Short Fiction · A Transaction In Hearts (12/12) (1/2)

XI

Already a handful of guests had filled the sitting-room. In the study, across the hall, Gonfallon, robed in full canonicals, stood motionless and alone. Once only at the champing of bits and the noise of hoofs he had turned to the window. It was Miss Pickett, garmented in that terra-cotta which affects the eye as a pistol-shot affects the ear. He had heard her rustle past the door and her laugh mingle with Mrs. Manhattan’s. Then a brougham had stopped, and Tandem, in a cutaway coat, a flower in his buttonhole, had alighted and loitered an instant until Yarde had alighted too. For the moment, Gonfallon, at the possibility of their entering the room where he stood, had knit his brow; but Tandem, in his quality of best man, had convoyed the groom to some other refuge. From above came the sound of hurrying feet. The rectory was articulate, its quiet stirred with vocables. In the room overhead he pictured Claire standing before the glass, her head held sidewise, eying the last touches to her gown. Beyond, somewhere, through the walls he saw Yarde contemplating his fingertips, and to the prayerbook which he held Gonfallon gave a tighter clasp.

Since the dinner and its epilogue Gonfallon had barely seen his sister-in-law. The day after she had gone with the Picketts to Washington, and before returning to New York had managed to pass a full month with Yarde’s relatives in the South. Since then her hours had been given to the trousseau. Today she was to be married, and at the ceremony, at her mating to that man, instead of forbidding the banns he was to officiate. It was through him the Church was to sanction a thing against which every fibre of his being rebelled. In an effort to gain some mastery over the expression of his face, he turned again to the street.

There had been a flurry of snow an hour before, but now in the sunlight high noon rang everywhere. On the pavement was an eager glitter like that of broken glass, and at the corner the spires of Gethsemane pointed to a gulf of blue.

“And not a reason for refusing,” he muttered⁠—“not one.” During the preceding weeks he had told himself that this thing should never be. The touch of her lips had sealed her to him. He had felt the willingness, the courage even, to abandon the rochet already in his grasp, his high estate, his reputation, his cloth, Ruth, everything, even to honor, and carry the girl to some one of those lovely lands to which we never go, but which beckon to us, ceaselessly, from afar. In conflicts with himself conscience vanquished had been impotent to coerce. His ordinary duties he had performed with the perfunctoriness of a somnambulist. In his eyes but one light shone, and that light was Claire. And in that light all else slipped by, and he had relied now on the girl herself, now on a whim of chance, and again on some effort of his own, on something, he knew not what, but still on something that should happen in the nick of time and sunder this hateful pact.

In more rational moments he had reflected that, distasteful as the engagement was, it was rendered doubly so by the fact that the other contracting party was one whom of all others in the world he loathed the most; and into that loathing, as though to mock him, there would creep at times the knowledge⁠—banished again and again, but ever returning⁠—that between him and Yarde a girl such as Claire would not hesitate for a second’s space. What chance have forty years, however well carried they may be, against the fragrance and seductions of youth?

And as Gonfallon had thought of this, he would have, had he dared, clapped there and then on that fragrance some one of those masks which disfigure and distort. He would have corroded and blasted. And instead of that he was called upon to stand, the sacerdos, and consecrate his nuptials with Claire. Instead of maiming he was to marry, instead of cursing he was to bless. Could this cup pass from him! But he had no excuse⁠—not one. It was for him to deliver the girl he loved into the arms of the man he loathed. And as he gazed down at the eager glitter of the street there came to his face an expression which Goya would have given to a gibbeted fiend. Was it not a woman that changed into Satan the angel that was Lucifer?

“Doctor, the bride is coming down.”

It was Tandem hailing him from the doorway. Gonfallon drew one long breath and turned; and as he turned he thrust his hate back in him as a soldier sheathes his sword.

“I am ready,” he answered; and to himself he added, “Calvary was easy of ascent.”

Tandem had already gone. Gonfallon drew the portiere aside, and, crossing the hall, his head bent, the prayerbook in his hand, he entered the sitting-room beyond. At his entrance the voices subsided and ceased. The guests parted into twin rows, and between them Gonfallon advanced to a mirror, before which two cushions had been placed. There he turned and stood, his head still lowered, waiting the coming of the bride.

Presently, in the lull, Yarde entered, led by Tandem, and, bowing to Gonfallon⁠—a salute which, parenthetically, was not returned⁠—he took up a position on the right. From beneath his lowered eyelids Gonfallon saw him fumble at a pocket. “He is feeling for the ring,” he reflected, and straightened himself just a little. Then came a rustle, a murmur, and Claire entered, leaning on her father’s arm. Gonfallon raised his eyes, Yarde stepped forward to greet, Bucholz in a worthy parental manner dropped his daughter’s arm, and the two young people stood before him who was to make them one.

