Part 4 (2/2)

”With this ring I thee wed,” he found himself saying to a little figure in a soft grey gown at his side, while a gentle-faced old clergyman in a snowy surplice stood before him, and a square-shouldered, soldierly person in a brilliant uniform almost hugged his elbow.

”I p.r.o.nounce you man and wife.” At the words she turned towards her husband like a carrier pigeon winging for home. Then somehow the solemnity all disappeared. The major, the major's wife, two handsome young officers, one girl friend, the clergyman, the clergyman's wife, were all embracing her, and she was dimpling with laughter and happiness; and George Mansion stood proudly by, his fine dark face eager, tender and very n.o.ble.

”My dear,” whispered the major's wife, ”he's a perfect prince--he's just as royal as he can be! I never saw such manners, such ease.

Why, girlie, he's a courtier!”

”Confound the young rogue!” growled the major, in her ear. ”I haven't an officer on my staff that can equal him. You're a lucky girl. Yes, confound him, I say!”

”Bless you, child,” said the clergyman's wife. ”I think he'll make you happy. Be very sure that you make _him_ happy.”

And to all these whole-hearted wishes and comments, Lydia replied with smiles and care-free words. Then came the major, watch in hand, military precision and prompt.i.tude in his very tone.

”Time's up, everybody! There's a bite to eat at the barracks, then these youngsters must be gone. The boat is due at one o'clock--time's up.”

As the little party drove past the cathedral they observed a huge crowd outside, waiting for the doors to be opened. Lydia laughed like a child as George told her of his duplicity of the morning, when he had misled the inquiring stranger into thinking the Indian chief was to be married there. The little tale furnished fun for all at the pretty breakfast in the major's quarters.

”Nice way to begin your wedding morning, young man!” scowled the major, fiercely. ”Starting this great day with a network of falsehoods.”

”Not at all,” smiled the Indian. ”It was arranged for the cathedral, and I did attend the ceremony.”

”No excuses, you bare-faced scoundrel! I won't listen to them. Here you are happily married and all those poor would-be sight-seers sizzling out there in this glaring August sun. I'm ashamed of you!”

But his arm was about George's shoulders, and he was wringing the dark, slender hand with a genuine good fellows.h.i.+p that was pleasant to see. ”Bless my soul, I love you, boy!” he added, sincerely.

”Love you through and through; and remember, I'm your white father from this day forth.”

”And I am your white mother,” said the major's wife, placing her hands on his shoulders.

For a second the bridegroom's face sobered. Before him flashed a picture of a little old Indian woman with a broadcloth folded about her shoulders, a small carven pipe between her lips, a world of sorrow in her deep eyes--sorrow that he had brought there. He bent suddenly and kissed Mrs. Harold's fingers with a grave and courtly deference. ”Thank you,” he said simply.

But motherlike, she knew that his heart was bleeding. Lydia had told of his parents' antagonism, of the lost Mansion t.i.tle. So the good lady just gave his hand a little extra, understanding squeeze, and the good-byes began.

”Be off with you, youngsters!” growled the major. ”The boat is in--post haste now, or you'll miss it. Begone, both of you!”

And presently they found themselves once more in the carriage, the horses galloping down to the wharf. And almost before they realized it they were aboard, with the hearty ”G.o.d bless you's” of the splendid old major and his lovable wife still echoing in their happy young hearts.

It was evening, five days later, when they arrived at their new home. All about the hills, and the woods, above the winding river, and along the edge of the distant forest, brooded that purple smokiness that haunts the late days of August--the smokiness that was born of distant fires, where the Indians and pioneers were ”clearing” their lands. The air was like amethyst, the setting sun a fire opal. As on the day when she first had come into his life, George helped her to alight from the carriage, and they stood a moment, hand in hand, and looked over the ample acres that composed their estate. The young Indian had worked hard to have most of the land cleared, leaving here and there vast stretches of walnut groves, and long lines of majestic elms, groups of st.u.r.dy oaks, and occasionally a single regal pine tree. Many a time in later years his utilitarian friends would say, ”Chief, these trees you are preserving so jealously are eating up a great deal of your land.

Why not cut away and grow wheat?” But he would always resent the suggestion, saying that his wheat lands lay back from the river.

They were for his body, doubtless, but here, by the river, the trees must be--they were for his soul. And Lydia would champion him immediately with, ”Yes, they were there to welcome me as a bride, those grand old trees, and they will remain there, I think, as long as we both shall live.” So, that first evening at home they stood and watched the imperial trees, the long, open flats bordering the river, the nearby lawns which he had taken such pains to woo from the wilderness; stood palm to palm, and that moment seemed to govern all their after life.

Someone has said that never in the history of the world have two people been perfectly mated. However true this may be, it is an undeniable fact that between the most devoted of life-mates there will come inharmonious moments. Individuality would cease to exist were it not so.

These two lived together for upwards of thirty years, and never had one single quarrel, but oddly enough, when the rare inharmonious moments came, these groups of trees bridged the fleeting difference of opinion or any slight antagonism of will and purpose; when these unresponsive moments came, one or the other would begin to admire those forest giants, to suggest improvements, to repeat the admiration of others for their graceful outlines--to, in fact, direct thought and conversation into the common channel of love for those trees. This peculiarity was noticeable to outsiders, to their own circle, to their children. At mere mention of the trees the shadow of coming cloud would lessen, then waste, then grow invisible. Their mutual love for these voiceless yet voiceful and kingly creations was as the love of children for a flower--simple, nameless, beautiful and powerful beyond words.

That first home night, as she stepped within doors, there awaited two inexpressible surprises for her. First, on the dining-room table a silver tea service of seven pieces, imported from England--his wedding gift to her. Second, in the quaint little drawing-room stood a piano. In the ”early fifties” this latter was indeed a luxury, even in city homes. She uttered a little cry of delight, and flinging herself before the instrument, ran her fingers over the keys, and broke into his favorite song, ”Oft in the Stilly Night.” She had a beautiful voice, the possession of which would have made her renowned had opportunity afforded its cultivation. She had ”picked up” music and read it remarkably well, and he, Indian wise, was pa.s.sionately fond of melody. So they laughed and loved together over this new luxurious toy, until Milly, the ancient Mohawk maid, tapped softly at the drawing-room and bade them come to tea. With that first meal in her new home, the darkened hours and days and years smothered their haunting voices. She had ”left yesterday behind her,” as the major's royal wife had wished her to, and for the first time in all her checkered and neglected life she laughed with the gladness of a bird at song, flung her past behind her, and the grim unhappiness of her former life left her forever.

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