“From whence does he come, and whither he goes,
There is not a mortal in all the world knows.
He comes in a smile, and goes in a kiss,
He dies in the birth of a maiden’s bliss;
He wakes in a tear, he lives in a sigh,
He lingers in hope, refusing to die.
But whence he does come, and whither he goes,
There is not a mortal in all the world knows.”
Her wedding day! That was the first thought that entered Jess’ mind, as
she opened her eyes the next morning, and with a bound she was out of
her couch to see from the window what fate portended in the way of a
cloudy or a sunshiny day for her.
It was as yet too early to determine that, for the first gray streak
of dawn had not appeared in the eastern sky, and the early mornings
were always misty, and every branch and shrub and blade of grass was
burdened by great drops of dew.
“I am sure the sun is going to shine,” she ruminated, “and that will
mean: ‘Happy is the bride the sun shines on,’ as the old saying goes.”
Jess made all possible haste with her toilet, and hurried down as fast
as she could to the grounds; but, early as she was, Mr. Moore was there
before her.
He greeted her in the same grave, dignified manner habitual to him, it
never occurring to him to offer her the slightest caress, even though
she was his promised bride; and before the sun reached the zenith she
was to be his wife.
He smiled a little as she came fluttering down the garden path, and at
the eager face she raised to his in greeting.
“How early you are,” she cried, putting out her little hand to him. “I
did not think you would be out for hours and hours yet, and here you
are before me, and it is not yet five o’clock; you are out of your nest
earlier than the early birds are.”
He did not think it necessary to tell her that he had not been in his
nest all the long night through, but had spent the long hours between
dusk, that deepened into midnight and then stretched away into early
morn, in pacing up and down under the sycamore trees, looking the
future in the face, and bidding farewell to the dearest hopes of his
life.
Jess knew so little of the habits of lovers that his lack of eagerness
or affection in greeting her passed unnoticed.
He took out his watch and glanced at it.
“There is a long walk before us, and I think we had better start at
once,” he said, abruptly; “we can return in at least a couple of hours,
and during that time we shall not be missed.
“You are sure you are willing?” he asked again, as they reached the
garden gate.
Jess looked up shyly into the grand face. She would have gone to the
other end of the world with him. But she answered only a simple “Yes.”
They walked on through the early morning together, side by side, and
to the end of her life, ay! and in the years when she understood it
better, she remembered her companion’s white face, grave even to
sternness, and his preoccupied air.
He did not notice the beautiful rosy dawn that flushed the eastern sky
directly before them, nor the birds, as they awoke from their nests and
went soaring away toward the blue dome that bent above them; nor did he
see the flowers lift their sleepy heads and shake the dew from their
drowsy eyelids.
Jess cast furtive glances at her companion, her heart beating and her
every sense tingling deliciously at the thought that she was on her way
to be married to the handsome gentleman by her side, from whom she was
to be parted nevermore.
How different were the thoughts of her companion as they neared their
destination, and the moments advanced in which his bonds were to be
sealed for life--they seemed irksome beyond the possibility of bearing,
and nothing but his strict idea that he was doing his duty restrained
him from asking little Jess to release him from the marriage which had
been forced upon him by his uncle’s odious will.
The people of the village were all astir as they reached it; and when
they made their way to the rectory which lay beyond, they found the
good man who presided over it out in the little garden which surrounded
the parsonage.
The handsome stranger who accompanied the young girl made known his
errand as briefly as possible, asking if he could perform the marriage
ceremony which would make his companion his wife at once.
The rector smiled benignly.
“As quickly as the words can be uttered, my good sir,” he replied, as
he invited them to step inside the house.
The little parlor, with its simple, meager furnishings; the tall,
handsome man by her side, with almost the ghastliness of death on his
face; and the kindly, old minister, book in hand, ever afterward seemed
like a weird dream to little Jess. She did not even hear the name her
bridegroom uttered in so low a voice, and he saw that she did not; and
he promised himself that he would surprise her with the startling truth
that he was John Dinsmore on their way home.
