The choristers file to their places, the father with the lady of his name halts at the archway, stepping to one side that the ushers and bridesmaids may move on to the altar, which they encircle right and left; Ray, pale and white, but with eager light in his handsome dark eyes, steps quickly down, with Blake close at his heels, and bowing low, meets his fair bride at the arch, then turns and faces the two white-robed clergymen who come forward from the chancel, leaving the venerable bishop at the holy altar. The swelling hymn has ceased, and in its place low, sweet, witching strains of music float through the vaulted sanctuary; a hush as of intense expectation falls upon the listening throng, and the deep voice of the rector is heard in the solemn opening exhortation,—"Reverently, discreetly, advisedly, soberly, and in the fear of God." Is it fancy? or, as that never-answered challenge comes: "If any man can show just cause why they may not lawfully be joined together?" does Ray throw back his head with something of that same old semi-defiant gesture that as much as pays it wouldn't be a safe thing for any man to try? And then another voice is heard, feeble, tremulous with years, ay, with deep emotion; it is that of the revered old soldier of the Cross, whose lips long years before propounded the same solemn query to her sainted mother; who under that same roof received this child, a smiling baby-girl, into the congregation of Christ's flock, and signed her with the sign of the cross; who led her, a sweet maiden, to the altar there beyond to renew the solemn promise and vow that was there made in her name; from whose hands she had on bended knee so often received the consecrated elements; whose aging accents had trembled in grief and sympathy even as they uttered the words of solace, "Blessed are the dead who die in the Lord," and whose consolation was sweetest to her in the bitter days when that blessed mother died. No wonder Ray can feel that she is trembling from head to foot, and that his "I will" is firm and strong as he looks squarely into the eyes of the venerable priest and honors him for the gathering tears he sees there; no wonder his own turn proudly, fondly, down on her as her soft hand is placed in his nervous palm, and Blake sets his teeth to repel the gasp of delight with which he hears the clear-cut enunciation of every word of his solemn troth. For the life of him he cannot help thinking how many a time he has heard that voice in the wild days on the frontier, in Indian battle or in garrison debate, and marked the same ring of determination when he was deeply moved. "By gad, but he means it! I never knew him when he didn't mean every word he said!" he gasps to himself. And then—'tis her turn, and clear, bell-like, yet silvery soft, her sweet voice repeats the trembling words of her old pastor; and all over the great church men and women hold their breath and listen with eager ear; and eyes grow moist and throats grow lumpy, and some who love her dearly can hardly restrain a flood of tears, for never for an instant, from the first word to the last, do her eyes, glorious in their trust and faith, exquisite in hope and love and tenderness, falter from their fond, loyal gaze up into his. There is uncontrollable recourse to handkerchiefs, a rustle, and sensation throughout the crowded ranks of society as the last solemn word of her troth is spoken, and Blake thanks heaven that the organ tones grow perceptibly louder and more triumphant, and so does Ray, who would gladly balk that awful hurdle on which so many a poor fellow has floundered,—"With all my worldly goods I thee endow;" but he holds gallantly to the ring. He hardly knows that they are following the white-robed clergy forward to the altar now, and that there it is the bishop's voice that greets them; but despite the helmet and sabre that hang twixt him and her he is close by her side, and ere he knows it is kneeling there at the chancel rail and listening to the grandest, sweetest benediction in all the eloquent ritual of the church, and then—and then, he has risen and is gazing into the humid eyes of his wife.
Oh, with what triumph and joy the mingled tones of organ and orchestra burst into the exultant music of the Wedding March! How the lights dance and whirl! how overpowering is the perfume of rose, hyacinth, and carnation! He has blindly shaken hands with some one, but Marion takes his arm, and together they meet the thronging sea of faces and step blithely down the surpliced lane of choristers, down the archway stairs, down the broad and carpeted aisle between the batteries of smiles and tears, and after them comes Blake towering beside the first bridesmaid; come all the other damsels on the arms of their attendant cavaliers; and carriage doors are banging, and there is a merry chime resounding through the moonlit street, and away they drive to the handsome old home, with all its windows ablaze with light, and grounds with colored lanterns; and there in the great bay-window they take their stand, with the circling ranks of lovely bridesmaids and gallant groomsmen about them, and have time to note the lavish and beautiful decorations, for here, as at church, flowers are everywhere, and banks of daisies with the R. S. monogram in carnations, the crossed sabres of the —th, cavalry guidons, and the stars and stripes all tell of the work of loving hands and hearts. And such a picture as she makes as she stands there by his side! When, when was Marion half so lovely? Her rippling hair, her lustrous eyes, her pure complexion, her beaming, blissful smile, her winsome charm of manner that none could ever quite describe,—none could ever imitate! Her dress? Must I tell of that? True, madam, I bow in all meekness. No wedding description could be even tolerable, as you say, that ignored the bridal toilet. Why! therein, too, Marion shone forth in one of her quaintest, most original guises. Such a struggle as she had had with Madam Finnegan,—that autocrat of metropolitan modistes! "I will be no conventional bride," she declared; orange flowers she would not wear, but her veil was fastened by her own flower,—exquisite daisies in silver and gold filigree work; and the dress?—Madam vowed it would ruin her prestige,—that it was unheard of, impossible; that no bridal dress could be made low-necked and sleeveless; but Marion well knew the beauty of her neck and arms, and Ray had begged it should be so. Madam protested, but in vain; the low-cut, sleeveless corsage fitted closely to the lines of the lovely figure, and gleamed with pearl embroidered lace, while the front of the skirt was trimmed en tablier with the same, and a profusion of rich point-lace fell on either side from the waist to the bottom of the skirt. Soft, rich, creamy satin was the material, falling in long, straight, ample folds from the waist to the end of the train. Neither pearls nor diamonds would she wear. Not a gem is in her ears. Her one decoration is an exquisite daisy-chain or necklace,—a dainty and delicate piece of handiwork in gold and silver,—and this is Ray's present to his bride.
