Since the dinner and its epilogue Gonfallon had barely seen his sister-in-law. The day after she had gone with the Picketts to Washington, and before returning to New York had managed to pass a full month with Yarde’s relatives in the South. Since then her hours had been given to the trousseau. Today she was to be married, and at the ceremony, at her mating to that man, instead of forbidding the banns he was to officiate. It was through him the Church was to sanction a thing against which every fibre of his being rebelled. In an effort to gain some mastery over the expression of his face, he turned again to the street.
There had been a flurry of snow an hour before, but now in the sunlight high noon rang everywhere. On the pavement was an eager glitter like that of broken glass, and at the corner the spires of Gethsemane pointed to a gulf of blue.
“And not a reason for refusing,” he muttered—“not one.” During the preceding weeks he had told himself that this thing should never be. The touch of her lips had sealed her to him. He had felt the willingness, the courage even, to abandon the rochet already in his grasp, his high estate, his reputation, his cloth, Ruth, everything, even to honor, and carry the girl to some one of those lovely lands to which we never go, but which beckon to us, ceaselessly, from afar. In conflicts with himself conscience vanquished had been impotent to coerce. His ordinary duties he had performed with the perfunctoriness of a somnambulist. In his eyes but one light shone, and that light was Claire. And in that light all else slipped by, and he had relied now on the girl herself, now on a whim of chance, and again on some effort of his own, on something, he knew not what, but still on something that should happen in the nick of time and sunder this hateful pact.
In more rational moments he had reflected that, distasteful as the engagement was, it was rendered doubly so by the fact that the other contracting party was one whom of all others in the world he loathed the most; and into that loathing, as though to mock him, there would creep at times the knowledge—banished again and again, but ever returning—that between him and Yarde a girl such as Claire would not hesitate for a second’s space. What chance have forty years, however well carried they may be, against the fragrance and seductions of youth?
And as Gonfallon had thought of this, he would have, had he dared, clapped there and then on that fragrance some one of those masks which disfigure and distort. He would have corroded and blasted. And instead of that he was called upon to stand, the sacerdos, and consecrate his nuptials with Claire. Instead of maiming he was to marry, instead of cursing he was to bless. Could this cup pass from him! But he had no excuse—not one. It was for him to deliver the girl he loved into the arms of the man he loathed. And as he gazed down at the eager glitter of the street there came to his face an expression which Goya would have given to a gibbeted fiend. Was it not a woman that changed into Satan the angel that was Lucifer?
“Doctor, the bride is coming down.”
It was Tandem hailing him from the doorway. Gonfallon drew one long breath and turned; and as he turned he thrust his hate back in him as a soldier sheathes his sword.
“I am ready,” he answered; and to himself he added, “Calvary was easy of ascent.”
Tandem had already gone. Gonfallon drew the portiere aside, and, crossing the hall, his head bent, the prayerbook in his hand, he entered the sitting-room beyond. At his entrance the voices subsided and ceased. The guests parted into twin rows, and between them Gonfallon advanced to a mirror, before which two cushions had been placed. There he turned and stood, his head still lowered, waiting the coming of the bride.
Presently, in the lull, Yarde entered, led by Tandem, and, bowing to Gonfallon—a salute which, parenthetically, was not returned—he took up a position on the right. From beneath his lowered eyelids Gonfallon saw him fumble at a pocket. “He is feeling for the ring,” he reflected, and straightened himself just a little. Then came a rustle, a murmur, and Claire entered, leaning on her father’s arm. Gonfallon raised his eyes, Yarde stepped forward to greet, Bucholz in a worthy parental manner dropped his daughter’s arm, and the two young people stood before him who was to make them one.
“ ‘Dearly beloved,’ ” began Gonfallon, in that voice which those present knew so well—“ ‘Dearly beloved, we are gathered together here in the sight of God.’ ”
And as he repeated from memory the subsequent phrases of the opening formula, he looked down at the bride. In her cheeks that hue of the white rose which has the sulphur heart