She heard the words which the minister uttered, and which her companion
repeated after him: then she was dimly conscious of repeating the same
words--though the name she uttered was John Moore--and then, as the
hand of her bridegroom clasped her cold, fluttering fingers, she heard
the old minister solemnly say, in a still more far-off hazy voice:
“I pronounce you man and wife; and those whom God hath joined together
let no man put asunder.”
Even in that supreme moment the deathly pale bridegroom made no offer
to kiss the little bride who clung to him as tightly as if in affright.
The minister noticed this omission of the usual custom of newly-wedded
pairs and marveled at it--the bride was so young, so sweet and so fair.
The good man was rather astounded at the amount of the bank note which
the bridegroom placed in his hands.
He watched them depart, as they had come, down the high road; and
over and over again he asked himself the question whether or not the
handsome man loved the girl whom he had just wedded.
“It was certainly not for money he made her his bride,” he ruminated,
“for of the two, I should say that he had the wealth and she only her
sweet youth, beauty and innocence.”
Mr. Moore uttered no word until they were almost in sight of the
farmhouse again, much to Jess’ great wonderment.
At last he turned to her, and said, abruptly:
“Fate has had her way, her plans have been carried out to the letter,
and you are now my wife, little Jess.”
“Your wife!” murmured the young girl, shyly. “I--I almost imagine it a
dream, it seems so--so unreal.”
“Why does it seem so?” he asked, abruptly, not caring so much for her
answer as for the fact that it would give him a few moments more while
she was talking to nerve himself for the ordeal of talking the future
over with her, and incidentally, of course, revealing his identity.
“Because all of the brides that I have ever heard of or read of went to
the church to be married, and wore long, trailing dresses of white and
bridal veils, and carried in their hands great bouquets of roses; and
when it was over there were ever and ever so many carriages around the
church door to take the bridal couple and all of the friends who had
assembled to witness the ceremony to some place where a grand feast was
in waiting, and then there was dancing and making merry.”
“Poor child! What a contrast your own hasty marriage has been; but
always remember, come what will, that I took this step for the best,
for your welfare and happiness only. Promise me that you will always
keep that thought before you when you look back at this day and hour,”
he said, huskily.
She promised, without having the least notion of what his words
implied, but through it all she felt a vague feeling of disappointment,
she could feel the tears rising to her eyes. Not that she was not as
desperately in love as ever with the handsome man whom she had just
wedded; just what it was that was weighing so heavily upon her young
heart she could not have explained.
While he was thinking how he should best break the truth to her that he
was John Dinsmore, the words were stayed on his lips by Jess remarking:
“Won’t Mrs. Bryson and all the rest at Blackheath Hall be surprised
when they hear that I am married, though? And they, hurrying up as fast
as they can to get my wedding clothes ready to marry another. I am
going to tell you a big secret--now that I am married to you, I must
keep nothing from you, you know. If I had not met and married you, I
should have had to go home and have married the other handsome fellow,
who is so much in love with me, and who has just left Blackheath Hall
for New Orleans to arrange matters for us to go there on the wedding
trip. Won’t he be disappointed, though, and won’t those black eyes of
his flash lightning when he hears what I have done? I half pity him,
poor fellow, he was so desperately in love with me--at least, so he
said, and every one else said so, too.”
John Dinsmore stopped short in the daisy-studded path, his face grown
even more ghastly than when he stood before the minister.
“Tell me, girl!” he cried, hoarsely, grasping her arm as in a vise, “do
I understand you to say that you had another lover to whom you were
preparing to be married at the time you came here?”
“Oh, what have I said, what have I done, that you are so angry at me?”
cried Jess, piteously, cowering from the awful sternness that crept
over his face and shone in his eyes.
“I want the whole truth, and I must have it, here and now, before we
proceed one step farther,” he said, slowly and harshly.
“Tell me about this man of whom you speak, when and where you first met
him. Who is he? If I have understood you aright, you are as fair and
false as others of your sex. While he was making preparations for a
marriage with you, you have coolly jilted him by marrying another--for
what purpose Heaven only knows! Probably you fancied I had more money.
I know they credit me here with being enormously wealthy.”