CHAPTER XIX
SHOWS THE TRIUMPH OF LOVE
A week after Miss Matoaca's funeral, Sally met me in one of the secludedstreets by the Capitol Square, and we walked slowly up and down for anhour in the November sunshine. In her black clothes she appeared to havebloomed into a brighter beauty, a richer colour.
"Why can't I believe, Sally, that you will really marry me a week fromto-day?"
"A week from to-day. Just you and I in old Saint John's."
"And Miss Mitty, will she not come with you?"
"She refuses to let me speak your name to her. It would be hard to leaveher, Ben, if--if she hadn't been so bitter and stern to me for the lastyear. I live in the same house with her and see nothing of her."
"I thought Miss Matoaca's death might have softened her."
"Nothing will soften her. Aunt Matoaca's death has hurt her terribly, Iknow, but--and this is a dreadful thing to say--I believe it has hurther pride more than her heart. If the poor dear had died quietly in herbed, with her prayer-book on the counterpane, Aunt Mitty would havegrieved for her in an entirely different way. She lives in a kind ofstained-glass seclusion, and anything outside of that seems to hervulgar--even emotion."
"How I must have startled her."
"You startled her so that she has never had courage to face the effect.Think what it must mean to a person who has lived sixty-five years in anatmosphere of stained glass to be dragged outside and made to look atthe great common sun--"
A squirrel, running out from between the iron railing surrounding thesquare, crossed the pavement and then sat erect in front of us, hisbushy tail waving like a brush over his ears. While she was bending overto speak to it, the Bland surrey turned the corner at a rapid pace, andI saw the figure of Miss Mitty, swathed heavily in black, sitting verystiff and upright behind old Shadrach. As she caught sight of us, sheleaned slightly forward, and in obedience to her order, the carriagestopped the next instant beside the pavement.
"Sally!" she called, and there was no hint in her manner that she wasaware of my presence.
"Yes, Aunt Mitty." The girl had straightened herself, and stood calmlyand without embarrassment at my side.
"I should like you to come with me to Hollywood."
"Yes, Aunt Mitty."
Pausing for an instant, she gave me her hand. "Until Wednesday, Ben,"she said in a low, clear voice, and then entering the surrey, she tookher place under the fur robe and was driven away.
The week dragged by like a century, and on Wednesday morning, when I gotup and opened my shutters, I found that our wedding-day had begun in aslow autumnal rain. A thick tent of clouds stretched overhead, and theminiature box in the garden looked like flutings of crape on the pebbledwalk, which had been washed clean and glistening during the night. Theclipped yew stood dark and sombre as a solitary mourner among theblossomless rose-bushes.
At breakfast Mrs. Clay poured my coffee with a rigid hand and an avertedface, and Dr. Theophilus appeared to find difficulty in keeping up hischeerful morning comments.
"I'll miss you, Ben, my boy," he remarked, as he rose from the table;"it's a sad day for me when I lose you."
"I hate to lose you, doctor, but I shan't, after all, be far off. I'vebought a house, as you know, beyond the Park in Franklin Street."
"The one Jack Montgomery used to live in before he lost his money--yes,it is a fine place. Well, you have my best wishes, Ben, whatever comes;you may be sure of that. I hope you and Sally will have everyhappiness."
He shook my hand in his hearty grasp before going into his littleoffice, and the next minute I went out into the rain, and walked downfor a few words with the General, before I met Sally under the bigsycamore at the side gate. I had waited for her but a little while whenshe came out under an umbrella held by Aunt Euphronasia, who was toaccompany us on our journey South in the General's private car. As sheentered the carriage, I saw that she wore a white dress under her longblack cloak.
"Mammy wouldn't let me be married in black," she said; "she says itmeans death or a bad husband."
"Dar ain' gwine be a bad husband fur dish yer chile," grumbled the oldwoman, who was evidently full of gloomy forebodings, "caze she ain'built wid de kinder spine, suh, dat bends easy."