Of the hundreds invited to the church, only relatives, closest friends, and "the Army people" are bidden to the reception at the Sanfords'. The Army represent Ray's kindred, for the loving old mother had been growing too feeble of late to venture on the journey, and she had decided to await their coming to her at Lexington; and Nellie Rallston, who longed to be present, gave it up when her husband decided that his business would not permit him to be so far away at such a time, but as compensation, he told her to compute every dollar she thought the journey with all incidentals would have cost them, and to double it and send to Chicago for the loveliest present the money would buy as her own gift to Billy's wife. As for himself, he had already chosen his present,—the prettiest Kentucky saddle-horse that ever woman rode. It was his way of expressing his appreciation of what she had done for Dandy. And so it happened that in the big room up-stairs, where the presents are shown to the limited few who are bidden to the reception, Nell's beautiful bracelets are flanked by two photographs,—counterfeit presentments of a most shapely and knowing-looking little steed, yet unnamed,—with Mr. Rallston's congratulations and best wishes. There is no describing the many costly and beautiful gifts from the great circle of friends, relatives, and school-mates. Papa's, too, is of eminent solidity, though flimsy paper is the medium, but there are some that cannot be passed over without remark. There is significance in them.
One is a worn iron horseshoe, framed and set in gold, backed with velvet, and surrounding an oval miniature of a horse and rider; the horse is the lithe-limbed sorrel, Dandy; the rider, in the broad-brimmed hat, the blue scouting-shirt, and Indian leggings, is Ray. Touch a spring at the base of the frame and the front flies open and reveals that this is but the enclosure, for within nestles an exquisite little Swiss watch and chain of daintiest workmanship, with the monogram M. S. in diamonds. The horseshoe bears this inscription: "From the officers and men of Wayne's squadron, —th U. S. Cavalry, in grateful remembrance of a deed of heroism which renders sacred to them the name of Ray." And there is a letter from Wayne, which says, "The shoe is one of the four your gallant husband stripped from Dandy's feet the night he braved death to bring us rescue. The other three are not to be had for love or money. My wife and children have one of them: the two companies that composed the command have each another, framed and inscribed over the first sergeant's door." (Marion had no present she was so eager every one should see as this.) Then there is a wonderful clock of curious workmanship with a musical chime of bells that is going to prove something of a white elephant in moving from one post to another out on the frontier, but Marion vows it shall never be left behind. It comes from the men of the captain's own troop, many of whom served under him in Arizona, and there's a letter signed by the whole company, from the first sergeant down to Private Zwinge, in which they send their loyalty and duty to the bride of the bravest officer and kindest friend soldier ever had, and Marion shows this to Grace with blithe, happy laughter. "Now talk to me about your Jack!" she says.
