The wedding march of Lohengrin floated out from the Episcopal Church
of St. Mark, clear and sweet, and perhaps heavy with its paradox of
warning. The theatre of this coming contract before high heaven was
a wilderness of roses worth the taxes of a county. The high caste of
Manhattan, by the grace of the check-book, were present, clothed in
Parisian purple and fine linen, cunningly and marvellously wrought.
Over in her private pew, ablaze with jewels, and decked with fabrics
from the deft hand of many a weaver, sat Mrs. Miriam Steuvisant as
imperious and self-complacent as a queen. To her it was all a kind of
triumphal procession, proclaiming her ability as a general. With her
were a choice few of the _genus homo_ which obtains at the five-o'clock
teas, instituted, say the sages, for the purpose of sprinkling the holy
water of Lethe.
"Czarina," whispered Reggie Du Puyster, leaning forward, "I salute you.
The ceremony _sub jugum_ is superb."
"Walcott is an excellent fellow," answered Mrs. Steuvisant; "not a vice,
you know, Reggie."
"Aye, Empress," put in the others, "a purist taken in the net. The
clean-skirted one has come to the altar. Vive la vertu!"
Samuel Walcott, still sunburned from his cruise, stood before the
chancel with the only daughter of the blue-blooded St. Clairs. His face
was clear and honest and his voice firm. This was life and not romance.
The lid of the sepulchre had closed and he had slipped from under it.
And now, and ever after, the hand red with murder was clean as any.
The minister raised his voice, proclaiming the holy union before God,
and this twain, half pure, half foul, now by divine ordinance one flesh,
bowed down before it. No blood cried from the ground. The sunlight of
high noon streamed down through the window panes like a benediction.
Back in the pew of Mrs. Miriam Steuvisant, Reggie Du Puyster turned down
his thumb. "Habet!" he said.