“I made the most of my time last night, after receiving Mark’s telegram, and had it modernized somewhat,” she said. “And I brought your pearls, for you will be most as much a bride as Katy, and I have a pride in seeing my son’s wife appropriately dressed.”
Far different were Helen’s feelings now, as she donned the elegant dress, from what they had been the first and only time she wore it. Then the bridegroom was where danger and death lay thickly around his pathway; but now he was at her side, kissing her cheek, where the roses were burning so brightly, and calling still deeper blushes to her face, by his teasing observations and humorous ridicule of his own personal appearance. Would she not feel ashamed of him in his soiled uniform? And would she not cast longing glances at her handsome brother-in-law and the stylish Lieutenant Bob? But Helen was proud of her husband’s uniform, as a badge of what he had suffered; and when the folds of her rich dress swept against it, she did not draw them away, but nestled closer to him, leaning upon his shoulder; and when no one was near, winding her soft arm about his neck once, whispering, “My darling Mark, I cannot make it real yet.”
Softly the night shadows fell around the farm-house, and in the rooms below a rather mixed group was assembled—all the élite of the town, with many of Aunt Betsy’s neighbors, and the doctor’s patients, who had come to see their physician married, rejoicing in his happiness, and glad that the mistress of Linwood was not to be a stranger, but the young girl who had grown up in their midst, and who, by suffering and sorrow, had been moulded into a noble woman, worthy of Dr. Grant. She was ready now for her second bridal, in her dress of white, with no vestige of color in her face, and her great blue eyes shining with a brilliancy which made them almost black. Occasionally, as her thoughts leaped backward over a period of almost six years, a tear trembled on her long eyelashes, but Morris kissed it away, asking if she were sorry.
“Oh, no, not sorry that I am to be your wife,” she answered; “but it is not possible that I should forget entirely the roughness of the road which has led me to you.”
“They are waiting for you,” was said several times, and down the stairs passed Mark Ray and Helen, Lieut. Bob and Bell, with Dr. Grant and Katy, whose face, as she stood again before the clergyman and spoke her marriage vows, shone with a strange, peaceful light, which made it seem to those who gazed upon her like the face of some pure angel.
There was no thought then of that deathbed in Georgetown—no thought of Greenwood or the little grave in Silverton, where the crocuses and hyacinths were blossoming—no thought of anything save the man at her side, whose voice was so full and earnest as it made the responses, and who gently pressed the little hand as he fitted the wedding ring. It was over at last, and Katy was Morris’s wife, blushing now as they called her Mrs. Grant, and putting up her rosebud lips to be kissed by all who claimed that privilege. Helen, too, came in for her share of attention, and the opinion of the guests as to the beauty of the respective brides, as they were termed, was pretty equally divided.
In heavy rustling silk, which actually trailed an inch, and cap of real lace, Aunt Betsy moved among the crowd, her face glowing with the satisfaction she felt at seeing her nieces so much admired, and her heart so full of good will and toleration that after the supper was over, and she fancied a few of the younger ones were beginning to feel tired, she suggested to Bell that she might start a dance if she had a mind to, either in the kitchen or the parlor, it did not matter where, and “Ephraim would not care an atom,” a remark which brought from Mrs. Deacon Bannister a most withering look of reproach, and slightly endangered Aunt Betsy’s standing in the church. Perhaps Bell Cameron suspected as much, for she replied that they were having a splendid time as it was, and as Dr. Grant did not dance, they might as well dispense with it altogether. And so it happened that there was no dancing at Katy’s wedding, and Uncle Ephraim escaped the reproof which his brother deacon would have felt called upon to give him had he permitted so grievous a sin, while Mrs. Deacon Bannister, who, at the first trip of the toe would have departed lest her eyes should look upon the evil thing, was permitted to remain until “it was out,” and the guests retired en masse to their respective homes.
The carriage from Linwood stood at the farm-house door, and Katy, wrapped in shawls and hood, was ready to go with her husband. There were no tears shed at this parting, for their darling was not going far away; her new home was just across the fields, and through the soft moonlight they could see its chimney tops, and trace for some little distance the road over which the carriage went bearing her swiftly on; her hands fast locked in Morris’s, her head upon his arm, and the hearts of both too full of bliss for either to speak a word until Linwood was reached, when, folding Katy to his bosom in a passionate embrace, Morris said to her,
“We are home at last—your home and mine, my precious, precious wife.”