The Best Man. Grace Livingston Hill
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wonderful what a stay in a foreign land would do to improve a person.
The music stole onward; and slowly, gracefully, like the opening of buds into flowers, and bridal party inched along up the middle aisle until at last the bride in all the mystery of her white veil arrived, and all the maidens in their flowers and many colored gauzes were suitably disposed about her.
The feeble old man on whose arm the bride had leaned as she came up the aisle dropped out of the possession, melting into one of the front seats, and Gordon found himself standing beside the bride. He felt sure there must be something wrong about it, and looked at his young guide with an attempt to change places with him, but the man named Jefferson held him in place with a warning eye. “You’re all right. Just stay where you are,” he whispered softly, and Gordon stayed, reflecting on the strange fashions of weddings, and wondering why he had never before taken notice of just how a wedding party came in and stood and got out again. If he was only out of this how glad he would be. It seemed one had to be a pretty all-around man to be a member of the Secret Service.
The organ had hushed its voice to a sort of exultant sobbing, filled with dreams of flowers and joys, and hints of sorrow; and the minister in a voice both impressive and musical began the ceremony. Gordon stood doggedly and wondered if that really was one eyebrow coming down over his eye, or only a drop of perspiration.
Another full second passed, and he decided that if he ever got out of this situation alive he would never, no, never, no never, get married himself.
During the next second that crawled by he became supremely conscious of the creature in white by his side. A desire possessed him to look at her and see if she were like Julia Bentley. It was like a nightmare haunting his dreams that she was Julia Bentley somehow transported to New York and being married to him willy-nilly. He could not shake it off, and the other eyebrow began to feel shaky. He was sure it was sailing down over his eye. If he only dared press its adhesive lining a little tighter to his flesh!
Some time during the situation there came a prayer, interminable to his excited imagination, as all the other ceremonies.
Under cover of the hush and the supposedly bowed heads, Gordon turned desperately towards the bride. He must see her and drive this phantasm from his brain. He turned, half expecting to see Julia’s tall, handsome form, though telling himself he was a fool, and wondering why he so dreaded the idea. Then his gaze was held fascinated.
She was a little creature, slender and young and very beautiful, with a beauty which a deathly pallor only enhanced. Her face was delicately cut, and set in a frame of fine dark hair, the whole made most exquisite by the mist of white tulle that breathed itself about her like real mist over a flower. But the lovely head drooped, the coral lips had a look of unutterable sadness, and the long lashes swept over white cheeks. He could not take his eyes from her now that he had looked. How lovely, and how fitting for the delightful youth by his side! Now that he thought of it she was like him, only smaller and more delicate, of course. A sudden fierce, ridiculous feeling of envy filled Gordon’s heart. Why couldn’t he have known and loved a girl like that? Why had Julia Bentley been forever in his pathway as the girl laid out for his choice?
He looked at her with such intensity that a couple of dear old sisters who listened to the prayer with their eyes wide open, whispered one to the other: “Just see him look at her! How he must love her! Wasn’t it beautiful that he should come right from the steamer to the church and never see her till now, for the first time in ten long years. It’s so romantic!”
“Yes,” whispered the other; “and I believe it’ll last. He looks at her that way. Only I do dislike that way of arranging the hair on his face. But then it’s foreign I suppose. He’ll probably get over it if they stay in this country.”
A severe old lady in the seat in front turned a reprimanding chin toward them and they subsided. Still Gordon continued to gaze.
Then the bride became aware of his look, raised her eyes, and – they were full of tears!
They gave him one reproachful glance that shot through his soul like a sword, and her lashes drooped again. By some mysterious control over the law of gravity, the tears remained unshed, and the man’s gaze was turned aside; but that look had done its mighty work.
All the experiences of the day rushed over him and seemed to culminate in that one look. It was as if the reproach of all things had come upon him. The hurt in the white dog’s eyes had touched him, the perfect courage in the appeal of the child’s eyes had called forth his deepest sympathy, but the tears of this exquisite woman wrung his heart. He saw now that the appeal of the dog and the child had been the opening wedge for the look of a woman which tore self from him and flung it at her feet to walk upon; and when the prayer was ended he found that he was trembling.
He looked vindictively at the innocent youth beside him, as the soft rustle of the audience and the little breath of relief from the bridal party betokened the next stage in the ceremony. What had this innocent-looking youth done to cause tears in those lovely eyes? Was she marrying him against her will? He was only a boy, any way. What right had he to suppose he could care for a delicate creature like that? He was making her cry already, and he seemed to be utterly unconscious of it. What could be the matter? Gordon felt a desire to kick him.
Then it occurred to him that inadvertently he might have been the cause of her tears; he supposedly the best man, who had been late, and held up the wedding no knowing how long. Of course it wasn’t really his fault; but by proxy it was, for he now was masquerading as that unlucky best man, and she was very likely reproaching him for what she supposed was his stupidity. He had heard that women cried sometimes from vexation, disappointment or excitement.
Yet in his heart of hearts he could not set those tears, that look, down to so trivial a cause. They had reached his very soul, and he felt there was something deeper there than mere vexation. There had been bitter reproach for a deep wrong done. The glance had told him that. All the manhood in him rose to defend her against whoever had hurt her. He longed to get one more look into her eyes to make quite sure; and then, if there was still appeal there, his soul must answer it.
For the moment his commission, his ridiculous situation, the real peril to his life and trust, were forgotten.
The man Jefferson had produced a ring and was nudging him. It appeared that the best man has some part to play with that ring. He dimly remembered somewhere hearing that the best man must hand the ring to the bridegroom at the proper moment, but it was absurd for them to go through the farce of from doing that when the bridegroom already held the golden circlet in his fingers! Why did he not step up like a man and put it upon the outstretched hand; that little white hand just in front of him there, so timidly held out with its glove fingers tucked back, like a dove crept out from its covert unwillingly?
But that Jefferson-man still held out the ring stupidly to him, and evidently expected him to take it. Silly youth! There was nothing for it but to take it and hand it back, of course. He must do as he was told and hasten that awful ceremony to its interminable close. He took the ring and held it out, but the young man did not take it again. Instead he whispered, “Put it on her finger!”
Gordon frowned. Could he be hearing aright? Why didn’t the fellow put the ring on his own bride? If he were being married, he would knock any man down that dared to put his wife’s wedding ring on for him. Could that be the silly custom now, to have the best man put the bride’s ring on? How unutterably out of place! But he must not make a scene, of course.
The little timid hand, so slender and white, came a shade nearer as if to help, and the ring finger separated itself from the others.
He looked at the smooth circlet. It seemed too tiny for any woman’s finger. Then, reverently, he slipped it on, with a strange, inexpressible longing to touch the little hand. While he was thinking himself all kinds of a fool, and was enjoying one of his intermittent visions of Julia Bentley’s expressive countenance interpolated on the present scene, a strange thing happened.
There had been some low murmurs and motions which he had not noticed because he thought his part of this very uncomfortable affair was about concluded, when, lo and behold, the minister and