I
Of course everybody in Old Chester knew that there was something queer
about Mary Gordon's marriage--not the mere fact of the man, queer as he
was; for, to Old Chester's ideas, he was very queer.... A
"travelling-man," to begin with--and the Gordons had a line of scholars
and professional men behind them--a drummer, if you please. In theory,
Old Chester was religiously democratic; it plumed itself upon its
Christian humility, and every Sunday it publicly acknowledged that Old
Chesterians were like the rest of humanity to the extent of being
miserable sinners. But, all the same, that Mary Gordon should marry a
"person" of that sort--
"Dear me!" said Old Chester.
However, travelling-men may be worthy; they need not necessarily use
perfumery or put pomade upon their shiny, curly, black hair. But Mr.
Algernon Keen was obviously not worthy, and he was saturated with
perfumery, and his black, curly hair was sleek with oil. Furthermore,
he was very handsome: his lips were weak and pouting and red; his eyes
liquid and beautiful; his plump cheeks slightly pink. One may believe
that such physical characteristics do not imply moral qualities; but
only youth has such a belief. When one has lived a little while in the
world, one comes to know that a human soul prisoned in such pretty
flesh is piteously hampered. Yet Mary Gordon, meeting this poor
creature by chance, fell deeply in love with him. Of course such
falling in love was queer--it was inexplainable; for Mary was a nice
girl--not, of course, of the caliber of some Old Chester girls; she had
not the mind of Alice Gray nor the conscience of Sally Smith; but she
was a quiet, biddable, good child--at least so far as anybody knew.
But nobody knew much about her. In the first place, the Gordons lived
just far enough out of Old Chester to miss its neighborliness. Mary
was not often seen in town, and in her own home her brother Alex's loud
personality crushed her into a colorless silence. Her father did not
crush her--he merely did not notice her; but he was fond of her--at
least he had the habit of indifferent affection. She always came into
the library to say good-night to him; and he, sitting by the fire in a
big, winged chair, a purple silk handkerchief spread over his white
locks, to keep off possible draughts, would turn his cheek up to her
mechanically; but the soft touch of her lips never made him lift his
eyes from his book. She never kissed Alex good-night; she was openly
afraid of him. Alex was rude to her and made her wait on him, throwing
her a curt "thank you" once in a while, generally coupled with some
sarcastic reference to her slowness or stupidity--for, indeed, the
child was both slow and stupid. Perhaps, had she been loved-- But no
one can tell now how that would have been. At any rate, there was a
pathetic explanation of loneliness to account for the fact that she was
drawn to this Algernon Keen, who had nothing to recommend him except a
cheap and easy kindliness that cost him no effort and was bestowed on
everybody.
[Illustration: "SHE ALWAYS CAME INTO THE LIBRARY TO SAY GOOD-NIGHT TO
HIM"]
Of course the two men, her father and brother, refused to consider Keen
as Mary's suitor at all. Alex nearly had a fit over it; in his rage
and mortification he took all Old Chester into his confidence. He went
to the Tavern--this was the day after Mary had, trembling and crying,
told her little love affair to her father and begged his consent--Alex
went to the Tavern and ordered the snickering, perfumed youth out of
town.
"Well, I guess not," said Algy. "This town doesn't belong to you, does
it?"
Alex stammered with passion: "If--if you dare to address Miss Gordon
again, I'll--I'll--I'll horsewhip you," he said, his pale eyes bulging
from his crimsoning face.
"I guess Mary has a right to let me talk to her if she wants to; this
is a free country," the other blustered. And Alex, loudly, on the
Tavern steps, cursed him for a skunk, a-- Well, Old Chester was never
able to quote Alex. He came to his senses after this dreadful
exhibition of himself, and was horribly mortified. But
post-mortification cannot undo the deed, and before night everybody in
Old Chester knew that Mary Gordon had fallen in love with--"the person
who brings samples to Tommy Dove's apothecary shop."
Old Chester was truly sorry for Mary; "for," as Mrs. Barkley said,
"love's love, whether it's suitable or not; and Mary has such a lonely
life, poor child! Well, it will take time for her to get over it."
