VII
They named her Stella, I fancy, because her eyes were so like stars. It is manifestly an irrelevant detail that there do not happen to be any azure stars. Indeed, I am inclined to think that Nature belatedly observed this omission, and created Stella’s eyes to make up for it; at any rate, if you can imagine Aldebaran or Benetnasch polished up a bit and set in a speedwell-cup, you will have a very fair idea of one of them. You cannot, however, picture to yourself the effect of the pair of them, because the human mind is limited.
Really, though, their effect was curious. You noticed them casually, let us say; then, without warning, you ceased to notice anything. You simply grew foolish and gasped like a newly-hooked trout, and went mad and babbled as meaninglessly as a silly little rustic brook trotting under a bridge.
I have seen the thing happen any number of times. And, strangely enough, you liked it. Numbers of young men would venture into the same room with those disconcerting eyes the very next evening, even appearing to seek them out and to court peril, as it were—young men who must have known perfectly well, either by report or experience, the unavoidable result of such foolhardy conduct. For eventually it always culminated in Stella’s being deeply surprised and grieved—at a dance, for choice, with music and color and the unthinking laughter of others to heighten the sadness and the romance of it all—she never having dreamed of such a thing, of course, and having always regarded you only as a dear, dear friend. Yes, and she used certainly to hope that nothing she had said or done could have led you to believe she had even for a moment considered such a thing. Oh, she did it well, did Stella, and endured these frequent griefs and surprises with, I must protest, quite exemplary patience. In a phrase, she was the most adorable combination of the prevaricator, the jilt and the coquette I have ever encountered.
VIII
So, for the seventh time, I asked Stella to marry me. Nearly every fellow I knew had done as much, particularly Peter Blagden; and it is always a mistake to appear unnecessarily reserved or exclusive. And this time in declining—with a fluency that bespoke considerable practice—she informed me that, as the story books have it, she was shortly to be wedded to another.
And Peter Blagden clapped the pinnacle upon my anguish by asking me to be the best man. I knew even then whose vanity and whose sense of the appropriate had put him up to it. …
“For I haven’t a living male relative of the suitable age except two second cousins that I don’t see much of—praise God!” said Peter, fervently; “and Hugh Van Orden looks about half-past ten, whereas I class John Charteris among the lower orders of vermin.”
I consented to accept the proffered office and the incidental stickpin; and was thus enabled to observe from the inside this episode of Stella’s life, and to find it quite like other weddings.
Something like this:
“Look here,” a perspiring and fidgety Peter protested, at the last moment, as we lurked in the gloomy vestry with not a drop left in either flask; “look here, Henderson hasn’t blacked the soles of these blessed shoes. I’ll look like an ass when it comes to the kneeling part—like an ass, I tell you! Good heavens, they’ll look like tombstones!”
“If you funk now,” said I, severely, “I’ll never help you get married again. Oh, sainted Ebenezer in bliss, and whatever have I done with that ring? No, it’s here all right, but you are on the wrong side of me again. And there goes the organ—Good God, Peter, look at her! simply look at her, man! Oh, you lucky devil! you lucky jackass!”
I spoke enviously, you understand, simply to encourage him.
Followed a glaring of lights, a swishing of fans, a sense that Peter was not keeping step with me, and the hum of densely packed, expectant humanity; a blare of music; then Stella, an incredible vision with glad, frightened eyes. My shoulders straightened, and I was not out of temper any longer. The organist was playing softly, “Oh, Promise Me,” and I was thinking of the time, last January, that Stella and I heard The Bostonians, and how funny Henry Clay Barnabee was. … “—so long as ye both may live?” ended the bishop.
“I will,” poor Peter quavered, with obvious uncertainty about it.
And still one saw in Stella’s eyes unutterable happiness and fear, but her voice was tranquil. I found time to wonder at its steadiness, even though, just about this time, I resonantly burst a button off one of my new gloves. I fancy they must have been rather tight.
“And thereto,” said Stella, calmly, “I give thee my troth.”
And subsequently they were Mendelssohned out of church to the satisfaction of a large and critical audience. I came down the aisle with Stella’s only sister—who afterward married the Marquis d’Arlanges—and found Lizzie very entertaining later in the evening. …
IX
Yes, it was quite like other weddings. I only wonder for what conceivable reason I remember its least detail, and so vividly. For it all happened a great while ago, when—of such flimsy stuff is glory woven—Emilio Aguinaldo and Captain Coghlan were the persons most talked of in America; and when the Mazet committee was “investigating” I forget what, but with column after column about it in the papers every day; and when “Me und Gott” was a famous poem, and “to hobsonize” was the most popular verb; and when I was twenty-one. Sic transit gloria mundi, as it says in the back of the dictionary.
IV
He Talks with Charteris
I
It was upon the evening of this day, after Mr. and Mrs. Blagden had been
