“ ‘I require and charge you both, as you will answer at the dreadful day of judgment—’ ”
His eyes were still on hers, but as he delivered the warning which is customary he lowered his own beneath the directness of her gaze.
“Trement,” he continued, “wilt thou have this woman to thy wedded wife, to live—”
“I will,” the young man interjected, and flushed at his precipitance.
“Together after God’s ordinance in the holy state of matrimony? Wilt thou love her—” And as the questions fell from him, Gonfallon, outwardly impassible, clutched tighter at the book he held. For a second his voice wavered, and, turning to the bride—
“Claire,” he continued, “wilt thou take this man?”
Again his eyes were on her, and so convulsed were they that to a weaker than she, dismay would have come. He paused, and Claire, as though her thoughts had preceded and interpreted his own, in a voice quasily defiant, her head held like a challenge, her eyes a trifle contracted, and fixed maliciously on his own, made the conventional response.
“Who giveth this woman—”
In speaking he caught an expression in Yarde’s face, a look of smothered mirth as though the mute dialogue had been intercepted and enjoyed. Willingly would he have hurled the prayerbook at his teeth and with his two hands about his throat crushed out his hated life. He bit his lip until it bled, and with an effort dominated himself again.
Bucholz had stepped forward, and, after making a gesture, moved back. He seemed so pompous, so spruce, and yet so unnecessary, that Gonfallon, detecting another quiver in Yarde’s expression, understood his mirth, and in his semi-hysterical condition felt his own lips twitch with a smile.
The troth then plighted, bride and groom kneeled on the cushions at his feet, and, the prayer delivered, rose up again.
“Those whom God hath joined together, let no man put asunder. For inasmuch—” he continued, and, mumbling the archaic phrases that follow, he added, with a gasp, “Amen.”
The next moment Claire was in her sister’s arms and Tandem was shaking Yarde energetically by the hand. The twin ranks of the company fused into a solid square that bore down on bride and groom. Gonfallon watched his opportunity, and escaped to the study beyond.
Thus far he had held himself well. Not one of those present had divined the rebellion that was in him. But now the farce was done, and, tearing the canonicals from him, he rumpled and tossed them in a heap on the floor. The prayerbook which he had held fell from him, and he sank on a chair. Into his mouth had come a sour taste. He raised his handkerchief to his lips, and, looking at it, saw that it was flecked with red. He passed his hand across his eyes; they were dry and hot; and, suddenly, remembering Bucholz, he chuckled and tried to laugh.
The hubbub of sixty people talking at once came to him from across the hall. For a fraction of an hour he listened unhearingly. But presently something stirred him from his mental swoon. He had heard Claire’s voice, he was sure. He started and moved to the door: yes, it was she. He drew the portiere ever so little and peered into the hall. Before him the bride stood exchanging a farewell with Miss Pickett. Then the two separated, Miss Pickett turning to the sitting-room and Claire to the stairs. For a moment he waited; then, seeing that he could leave the study unobserved, he hurried out into the hall. Already the girl had reached the floor above, but he called to her, and she stopped.
“What is it?” she asked, and looked down at him from over the rail. Without a word he mounted to where she stood. “Claire,” he whispered, and strove to take her hand, “tell me, you do love me, do you not?”
And the girl, drawing from him, answered almost sadly, with a gesture that was pathetic in the sorrow it conveyed, “Love you, Gonfallon? It is not I that love you; it is Ruth.”
A door closed, and she was gone.
Gonfallon steadied himself and gazed blankly enough at the door which had shut in his face. “And it was for this I toiled,” he mused. For the moment everything seemed to disappear; then, mindful as he always was of Form, and arguing with himself as to what he was doing there, he got into his study again, and roamed about it, likening his restlessness to that of a gyrfalcon in a cage; striving not only to forget, but to cease to think as well.
Beyond, the hubbub still continued. A luncheon was in progress, and he knew that his absence would be remarked. Yet still he could make no effort to leave the room. From time to time he passed his hand across his face and let it fall again to his side. And presently the voices approached: it was evident that the guests were assembling in the hall. From the window he could see a trim brougham, bottle-green, the straw-colored wheels picked out with black, and by it a miniature groom, in his lapel a bunch of white flowers, while at the ear of the horse nearest the rectory Gonfallon noticed that a similar bunch had been placed.
“Chris, where are you?”
It was Ruth calling to him, as Tandem had done, from the uplifted fringe of the curtain.
“Chris! They are coming. Hurry!”
Again he moved out into the hall, bowing this time right and left to the guests that had assembled there. Mrs. Manhattan was prompt at nabbing, and she had him at once.
“How sweet Claire looked!” she murmured.
“Very,” Gonfallon answered, and smilingly caressed his chin.
“Such a good match, too,” she added, “you ought to be tickled to death.”
“Yes, yes, he is a
