In the vestibule, other ears were bending to catch the strains. With the first note Judge Kirtley raised his hand enjoining silence, and the ushers and the maids fell back, leaving the old man and his companion listening at the door. Upon his arm was Margaret, child of his love, though not of his blood. She was the daughter of his old friend, who, with his dying breath, had left her to his charge. He had been faithful to his trust; he had been to her a father; and she, coming into his childless home, had filled a daughter's place. It would be lonely enough without her.
But it was not this that filled his mind as he listened to the song. He was thinking with the sense of helplessness that comes to every father, to every faithful guardian at a time like this, that he had done all he could; his trust was over; a moment more and he would give her for all time into the keeping of another. Would that other rise to meet the trust? This was the question reiterating itself in his soul. Did Victor De Jarnette know women's hearts—how strong they were to bear, how quick to bleed? Was his a hand that could be both strong and gentle? None other, he knew, could safely guide this girl of his. Margaret was high-strung and impetuous; her capacity for sorrow and for joy had sometimes made him stand aghast. Victor De Jarnette could make a heaven on earth for her, or—
He did not finish, but involuntarily he pressed close to him the white-gloved hand, and Margaret looked up wonderingly, marveling to see his face so stern. There was no shadow on her sky to-day. Her soul was in tune with the singer's rhapsody.
The song ended. There was a soft bustle in the vestibule; the majestic measures of Lohengrin filled her ears; the bridesmaids shook out their plumage and moved on; the flower girls were scattering roses for her path; and with uplifted head and shining eyes Margaret Varnum went forward to meet her lover.
In the chancel, proud, erect, and confident, stood Victor De Jarnette, waiting for her coming. In his black eyes was the triumph of possession. There were others in that church who had sought to win Margaret Varnum, and he did not forget it.
"He's a devilish handsome fellow!" whispered a young officer in the south transept to his companion.
"Yes," was the reply, "with the primary accent on the adverb, eh?"
"Why doesn't his brother take part in it?" asked Mrs. Pennybacker of her niece, "as best man or usher or something?"
Mrs. Van Dorn shrugged her shapely shoulders.
"He is opposed to it, I believe. Not to Margaret especially, but to marriage in general. I don't suppose you could persuade him to take part in a wedding—now."