“YOU DON’T KNOW WHAT YOU HAVE DONE!”
All unmindful of the withering curses invoked upon their devoted heads,
the young and newly-wedded pair went on their homeward way, as happy and
light-hearted as they had come, little dreaming of the reception that
awaited the announcement of their mad freak—little dreaming of the
sudden and cruel separation in store for them—that the bright day so
happily begun, and well-nigh spent, was to close, as it were, in a night
of black despair, and long, long years of weary sorrow and heart-pangs
intervene ere joy and reunion would come again to them.
Old Prince held his head higher than ever, and stepped briskly along on
the homeward route, as if half conscious of the new and strangely
important relations which the occupants of the buggy bore to each other.
“Well, Robbie, I don’t feel any different from what I did before, do
you?” asked Dora, with a comical look on her rosy face.
“Why, no, Brightie; I didn’t expect to, did you?”
“I d’no,” replied the child, looking somewhat confused. “Well—yes—I
thought folks who got married felt bigger and grander some way.”
Robert laughed.
“Did you?” he asked. “I guess it must be because they always have on new
clothes, and are fixed up so much.”
“Perhaps so,” replied Dora, still looking puzzled. “And now I’m married,
I suppose I shall have to wear my dresses long, like other ladies, and
do my hair up in a waterfall behind, and wear bonnets instead of hats,
and, oh, dear! now I shall always have to wear gloves and stiff
collars.”
She heaved a little sigh here, half regretful, but presently went on:
“And, Robbie, you must have a tall hat and a long-tailed coat, and I
wish you had whiskers and a mustache; then I guess it would seem more
real, but I don’t feel a bit as if I was married now.”
Robert looked rather sober and sheepish, as he answered:
“I don’t know, Dora; I’m afraid we shouldn’t know each other rigged up
in that style. I don’t think I should like you half so well, with your
hair bobbed up behind, and then the long dresses would cover up your
pretty little feet; and I’m sure I shouldn’t know how to act in a
stove-pipe hat, and a long-tailed coat. I like you best as you are,
Brightie, so I guess we hadn’t better change.”
“But,” persisted the little lady, still fearful they would not be able
to support the dignity of man and wife, “don’t you think you could raise
some whiskers? I think you would look real nice if you had some like
Professor Allen.”
“I could get some false ones, if you want——”
“Ugh, don’t!” shivered Dora, as she thought of the horrid thing she had
seen in the shop windows on the street. “Well, I don’t care much any
way,” she continued; “but what do you suppose mamma will say?”
“I rather think she will be surprised when I call her mother, for I love
her dearly, and you know I never had one of my own.”
His bright face fell for a moment.
“I don’t believe I can ever say papa to your father. He has been so
sober and cross lately I’m almost afraid of him.”
“I guess he’ll get over that when he finds out what a pretty little
daughter he’s got,” replied Robert, with a fond look into the lovely
face of his little bride. “Here we are at home again,” he added, as he
drew up before the gate. “Whoa, old Prince, till I help my wife out and
take her into mother.”
Old Prince stopped in obedience to the word of command, and Robert
helped Dora out just as Mrs. Dupont’s smiling face appeared at the door
of the cottage to welcome them home.
Robert, taking Dora gravely by the hand, led her up to her mother, and
said:
“How do you do, mother? We’ve had a nice day, and I’ve brought my wife
back to you safe and sound.”
Mrs. Dupont laughed a light mocking laugh, as she said, with comic
seriousness:
“Happy to see you, little Mrs. Ellerton, and very glad to know you have
had such a nice time.”
“Very nice time, indeed, mamma,” replied Dora, with funny dignity; “only
the man who married us acted so strangely that I was almost afraid of
him. However, he got over it, and it’s all right now.”
“Really, my dear madam,” replied her mother, still willing to humor what
she thought was one of their old jokes, “who was the clergyman that
married you?”
“Oh, it wasn’t a minister at all, mamma, but Squire Moulton, and he gave
me the certificate, and told me I must never part with it, or I couldn’t
prove I was Robbie’s wife.”
“Nonsense, Dora, what do you know about a marriage certificate?”
“Well, but, mamma, he did, and I have it here in my pocket—haven’t I,
Robbie?”
“Yes,” answered Robert, now glad of a chance to say a word; “and you are
really and truly my mother now. Aren’t you glad you have a son?”
She did not answer; she looked first at one, then at the other with a
puzzled expression, hardly knowing what to make of the affair. Both
their faces were so earnest, and they talked in such a matter-of-fact
way, that she could not comprehend it.
At last Dora, who had been fumbling in her pocket, took out the
certificate and handed it to her mother, saying, triumphantly:
“There, mamma, read and see if we ain’t married, really and truly.”
Mrs. Dupont was frightened, and sank down pale and faint on the
door-step, the paper still folded in her fingers.
“Now, Robert and Dora, if this is a joke,” she said, “you have carried
it far enough; but if you are in earnest, tell me all about it at once.”
Robert then related all that had transpired from the time they left home
until their return. He told her how the squire had questioned him about
his father and mother, how angry and excited he seemed to get, and about
his wanting to know if Dora’s papa was rich, etc. He described the
marriage ceremony, their ramble around the grounds, their sail on the
lake, and their treat in the house, with such truthful manner that Mrs.
Dupont could not doubt him.
With trembling fingers and paling lips Mrs. Dupont opened the paper, and
saw it was a regular certificate, with the children’s names and ages
attached. She could no longer doubt the truth of what she heard and saw.
With a low moan the paper dropped from her hand, and she cried out in
frightened tones:
“Oh, Robert, oh, Dora, my children, what have you done?”
“Why, mamma!” exclaimed Dora, in astonishment, “I thought you’d like it.
You know I always promised to be Robbie’s wife, and now I am, what makes
you feel so? I’m sure I’m as glad as can be.”
“Stop!” replied her mother, sternly. “You foolish child, you know not
what you have done.”
Poor innocent Dora had never heard her mother speak so before, and with
her heart almost broken she rushed sobbing into the house, and crouched
half frightened in a corner.
Robert, who had listened to all that passed, with surprise and almost
anger, grew pale himself at Mrs. Dupont’s strange manner, and began to
think it had not been such a happy day after all. That he had done a
serious thing was certain, though for his part he could not yet see the
harm.
“Robert,” at length said Mrs. Dupont, “drive home as quickly as you can,
and bring your father to me. I must talk this matter over with him
immediately.”
Robert became seriously alarmed. He thought if he had done anything that
demanded a solemn conference with his father, it must be serious indeed.
“Auntie,” he said, looking wistfully into her face and addressing her by
the old name, “I am sorry you feel so badly about this, but do not blame
Dora, for I alone am to blame for all that has happened.”
“Go!” she said wearily, pointing toward his buggy.
“But please, auntie——”
“Go bring your father here. My brain is in a whirl, I cannot think or
act until I have seen him.”
She stooped and picked up the paper she had dropped, and then entered
the house.
With a long drawn sigh and a quivering lip he turned to obey her, and
entering his buggy, drove rapidly toward home, fearing, he knew not
what, but his heart was heavy within his bosom.