Page could not restrain a giggle, and the giggle strangled with the sobs in her throat, so that the little girl was not far from hysterics.
And just then a sonorous voice, magnificent, orotund, began suddenly from the chancel with the words:
“Dearly beloved, we are gathered together here in the sight of God, and in the face of this company to join together this Man and this Woman in holy matrimony.”
Promptly a spirit of reverence, not to say solemnity, pervaded the entire surroundings. The building no longer appeared secular, unecclesiastical. Not in the midst of all the pomp and ceremonial of the Easter service had the chancel and high altar disengaged a more compelling influence. All other intrusive noises died away; the organ was hushed; the fussy janitor was nowhere in sight; the outside clamour of the city seemed dwindling to the faintest, most distant vibration; the whole world was suddenly removed, while the great moment in the lives of the Man and the Woman began.
Page held her breath; the intensity of the situation seemed to her, almost physically, straining tighter and tighter with every passing instant. She was awed, stricken; and Laura appeared to her to be all at once a woman transfigured, semi-angelic, unknowable, exalted. The solemnity of those prolonged, canorous syllables: “I require and charge you both, as ye shall answer at the dreadful day of judgment, when the secrets of all hearts shall be disclosed,” weighed down upon her spirits with an almost intolerable majesty. Oh, it was all very well to speak lightly of marriage, to consider it in a vein of mirth. It was a pretty solemn affair, after all; and she herself, Page Dearborn, was a wicked, wicked girl, full of sins, full of deceits and frivolities, meriting of punishment—on “that dreadful day of judgment.” Only last week she had deceived Aunt Wess’ in the matter of one of her young men. It was time she stopped. Today would mark a change. Henceforward, she resolved, she would lead a new life.
“God the Father, God the Son, and God the Holy Ghost …”
To Page’s mind the venerable bishop’s voice was filling all the church, as on the day of Pentecost, when the apostles received the Holy Ghost, the building was filled with a “mighty rushing wind.”
She knelt down again, but could not bring herself to close her eyes completely. From under her lids she still watched her sister and Jadwin. How Laura must be feeling now! She was, in fact, very pale. There was emotion in Jadwin’s eyes. Page could see them plainly. It seemed beautiful that even he, the strong, modern man-of-affairs, should be so moved. How he must love Laura. He was fine, he was noble; and all at once this fineness and nobility of his so affected her that she began to cry again. Then suddenly came the words:
“… That in the world to come ye may have life everlasting. Amen.”
There was a moment’s silence, then the group about the altar rail broke up.
“Come,” said Aunt Wess’, getting to her feet, “it’s all over, Page. Come, and kiss your sister—Mrs. Jadwin.”
In the vestry room Laura stood for a moment, while one after another of the wedding party—even Mr. Cressler—kissed her. When Page’s turn came, the two sisters held each other in a close embrace a long moment, but Laura’s eyes were always dry. Of all present she was the least excited.
“Here’s something,” vociferated the ubiquitous clerk, pushing his way forward. “It was on the table when we came out just now. The sexton says a messenger boy brought it. It’s for Mrs. Jadwin.”
He handed her a large box. Laura opened it. Inside was a great sheaf of Jacqueminot roses and a card, on which was written:
“May that same happiness which you have always inspired in the lives and memories of all who know you be with you always.
The party, emerging from the church, hurried across the street to the Dearborns’ home, where Laura and Jadwin were to get their valises and hand bags. Jadwin’s carriage was already at the door.
They all assembled in the parlor, everyone talking at once, while the servants, bareheaded, carried the baggage down to the carriage.
“Oh, wait—wait a minute, I’d forgotten something,” cried Laura.
“What is it? Here, I’ll get it for you,” cried Jadwin and Cressler as she started toward the door. But she waved them off, crying:
“No, no. It’s nothing. You wouldn’t know where to look.”
Alone she ran up the stairs, and gained the second story; then paused a moment on the landing to get her breath and to listen. The rooms near by were quiet, deserted. From below she could hear the voices of the others—their laughter and gaiety. She turned about, and went from room to room, looking long into each; first Aunt Wess’s bedroom, then Page’s, then the front sitting-room, then, lastly, her own room. It was still in the disorder caused by that eventful morning; many of the ornaments—her own cherished knickknacks—were gone, packed and shipped to her new home the day before. Her writing-desk and bureau were bare. On the backs of chairs, and across the footboard of the bed, were the odds and ends of dress she was never to wear again.
For a long time Laura stood looking silently at the empty room. Here she had lived the happiest period of her life; not an object there, however small, that was not hallowed by association. Now she was leaving it forever. Now the new life, the Untried, was to begin. Forever the old days, the old life were gone. Girlhood was gone; the Laura Dearborn that only last night had pressed the pillows of that bed, where was she now? Where was the little black-haired girl of Barrington?
And what was this new life to which she was going forth, under these leaden skies, under this warm mist of rain? The tears—at last—were in her eyes, and the sob in her throat, and