"There'll be nobody at church?" asked Sally.
"Only the General, and I suppose the sexton."
"I am glad." She leaned forward, we clasped hands, and I saw that theeyes she lifted to mine were starry and expectant, as they had been thatday, so many years ago, when she stood between the gate and the bed ofgeraniums in the General's yard.
The carriage rolled softly over the soaking streets, and above the soundof the wheels I heard the patter of the rain on the dead leaves in thegutters. I can see still a wet sparrow or two that fluttered down fromthe bared branches, and the negro maid sweeping the water from the stepsin front of the doctor's house. There was no wind, and the rain fell instraight elongated drops like a shower of silvery pine-needles. Themixture of a fighter and a dreamer! On my wedding-day, as I sat besidethe woman I loved, approaching the fulfilment of my desire, I wasconscious of a curious gravity, of almost a feeling of sadness. Thestillness without, intensified by the slow, soft fall of the rain on thedead leaves, seemed not detached, but at one with the inner stillnesswhich possessed alike my heart and my brain. I, the man of action, theembodiment of worldly success, was awed by the very intensity of mylove, which added a throb of apprehension to the supreme moment of itsfulfilment.
The carriage crawled up the long hill, and stopped before the stepsleading to the churchyard of Saint John's. Like a sombre omen up wentthe umbrella in the hands of Aunt Euphronasia; and as I led Sally acrossthe pavement to the General, who stood waiting under the dripping maplesand sycamores, I saw that she was very pale, and that her lips trembledwhen she smiled back at me. With her arm in the General's, she passedbefore me up the walk to the church door, while Aunt Euphronasia and Ifollowed under the same umbrella a short way behind.
At the door the minister met us with outstretched hands, for he hadknown us from childhood; and when Aunt Euphronasia had removed thebride's moist cloak, Sally joined me before the altar, in the square offaint light that fell from the windows. The interior of the church wasvery dim, so dim that her white dress and the minister's gown seemed theonly patches of high light in the obscurity. Through the window I couldsee the wet silvery boughs of a sycamore, and, I remember still, as ifit had been illuminated upon my brain, a single bronzed leaf thatwrithed and twisted at the end of a slender branch. Never in my life hadmy mind been so awake to trivial impressions, so acutely aware of theexternal world, so perfectly unable to realise the profound significanceof the words I uttered. The sound of the soft rain on the graves outsidewas in my ears, and instead of my marriage, I found myself thinking ofthe day I had seen Sally dancing toward me in her red shoes, over thecoloured leaves. In those few minutes, which changed the course of ourtwo lives, it was as if I myself--the man that men knew--had beenpresent only in a dream.
When it was over, the General kissed Sally, and wiped his eyes on hissilk handkerchief.
"You're a brave girl, my dear, and I'm proud of you," he said; "you'vegot your mother's heart and your father's fighting blood, and that's agood blending."
"I wish the sun had shone on you," observed the old minister, while Ihelped her into her cloak; "but we Christians can't afford to wasteregret on heathen superstitions. I married your mother," he added, as ifthere were possible comfort in a proof of the futility of omens, "on acloudless morning in June."
Sally shivered, and glanced across the churchyard, where the waterdripped from the bared trees on the graves that were covered thicklywith sodden leaves.
"The sun may welcome us home," she replied, with an effort to becheerful; "we shall be back again in a fortnight."
"And you go South?" asked the minister nervously, like a man who triesto make conversation because his professional duty requires it of him.Then the umbrella went up again, and after a goo
d-by to the General, westarted together down the walk, with Aunt Euphronasia following close asa shadow.
"The rain does not sadden you, sweetheart?"
"It saddens me, but that does not mean that I am not happy."
"And you would do it over again?"
"I would do it over until--until the last hour of my life."
"Oh, Sally, Sally, if I were only sure that I was worthy."
A light broke in her face, and as she looked up at me, I bent over andkissed her under the leafless trees.