the long four miles were over, and Canute set him down in the snow
while he unlocked the door. He saw the bride sitting by the fire
with her eyes red and swollen as though she had been weeping. Canute
placed a huge chair for him, and said roughly,—
“Warm yourself.”
Lena began to cry and moan afresh, begging the minister to take her
home. He looked helplessly at Canute. Canute said simply,—
“If you are warm now, you can marry us.”
“My daughter, do you take this step of your own free will?” asked
the minister in a trembling voice.
“No sir, I don’t, and it is disgraceful he should force me into it!
I won’t marry him.”
“Then, Canute, I cannot marry you,” said the minister, standing as
straight as his rheumatic limbs would let him.
“Are you ready to marry us now, sir?” said Canute, laying one iron
hand on his stooped shoulder. The little preacher was a good man,
but like most men of weak body he was a coward and had a horror of
physical suffering, although he had known so much of it. So with
many qualms of conscience he began to repeat the marriage service.
Lena sat sullenly in her chair, staring at the fire. Canute stood
beside her, listening with his head bent reverently and his hands
folded on his breast. When the little man had prayed and said amen,
Canute began bundling him up again.
“I will take you home, now,” he said as he carried him out and
placed him in his buggy, and started off with him through the fury
of the storm, floundering among the snow drifts that brought even
the giant himself to his knees.
After she was left alone, Lena soon ceased weeping. She was not of a
particularly sensitive temperament, and had little pride beyond that
of vanity. After the first bitter anger wore itself out, she felt
nothing more than a healthy sense of humiliation and defeat. She had
no inclination to run away, for she was married now, and in her eyes
that was final and all rebellion was useless. She knew nothing about
a license, but she knew that a preacher married folks. She consoled
herself by thinking that she had always intended to marry Canute
some day, any way.
She grew tired of crying and looking into the fire, so she got up
and began to look about her. She had heard queer tales about the
inside of Canute’s shanty, and her curiosity soon got the better of
her rage. One of the first things she noticed was the new black suit
of clothes hanging on the wall. She was dull, but it did not take a
vain woman long to interpret anything so decidedly flattering, and
she was pleased in spite of herself. As she looked through the
cupboard, the general air of neglect and discomfort made her pity
the man who lived there.
“Poor fellow, no wonder he wants to get married to get somebody to
wash up his dishes. Batchin’s pretty hard on a man.”
It is easy to pity when once one’s vanity has been tickled. She
looked at the window sill and gave a little shudder and wondered if
the man were crazy. Then she sat down again and sat a long time