It seemed to take a good deal of time. That winter she grew pale and
was often ill. The poor little thing seemed to creep into her shell to
brood over her blighted hopes. Once she was downright sick for a week,
and Mr. Gordon sent for William King. Willy said at first that Mary
had something on her mind (which certainly Mary's family did not need
to be told).
"I believe she's thinking about that scoundrel yet," said Alex. "But
she has just got to understand that we'll never allow it, Willy. You
may as well make that clear to her, and let her get over her moping."
William King looked thoughtful and said he would call again.
However, any of us Old Chester girls could have enlightened the doctor.
"Mary was pining away for her lover;" that was all there was to it.
But the lover never appeared, being engaged in offering samples of
pomade and perfumery to apothecary stores in other regions. And then,
suddenly, the queer thing happened....
The _Globe_ announced: "Married--by Dr. Lavendar, Mary Gordon to
Algernon Keen"--and the date, which was the night before.
"_What!_" said Old Chester at the breakfast-table, and gaped out of its
windows to see Mary, crying very much, get into the stage, not at her
father's house, but at the Tavern door, if you please, and drive away
with the Person. What did it mean? "Was Alex at home? Did he
consent?" demanded Old Chester; for Alex had been away from home for a
week. By noon it was decided that Alex had consented; for it came out
that he had returned to Old Chester the previous afternoon, and with
him, shrinking into the corner of the stage, was Mr. Algy Keen.
"Get out," Alex said to him when the stage drew up at the Gordon house.
The man got out, shambling and stumbling, with a furtive look over his
shoulder, for Alex Gordon walked behind him to the front door, his
right hand gripped upon his walking-stick, his left clinched at his
side.
"He kep' just behind the feller," the stage-driver told Van Horn at the
Tavern afterwards--"just behind him, like as if he was afraid the
feller'd run away from him. But the feller, he stopped right at the
steps, and he turned around, and he says, 'Mind you,' he says (mad as a
hatter)--'mind you,' he says, 'I'm not _brought_, I've
_come_';--whatever that means," the stage-driver ruminated.
So much Old Chester knew the day after Mary Gordon's wedding. And it
naturally sought to know a little more.
"I suppose her father feels it very much?" ventured Mrs. Barkley to Dr.
Lavendar.
"Any man feels the marriage of his only girl," said Dr. Lavendar,
briefly. And Mrs. Barkley held her tongue. But Mrs. Drayton, who was
just then anxious about her soul and found it necessary to consult Dr.
Lavendar as to the unpardonable sin--Mrs. Drayton was not so easily
squelched. "My Jean says that the Gordon's Rachel told her that Alex
brought the man into the house by the ear, and then sent her for you,
running, and--"
"She didn't bring me into the house by the ear," said Dr. Lavendar.
"But why, do you suppose, was it all so sudden?" said Mrs. Drayton; "it
almost looks--"
"How do you know it was sudden?" said Dr. Lavendar.
"Well, my Jean said--"
"It may have been sudden to Jean," said the old man; "possibly Mary had
not taken Jean into her confidence. Some folks don't confide in
servants, you know."
But Mrs. Drayton was proof against so delicate a thrust. "Well, I only
hope she won't repent at her leisure;--if there's nothing but haste to
repent of. If there's anything else--"
"I'll say good-day, Mrs. Drayton," interrupted Dr. Lavendar; "and as
for your question about the unpardonable sin, ma'am, why, just be ready
to forgive other folks and you needn't be afraid of the unpardonable
sin for yourself."
He took his hat and stick and went thumping down-stairs. In the hall
he met William King going up to see the invalid, and said, with a gasp:
"Willy, my boy, a good, honest murderer is easier to deal with than
some milder kinds of wrong-doing."
"Dr. Lavendar," said William, "I'd rather have a patient with small-pox
than treat some lighter ills that I could name."
As for Mrs. Drayton, she told her daughter that Dr. Lavendar was very
unspiritual, and did not understand the distress of a sensitive
temperament. "Even the slightest error fills me with remorse," said
Mrs. Drayton. "Dear me! I should think Mary Gordon would know what
remorse is--for, of course, there is only one thing to think."