“ ‘Dearly beloved,’ ” began Gonfallon, in that voice which those present knew so well⁠—“ ‘Dearly beloved, we are gathered together here in the sight of God.’ ”

And as he repeated from memory the subsequent phrases of the opening formula, he looked down at the bride. In her cheeks that hue of the white rose which has the sulphur heart was untouched by the faintest flush. The porcelain blue of her eyes was untroubled, and her mouth still looked inviolate and unaware of love. From the tangles of her curls came the breath of brooks. She was in street-dress, but unbonneted and ungloved.

“ ‘I require and charge you both, as you will answer at the dreadful day of judgment⁠—’ ”

His eyes were still on hers, but as he delivered the warning which is customary he lowered his own beneath the directness of her gaze.

“Trement,” he continued, “wilt thou have this woman to thy wedded wife, to live⁠—”

“I will,” the young man interjected, and flushed at his precipitance.

“Together after God’s ordinance in the holy state of matrimony? Wilt thou love her⁠—” And as the questions fell from him, Gonfallon, outwardly impassible, clutched tighter at the book he held. For a second his voice wavered, and, turning to the bride⁠—

“Claire,” he continued, “wilt thou take this man?”

Again his eyes were on her, and so convulsed were they that to a weaker than she, dismay would have come. He paused, and Claire, as though her thoughts had preceded and interpreted his own, in a voice quasily defiant, her head held like a challenge, her eyes a trifle contracted, and fixed maliciously on his own, made the conventional response.

“Who giveth this woman⁠—”

In speaking he caught an expression in Yarde’s face, a look of smothered mirth as though the mute dialogue had been intercepted and enjoyed. Willingly would he have hurled the prayerbook at his teeth and with his two hands about his throat crushed out his hated life. He bit his lip until it bled, and with an effort dominated himself again.

Bucholz had stepped forward, and, after making a gesture, moved back. He seemed so pompous, so spruce, and yet so unnecessary, that Gonfallon, detecting another quiver in Yarde’s expression, understood his mirth, and in his semi-hysterical condition felt his own lips twitch with a smile.

The troth then plighted, bride and groom kneeled on the cushions at his feet, and, the prayer delivered, rose up again.

“Those whom God hath joined together, let no man put asunder. For inasmuch⁠—” he continued, and, mumbling the archaic phrases that follow, he added, with a gasp, “Amen.”

The next moment Claire was in her sister’s arms and Tandem was shaking Yarde energetically by the hand. The twin ranks of the company fused into a solid square that bore down on bride and groom. Gonfallon watched his opportunity, and escaped to the study beyond.

Thus far he had held himself well. Not one of those present had divined the rebellion that was in him. But now the farce was done, and, tearing the canonicals from him, he rumpled and tossed them in a heap on the floor. The prayerbook which he had held fell from him, and he sank on a chair. Into his mouth had come a sour taste. He raised his handkerchief to his lips, and, looking at it, saw that it was flecked with red. He passed his hand across his eyes; they were dry and hot; and, suddenly, remembering Bucholz, he chuckled and tried to laugh.

The hubbub of sixty people talking at once came to him from across the hall. For a fraction of an hour he listened unhearingly. But presently something stirred him from his mental swoon. He had heard Claire’s voice, he was sure. He started and moved to the door: yes, it was she. He drew the portiere ever so little and peered into the hall. Before him the bride stood exchanging a farewell with Miss Pickett. Then the two separated, Miss Pickett turning to the sitting-room and Claire to the stairs. For a moment he waited; then, seeing that he could leave the study unobserved, he hurried out into the hall. Already the girl had reached the floor above, but he called to her, and she stopped.

“What is it?” she asked, and looked down at him from over the rail. Without a word he mounted to where she stood. “Claire,” he whispered, and strove to take her hand, “tell me, you do love me, do you not?”

And the girl, drawing from him, answered almost sadly, with a gesture that was pathetic in the sorrow it conveyed, “Love you, Gonfallon? It is not I that love you; it is Ruth.”

A door closed, and she was gone.

Gonfallon steadied himself and gazed blankly enough at the door which had shut in his face. “And it was for this I toiled,” he mused. For the moment everything seemed to disappear; then, mindful as he always was of Form, and arguing with himself as to what he was doing there, he got into his study again, and roamed about it, likening his restlessness to that of a gyrfalcon in a cage; striving not only to forget, but to cease to think as well.

