The great day came at last. The town was full of the invited people, and the weather, so anxiously looked to on such occasions, was all that could be desired. My remembrance of the solemn events of that day is now rather misty. I remember the tussle De Forest and I had with my collar and cravat in the morning, and how he stuck pins into my neck, and wrestled mightily with his own elaborate toilet. I remember, and this very distinctly, how awfully tight were my new patent-leather boots, which caused me for the time being the most excruciating anguish. Beyond these, and similar minor things which have a way of sticking in the memory, all the rest is very much like a vivid dream. The close carriage whirling through the streets; a great crush of people, with here and there a familiar, smiling face; Bessie in her wedding-dress of white silk, with her long veil and twining garlands of orange blossoms; the bridesmaids, radiant in tarletan, with pretty blue bows and sashes; the long aisle, up which we marched with slow and reverent tread; the pealing measures of the Wedding Chorus; the dignified and fatherly clergyman; the vealy young assistant; the unction of the slowly intoned words of the marriage-service; the fumbling for the ring,—and through it all there rises, as out of a mist, the face of my mother-in-law, the presiding genius of it all, the unknown quantity in the equation of my married life, now begun amid the felicitations, more or less sincere, of a host of kissing, hand-shaking, smiling, chattering, good-natured aunts, uncles, cousins, and relatives of all degrees.
CHAPTER IV.
MOUNTAINS AND MORE MOTHER-IN-LAW.
So the bells were rung, metaphorically speaking, and we were wed. I had a long leave of absence from the banking-house in which I held a responsible and confidential position, and we started for the mountains, leaving mamma Pinkerton to put things to rights and follow us in a fortnight, when we had decided to settle down for a month’s quiet stay in a picturesque town of the mountain region. Oh, the unrestrained joy of that fortnight! Everybody at the hotels seemed to know by instinct that we were a newly-married pair, and knowing glances passed between them. But what did we care? With pride and a conscious embarrassment that made my hand tremble, I wrote on the registers in a bold hand “Charles Travers and wife.” I asked for the best room with a pleasant out-look. The smiling clerk, trained to dissimulation, would appear as unconscious as the blank safe behind him, but he knew all the while, the sly rascal, that we were on a wedding trip, and he paid special attention to our comfort. We saw the glories and wonders of the mountains, and shared their inspiration as with a single heart. We rose early to drink the clear air and greet the rising sun together. We strolled out in the evening to romantic spots, and there, with arms around each other, as we walked or stood gazing on the scene and listening to the rustling breeze, we were happy. For two weeks our lives blended with each other and with nature, and it was with a sigh that we mounted the lumbering stage to take up our sojourn in the retired town on the hills. We came to the little hotel just at night, and were stared at and commented upon by those who had been there three days and assumed the air of having had possession for years. We were tired, and kept aloof that evening, and the next day mother-in-law arrived.
As she dismounted from the coach, she gave the driver a severe warning to be careful of her trunk, an iron-bound treasure that would have defied the efforts of the most determined baggage-smasher. Bessie had flown to meet her, and their greeting was affectionate; but to me the old lady presented a hand encased in a mitt, or sort of glove with amputated fingers, and gave me a stately, “I hope you are well, sir,” that rather made me feel sick. She looked full at me in her steady and commanding way, as much as to say, “Well, you have committed no atrocious crime yet, I suppose; but I am rather surprised at it.”
If there is anything I pride myself on, it is self-possession and a willingness to face anybody and give as good as I get, but that magnificently imperious way of looking with those large eyes always disconcerted me. I could not brace myself enough to meet them with any show of impudence, though the old lady had not ceased to regard that as the chief trait of my character. As Mrs. Pinkerton trod with stately step the rude piazza of that summer hotel, she put her eye-glasses on and surveyed its occupants with a look that made them shrink into themselves and feel ashamed to be sitting about in that idle way. I believe the old lady’s eyesight was good enough, and that she used her glasses, with their gold bows and the slender chain with which they were suspended about her neck, for effect. I noticed that if they were not on she always put them on to look at anything, and if they happened to be on she took them off for the same purpose.
“Well,” she said, going into the little parlor, and looking from the windows, “this really seems to be a fine situation. The view of the mountains is quite grand.”
“Very kind of you to approve of the mountains, but you could give them points on grandeur,” I thought; but I merely remarked, “We find it quite pleasant here.”
She turned and glanced at me without reply, as much as to say, “Who addressed you, sir? You would do well to speak when you are spoken to.” I was abashed, but was determined to do the agreeable so far as I could, in spite of the rebuke of those eyes.
“The house doesn’t seem to me to be very attractive,” she continued, glancing around with a gaze that took in everything through all the partition walls, and assuming a tone that meant, “I am speaking to you, Bessie, and no one else.” “What sort of people are there here?”
“Oh, some very pleasant people, I should judge,” said Bessie, “but we have been here only one day, you know, and have made no acquaintances to speak of. Charlie’s friend, Fred Marston, from the city, is here with his wife; and I met a young lady to whom I took quite a fancy this morning, a Miss Van Duzen. She is quite wealthy, and an orphan, and is here with her uncle, a fine-looking gentleman, who is president of a bank, or an insurance company, or some thing of the sort. You saw him, I think, on the piazza,—the large man, with gray side-whiskers, white vest, and heavy gold chain.”