Ah, well! Smiles and tears are intermingled, as they must be even in the marriage feast. There are so many there to whom the bride recalls the gentle, winsome mother, only, never was seen on that young mother's face, even in her maiden days, such peace and joy as is in the bride's to-night. There is no long lingering over the reception. Society will be invited to some formal affairs of that kind when the happy couple return from their brief wedding-tour, and only a few magnates from abroad have to be shaken hands with. The immediate wedding-party are soon seated—twenty of them—at the great table in the dining-room, while all the guests are scattered about at little quartette affairs around the broad halls and conservatory, and the orchestra plays sweet strains from their perch on the enclosed piazza, and busy waiters fly to and fro, and soon the champagne-corks are popping and the rooms are ringing with mirth and merriment, and Ray and Marion, seated side by side at the head of the broad table, are bombarded with toasts and congratulations, and the laughter and applause grow incessant as the bridesmaids and groomsmen exchange the poetic "mottos" in the favors they find at their places, and no bridesmaid seems quite able to properly affix the little gold sabre that is nestling in the folds of her napkin: it takes a soldier's practised hand to fasten them in those dainty India silks; and every groomsman swears that no one but a woman can ever properly adjust the daisy, which, as a scarf-pin, is his reward for the evening's services; and some inspired fellow-citizen gracefully proposes the health of the hostess, and an eminent statesman present ponderously does likewise for the bride, although it was the fixed determination that there should be no formal speech-making; but Mr. Sanford happily comes to the rescue in a few remarks of unaccustomed humor, in which he sets the room in a roar by expressing his satisfaction at having married off one encumbrance, his modified rapture in the reflection that there were still two or three in the way of daughters and nieces whom he felt bound to similarly dispose of, his comfort in the sight of half a dozen such likely young officers as those present, and his hope that they wouldn't "fool away their time." This dispels anything like formality, and the next thing there is a health to the Army and shouts for Blake. He finds his long legs slowly, and comes to the scratch infinitely puzzled as to how he is to worry through, but all is merriment by this time, and fun and laughter reward his feeblest shots. He is understood to begin somewhat as follows:
"You ought not to expect me to respond for the Army. I can't speak for the ladies thereof because they never gave me a chance to practise (oh! slander!), and I can't drink for the men because they insist on doing it for themselves (another libel!). In fact, after being here five days as the guest of our hospitable friends at the club, I'm wondering how any one ever could see anything to drink to in the army. Life there is a fearful grind. In the lofty and inspired language of Canon Kingsley,—if not cannon, he was at least a big gun in ecclesiastical circles (oh!),—it is a life in which
'Men must shirk and women must sweep.'"
(Loud protestations.) "Indeed, if it were not for the ladies—God bless them!—we would have nothing but fighting in the field and stagnation at home; but, whenever they get to running things their way, it—it is just the reverse." (Shame! No! Wretch!) He vainly strives to rally under the fire of imprecation, but it is too late. The groomsmen are denouncing him, as he deserves to be, as a slanderer and recreant. Mr. Ferris and Mr. Waring spring to their feet to implore the assembly to reject any and all such statements as the emanations of an embittered, oft-rejected, and "subtle, perjured, false, disloyal man;" and poor Blake, who really wanted to wind up with an apostrophe to the crowning excellences of the bride, is driven to cover, a victim of his vicious propensity for burlesque. He has created illimitable merriment, however, and is to be infinitely congratulated on getting off so easily. And then the bride-cake is cut, and eager is the excitement over the search for the prophetic ring, and the blushing bridesmaid who gets it has plainly made a deep impression on the young artilleryman who is seated next her, and is accused of already wearing his colors in her cheeks; and then comes the dance, and the crash-covered floors are speedily alive with twinkling feet, and the bride's own set in the lanciers is surrounded by a throng of eager lookers-on. And Ray's color has come back to his bronzed cheeks, and he has looked so well, so infinitely happy, so proud and radiant all the evening, and yet so grave withal, so quiet and self-restrained. All men speak of the earnest feeling that is evident in his acceptance of the showered congratulations, and the army comrades who have been long separated from him wonder at the change that has come over the fellow they once called "Rattling Ray."
And Marion! Heaven's blessings never lighted a more exquisite face than is hers to-night! She is simply radiant, simply irresistible, for the girls hang about her to repeat their congratulations again and again, to win another kiss, to hear the winning, gracious accents of the voice that has so long charmed and enthralled them. Old and young, rich and poor, big and little, those kinsfolk, school-mates, and neighbors, especially the little ones who were her scholars in the Sunday-school, flock about her, watch her with fascinated eyes; and for every one she has sweet and gracious words and beaming smiles; she holds them to the last. The children troop about her as she is led away to change her bridal-dress for the journey. 'Tis approaching midnight and the "owl train" leaves within the hour; and they hang about the stairways waiting for her reappearance, and hover in mysterious fascination about Captain Ray as he comes in his travelling suit of mufti, and wonder why he should discard his uniform and sword, and the carriage is now at the door, and great store of rice and old slippers are got in readiness, and presently down the broad stairway she comes, metamorphosed as to raiment, but radiant, winsome as ever; and they seize upon her and bear her off bodily into the great parlor, and throng about her and pull her this way, that way, every way, and kiss and maul and squeeze and rumple, and never seem to exhaust her infinite patience or their own extravagant capacity; but at last they begin to surge towards the door-way, and the bridesmaids hover in circle for the closing ceremony, and she tosses her bouquet to the ceiling amid shouts and scurry, and, marvel of marvels! it is captured by her of the rosy cheeks and dancing eyes who has already secured the ring and fascinated the artilleryman, and they reach the door, and Ray has squeezed out to the steps, and some of the emotional cousins have retreated sobbing to deserted nooks and corners about the house, and at last she comes forth and springs lightly down the stairs, and the rice rattles after her along the broad walk, and the groomsmen line the gate-way and usher her into the carriage, and stand there ready to volley them with old slippers, and Ray is just about springing in beside her, when down comes Blake with his seven-league strides, bearing a sobbing little sunny-haired maiden of seven in his arms.
"Hold on!" he shouts. "This is my little sweetheart, and she shan't be left out in the cold."