Yes, it was a very pretty wedding, and Regina, resplendent in ruby velvet, with a white feather waving in her coronet bonnet, and over her ample shoulders a large cape arrangement of rich lace, sailed up the aisle on the arm of Mr. Marksby. She had an air of “alone I did it” about her which was at the same time touching and misleading. In her tightly-gloved hand she carried a large posy of roses, and truly there was nothing of Niobe in her expression and demeanor. The service went off without a hitch, the decorations were lavish, and the little boys, who were all that could be mustered of the regular choir, wore clean surplices. The favors were extremely choice, and the happy face of the bride was more than matched by the radiant self-satisfaction of the bridegroom. “A delightful wedding” was the general verdict. And then there was the streaming back to the house just down the road, there was the string of carriages belonging to friends from town, the Park guests having followed the simpler plan of going afoot. How shall I describe it all? The palms, the flowers, the gay dresses, the gently-murmured felicitations, the health drinking, the speech making, the cake cutting, the present inspecting, which is the usual course of the smart wedding. These things were all there, for the Alfred Whittakers had given their daughter what is generally called “a good send-off.”
Then there came the terrible moment when Regina might have been forgiven for breaking down. But Regina was equal to the occasion—Regina was a woman of her word.
“Oh, no, I am not at all inclined to break down,” she said in reply to a friend who was offering judicious sympathy. “I feel that in my girl’s husband I have gained what I have always longed for—a son. I am going to be a mother-in-law quite out of the ordinary run, and I am not going to begin by making him feel himself a cruel marauder who is taking away my most valued possession. I should not like to have children who did not marry; it is a natural thing, and Maudie’s choice is so absolutely ours that I have nothing to regret and everything to be delighted with.”
“But did not Maudie choose her own husband?” said someone who was standing by.
“Oh, of course she did, but if we had chosen her husband our choice would have been Harry Marksby.”
It chanced that Harry was just entering the house, having been across the road to change his wedding garments for traveling gear. He was in time to hear the whole of his mother-in-law’s reply to the question as to whether Maudie had chosen her own husband. He slipped his hand under her arm and twisted her round a little.
“You are not going to be a mother-in-law out of the common,” he said, “because you are one. Nothing you could do would be in the common. But I cannot thank you enough for saying that if you had chosen Maudie’s husband you would have chosen me. And I’m so glad,” he went on in a lower tone, “that you did not think it necessary to treat us to the usual shower of maternal tears on this occasion.”
“Perhaps I should have done,” cried Mrs. Whittaker, “if I were not so perfectly happy in Maudie’s choice. Why should I want to weep over my girl’s happiness? Why should your mother want to make herself look a silly fright because you have married the girl of your heart? We are agreed, are we not, Mrs. Marksby?”
“Oh, yes, I always did believe in young men getting married as soon as they are in a position to marry comfortably. As I said to Harry as we were having a little talk last night, ‘Remember, my boy, that you are marrying in a very different position to what pa and me did. Pa and me married to a little house with three bedrooms in the southeast district, with never a thought that we should end up west, and see our boy married as we have seen him married this day’—didn’t we pa?”
“Yes, mother, we did. And I don’t know that we’ve had any cause to regret it.”