CHAPTER XIII
“A QUIET WEDDING”
At seven o’clock they were all assembled in Mrs. Force’s room, waiting for the summons to go down.
They were all dressed with the simple elegance that became the occasion.
Odalite wore a white silk-trained dress, with a lace overdress looped with lilies of the valley, and a lace veil fastened to her hair by a spray of the same delicate flower. She wore no jewelry. It was a whim of the bride to wear nothing on this occasion that she had worn on that of her first broken bridal—not even the same sort of materials for her dress, or the same sort of flowers for ornaments. Her bridal was very plain and inexpensive. But no flowers could have bloomed more beautifully than her cheeks and lips, and no diamonds shone more brilliantly than her eyes. The light of happiness irradiated her face and form—her whole presence and atmosphere.
The nine bridesmaids were all dressed very nearly alike.
Wynnette, Elva and Rosemary had white tulle dresses trimmed with rose-colored ribbon.
Sophy, Nanny, Polly and Peggy Grandiere wore white organdie dresses trimmed with light blue ribbon; and Erny and Milly Elk, white swiss muslin suits trimmed with bright yellow ribbon.
Mrs. Force wore a pale mauve damasse silk.
No one except the young bride wore any headdress but their own tastefully arranged hair.
It was to be a quiet wedding, you know—a very quiet wedding, with none but the family friends.
There came a rap at the door.
Wynnette, who was nearest at hand, opened it.
“Tell your mother, my dear, that the Rev. Dr. Priestly has come,” said Mr. Force, who stood without.
But Mrs. Force had heard the voice, and answered for herself:
“We are ready and waiting. Come in.”
He entered, smiling on the bevy of beauties that met his eyes.
He singled out his daughter, kissed her on the forehead, and drew her arm in his to take her downstairs, mentally applying to her the pretty line of Tennyson:
“Queen rose of the rosebud garden of girls.”
He led her down and the others followed in pairs.
He led her into the parlor, where stood the portly form of the Rev. Dr. Priestly, in full canonicals, and surrounded by a small group of four young men—to wit: Leonidas Force, the bridegroom; Roland Bayard, his best man; and Messrs. Ned and Sam Grandiere, nothing in particular.
The bridegroom advanced, bowed and received the bride from her father’s hand and led her up before the minister, who now stood under the floral arch between the front and rear drawing rooms, and from which the floral wedding bell hung.
The bridegroom and the bride stood before the minister—Roland Bayard, best man, stood on his right; Wynnette, first bridesmaid, stood on her left; behind them the eight white-robed girls formed a semicircle. Mr. Force stood on their right, with Mrs. Force on his arm. She was pale and trembling. He perceived her state, and whispered:
“I suppose every mother suffers something in seeing her daughter married, even under the most auspicious circumstances! But look at Odalite and Le! See how happy those children are, and recover your spirits.”
She glanced up in her husband’s kind face and smiled.
The doorbell rang sharply. Perhaps it was the utter stillness of the house—in the solemn pause of expectancy, as the minister opened his book—which made that sound reverberate through the air like a sudden and peremptory summons.
Mrs. Force looked up anxiously.
“It is of no consequence, my dear. Some chance caller, who does not know what is going on here. But I prepared for such an event by giving orders to the hall boy not to admit any one, but to tell all and sundry who might come that we are engaged,” whispered Mr. Force.
“Hush!” she murmured, but she looked relieved. “Hush! Dr. Priestly is about to begin.”
The minister, in fact, began, in a very impressive manner, to read the opening exhortation, and every eye was fixed upon him and every ear bent to hear him.
There was some movement in the hall outside. Mrs. Force started and turned her head. Her husband stooped and murmured low:
“Don’t tremble so, my dear! It is only the servants pressing close to the door to steal a look at the wedding. They would not let any visitors in. And even if they should make such a mistake, it would be no great matter!”
“Hush!” she answered, in the lowest murmur. “Do not talk! Attend to the ceremony.”
Uninterrupted by the inaudible whisper between husband and wife, the ceremony was proceeding. And no one moved or spoke, until the minister, lifting his eyes from the book in his hands, inquired gravely:
“‘Who giveth this woman to be married to this man?’”
“‘I do,’” answered Abel Force, stepping forward, taking his daughter’s hand with tender solemnity and placing it in that of Leonidas, who bowed with deep reverence as he received it.
Then Abel Force retreated to the side of his pale and agitated wife, whispered with a smile:
“Just what your father did for me, my love! Just what Leonidas may have to do for Odalite’s daughters some twenty years hence! The order of nature, dear wife! And we must smile and not cry over it.”
But Elfrida Force was not grieving over the marriage of her daughter. There was nothing in that marriage to give her pain; everything to give her satisfaction. Odalite was marrying no stranger, but Leonidas, who had been brought up in her home, who loved her, and was beloved by her as an only son. And Odalite was not to be taken away from her, but was to live on the adjoining plantation to their own, where, if they pleased, mother and daughter might meet every day. Altogether a most perfectly satisfactory marriage, in which her soul would have delighted but for a nameless dread of approaching evil—a dread which she could neither comprehend nor conquer—a dread of impeding ill which was fast growing into terror of an immediate death blow.
“Oh!” she breathed. “When it is entirely over—‘finished, done and sealed’—and they are off at sea, then, and then only, shall I be able to breathe freely.”
Meanwhile the solemn rites went on to the conclusion, and once more Odalite, with her hand safely clasped in that of her bridegroom, heard spoken over them the awful warning: “Those whom God hath joined together, let not man put asunder.”
There was a pause, but no interruption on this occasion—a short pause, and then the solemn, pathetic, beautiful benediction was pronounced upon the newly married and indeed happy pair.
And then Leonidas took his bride by her hand, to give her the sacred, sealing kiss, when—before his lips could meet hers—he was suddenly seized from behind and violently hurled to the other end of the room.