling, no!" he said.
"It frightened me so," she said forlornly. "It seemed like being caught
in a trap. One felt as if the guests and the flowers were meant to hide
it all, but they didn't--they made it worse. I don't think Hilda felt
like that, but then Hilda is so good, she wouldn't. Oh, Trevor dear, I
wish--I wish we could go to Kellerton and live there without being
married at all."
The words came muffled from his shoulder; she was clinging to him almost
convulsively.
"But we can't, Chris," he said, his quiet voice coming through her
agitation with a patience so immense that it seemed to dwarf even her
distress. "At least, dear, you can go and live there if you wish, but I
can't. Perhaps I am not indispensable."
"No, no!" she said quickly, as though the suggestion hurt her. "I want
you."
"Then I am afraid you will have to marry me," he said. "We won't have a
big wedding. It shall be as private as you like. I suppose you will want
your brothers to be there."
"Why can't we run away together and get married all by ourselves?"
suggested Chris. She raised her head and regarded him with sudden
animation. "Wouldn't it be fun?" she said. "You could come for me in the
motor, and we could fly off to some out-of-the-way village and be married
before anyone knew anything about it. There would be no one to gloat over
us and make silly jokes, no horrid show at all. Trevor," her face flashed
into gaiety once more, "I'll go with you to-morrow!"
He smiled at her eagerness. "If I were to agree to that, you would run
away in the night."
"Run away from you!" said Chris. She wound her arm swiftly about his
neck. "As if I should!" she said reproachfully.
He looked at her, baffled in spite of his determination to understand.
"You wouldn't want to do that, then?" he said.
She nestled to him with a gesture most winning. "Never, never, unless--"
"Unless--?" he repeated.
"Unless--for any reason--you were angry with me," she murmured, with her
face hidden again.
He folded his arms more closely about her. "My little Chris, never be
afraid of that," he said.
"Oh, but you might be," she protested.
"Never, Chris." He spoke gravely, with absolute conviction.
She turned her lips quickly to his. "Then let's run away together, shall
we?"
He kissed her with great tenderness before he answered. "No, dear, no. It
can't be done. What would your aunt say to it?"
"Surely if I don't mind that, you needn't!" she said.
But he shook his head. "I won't let you be pestered with preparations. We
will keep it a secret from everyone outside. But I think we must let your
Aunt Philippa into it. I think you owe her that."
"P'raps," admitted Chris, without enthusiasm. "But she is sure to want a
big show, Trevor."
"Leave that to me," he said. "I promise you shall not have that. We will
get it done early, and we will be at Kellerton for luncheon."
Her eyes shone. "How lovely! And the boys, too--and Bertie?"
He surveyed the eager face for a few seconds in silence. Then, "Chris,"
he said, "would it mean a very great sacrifice to you if I asked for the
first fortnight with you alone?"
He was watching her closely, watching for the faintest suggestion of
disappointment or hesitancy in the clear eyes, but he detected neither.
Chris beamed upon him tranquilly.
"Why, I should love it! There's no end of things I want to show you.
And we can make it all snug before Bertie and the boys come. But, of
course"--she became suddenly serious--"I must have Cinders with me."
"Oh, we won't exclude Cinders," he said.
She laughed--the gay, sweet laugh he loved to hear. "That's settled,
then. And you'll make Aunt Philippa promise not to tell, for of course
that would spoil everything. Oh, and Trevor, you won't discuss Bertrand
with her? Promise!"
He looked at her keenly for a moment, met only the coaxing confidence of
her eyes, and decided to ask no question.
"My dear," he said, "as far as Bertrand is concerned, your Aunt Philippa
and I have nothing to discuss."
"That's all right," said Chris, with relief. "Trevor, you've done me a
lot of good. You are quite the most comforting man I know. I'm not
frightened any more, and I'll never be such a little idiot again as long
as I live."
She rose with the words, stood a moment with her hand on his shoulder,
then stooped and shyly kissed his forehead.
"You always understand," she said. "And I love you for it. There!"
"I am glad, dear," he said gently.
But he did not look particularly elated notwithstanding. There had been
moments in their recent conversation when, so far from understanding her,
he had felt utterly and completely at a loss. He had not the heart to
tell her so, for he knew that she was quite incapable of explaining
herself; but the fact remained. And he wondered with a vague misgiving if
he had yet succeeded--if, indeed, he ever would wholly succeed--in
finding his way along the many intricate windings that led to her inmost
heart.