Beyond, the hubbub still continued. A luncheon was in progress, and he knew that his absence would be remarked. Yet still he could make no effort to leave the room. From time to time he passed his hand across his face and let it fall again to his side. And presently the voices approached: it was evident that the guests were assembling in the hall. From the window he could see a trim brougham, bottle-green, the straw-colored wheels picked out with black, and by it a miniature groom, in his lapel a bunch of white flowers, while at the ear of the horse nearest the rectory Gonfallon noticed that a similar bunch had been placed.

“Chris, where are you?”

It was Ruth calling to him, as Tandem had done, from the uplifted fringe of the curtain.

“Chris! They are coming. Hurry!”

Again he moved out into the hall, bowing this time right and left to the guests that had assembled there. Mrs. Manhattan was prompt at nabbing, and she had him at once.

“How sweet Claire looked!” she murmured.

“Very,” Gonfallon answered, and smilingly caressed his chin.

“Such a good match, too,” she added, “you ought to be tickled to death.”

“Yes, yes, he is a splendid young fellow.”

“Just the man for her. Nicholas was so sorry he couldn’t come. Trement, you know, is a connection of ours. I even had a hand in his bringing up.”

“I was sure of it.”

“And how impressive you did make the service! Ah! here they are.”

About the corner bride and groom had turned. The face of the latter was flushed as were he the sacrifant; the former held her head erect, and her mouth seemed at the slightest provocation prepared to bubble into laugh.

There was a gurgle, a hum, an undulant shout, and they had gone. Through the open doorway Miss Pickett threw a slipper which hit the coachman on the cheek. Tandem had obtained a handful of rice, which he scattered lavishly in the air. And as the brougham drove off, Yarde was seen, his head bent, fumbling at the nape of his neck for a furtive grain that had lodged in his collar.

For a while yet the guests lingered, companioned by Gonfallon and Ruth. Then, little by little, the handful diminished and shrunk, until husband and wife were alone.

“It will be dreary without Claire, will it not?” Ruth remarked as the ultimate loiterer passed from the house. There was no doubt about it⁠—Dr. McMasters was not only a physician, but a sorcerer as well. The neuralgia which had fed upon her had been exorcised long since.

In the adjoining room the maid was busy with the detritus of the wedding-feast.

“Will it not?” she repeated, and, without waiting for an answer, suddenly her arm had wound about him, and for a moment her head rested on his breast. Then, conscious, seemingly, of the presence of the maid, she moved from him, and Gonfallon, turning on his heel, entered the study again.

On the floor before him the prayerbook lay, and he stooped to pick it up. It was not large⁠—hardly bigger than a good resolution⁠—but as prayerbooks go it was a gem. The text was illuminated, and for binding it had tortoiseshell clamped with gold. In the morning Ruth had brought it to him with the request that he would use it at the service which was to be. And now as he raised it from the floor it opened in his hand. On the flyleaf was an inscription in characters thin as hair: “To Ruth, from her loving sister. Christmas, 1879.” And as he read it he understood why the request had been made.

Idly he turned the pages. Between the covenants of the marriage-pact a blue flower had been pressed. During the agitations of the ceremony it had been unnoticed, but now something about it seemed to evoke a memory, and he went back again to the slopes and intervales of Bronx. Idly still he turned the leaves. Before the psalm “With my whole heart thy praise I will proclaim” another flower had been placed, but this one was yellow, as though the hope of the first betokened had mellowed with fulfilment. And as he turned again, facing the collect for Ash-Wednesday he found a clipping from some Poets’ Corner, a bit of schoolgirl verse:

I wait for the story: the birds cannot sing it,

Not one, as he sits on the tree,

The bells cannot ring it, but long years, oh, bring it,

Such as I wish it to be.

He read it twice, and very gently, almost reverently, he put the book aside. Anger seemed to take itself visibly away; he saw it leaving him, and made no effort to detain. Already hatred was departing, and in its train an illusion had unmasked. “It is not I that love you,” someone was saying; “it is Ruth.”

He had fallen in a chair, and sat, his face buried in his hands. Back again from the past one memory after another came to him unreproached: first his wooing of her, her shy willingness, the sweet profanation, the earliest reluctant kiss, then the altar-rail, the blush of girlhood abandoned, the wifely solicitude, the unalterable charm with which illness had coped in vain, the tenderness of her nature, the unwavering allegiance, the trust, the belief, the pride in him.

“It is I,” he mused, “with whom she covenanted, it is I whose praise she proclaimed. I am the story she waited.” And, raising his face from his hands, he added, “If that story were only true!”