Heart to heart

There was nothing in the appearance of that wedding day to indicate the tragedy so close at hand.

It was early springtime, with the glad sunshine filling the air, a warm breeze blowing, the sky without a cloud, and the birds singing merrily as they flitted among the trees before the door of the old, ivy-covered church—in short, a perfect day, and one calculated to expand the heart with good nature and hope.

All Lakeview was astir, that part especially which resolved itself into the social element, for at ten o’clock the church was to be the scene of the grandest wedding the neighborhood had ever witnessed—at least so whispered those who had the affair in charge. By half past nine the roadway about the church, which stood on a slight hill, became crowded with people, girls, and young ladies, especially, eager to note the arrival of guests, their costumes, their actions, and, in fact, everything relating to the great event.

In rapid succession four motor cars dashed up the gravel way and deposited six young men at the church doors. They were the ushers—Ned Degroot, Ralph Gramercy, and four others, all well-known society fellows. They lost no time in hurrying inside of the edifice, for already was it time to look for the first arrivals.

“By Jove, Allen Chesterbrook is a lucky dog,” was Degroot’s remark to Gramercy. “I wouldn’t mind being in his shoes myself.”

“I’ve heard before that you were somewhat enamored of the belle of the set,” laughed Gramercy. “Well, certainly, Maud Willowby is a fine catch,” he added meditatively. “A beauty in a thousand, as the novelists might say. Yet she would not suit me.”

“And why?” questioned Degroot, in brusque tones. He did not fancy this statement, coupled with the first his friend had made.

“Ah! that’s a hard one to answer, Ned. Briefly, let me say, I have found her warmth rather artificial and her apparent interest in what was afoot far from real. To me she appears to lead a double life—her real self and the one she assumes for the occasion.”

“Oh, bosh!” retorted Degroot. “Really, Ralph, you are getting too cynical altogether of late.”

“Perhaps I am,” returned Gramercy, without losing his composure. “But you asked for an explanation, and that is the best I can give you.”

“Well, if what you say has any truth in it,” went on Degroot, as if to change the subject, “certainly the man she is about to marry is even less free from faults—in a way.”

“You do well to say ‘in a way,’ Ned. Taken as a whole, there is not a more kind, generous-hearted fellow than Allen Chesterbrook in the whole neighborhood of the lake.”

“And no fellow who is so given to moods, who changes his mind so often, who moves in so many strata of society at once, who is so unstudied in his actions, or, I might rather say, indifferent to what people may say or think of his doings.”

“I take it he lives on the principle that as long as he does right, he can do as he pleases. I prefer his openness to the style Maud adopts, which I have just mentioned.”

“I differ with you; and, let me add, privately, that I cannot understand how it is that Maud has accepted him.”

“Humph! Let me say, just as privately, Ned, I believe Maud is responsible for the present state of affairs. She wanted him more than he wanted her—or any one. Allen Chesterbrook is not altogether the kind of man that marries and settles down.”

“Oh, pshaw, what nonsense! Why should she run after him, when she could have the pick of the set? There is Langdon and Sivater and Henry Cross, and——”

“Yourself,” finished Gramercy, and slapped his friend on the shoulder. “But you are not Allen Chesterbrook, with his hundreds of thousands and brilliant prospects.”

“I don’t believe she’s marrying for money!” and now Degroot was more than half angry. “Colonel Willowby is well fixed.”

“To all outward appearances,” finished Gramercy, in a manner that suggested he could say a good deal more on the subject if he chose.

“He is well fixed; I found that out over a year ago,” insisted Degroot. “And he can place Maud as high as he pleases, and himself, too, as full of pride as he is.”

There was no time to say more, even had they wished to do so. Several automobiles had driven up a few seconds before, and now a dozen or more people appeared, and all of the ushers hurried off to escort the ladies to their seats. Gradually at first, and then faster, as the time grew shorter, the church began to fill up.

The sunshine, stealing through the tall, many-colored windows, never lit up a brighter scene. The fairest and best of Lakeview’s society, with a sprinkling from New York, Philadelphia, and Boston, were there; rich dresses of silk and velvet and satin rustled everywhere, and diamonds and other precious stones sparkled over all. Never had the old house of worship gazed upon a grander picture—never had nature and art so belied themselves in putting on this garb of joy, which was destined to be drawn aside only to reveal a mocking tragedy full of bitterness and long-lasting woe.

Presently an extra stir at the vestry door announced the arrival of Stella Barry, the bridesmaid, and Walter Gardener, the best man. They hurried into the room, and in a moment were ready for their momentous, yet delightful, task of leading the procession up the main aisle of the church.

“Five minutes to ten,” remarked Gardener. “I wonder if Allen has arrived?”

“Ask Ned Degroot or Harry Longley,” requested Stella, who was more nervous than she cared to acknowledge. “He ought to be here by this time.”

Word was sent out by the sexton’s son. No, Allen Chesterbrook had not arrived, but he would be there on time, never fear.

The two in the vestry peeped out slyly at the large assemblage in the church. Stella made several remarks about this person and that, and then another machine dashed up, and out came, first Colonel Willowby, and then his only daughter, Maud.

True to his martial training, the colonel was exactly on time—not one minute too early or one minute too late. He was tall, slim, stately; evidently a gentleman of the old school. His hair was white, also his beard, yet he carried himself as if he were but thirty years of age instead of sixty-five.

The daughter, also tall and stately, looked much like her father. But while his eyes were gray, hers were of the deepest blue, and her hair was of fluffy gold. Her chin, too, was rounder than his, and her lips fuller and more lovable, although just now they were drawn tighter than usual.

“What a crowd, papa!” she whispered, as though she had but just noticed it, although they had been driving for fully a minute through a sea of upturned faces.

“Yes, Maud—all gathered to do us honor,” smiled the proud father. “My arm, my dear,” and, leaning upon him, she walked up the steps.

It was Harry Longley who motioned them into the vestry room.

“We must wait a moment; the minister is not yet here,” he whispered. “He went to call on old Mrs. Bidwell, who is seriously sick.”

“And Allen, is he here?” questioned the colonel, as he nodded pleasantly to Stella Barry and Walter Gardener.

“Allen will be on time,” was Longley’s reply.

“It is time now,” returned the colonel curtly. Nothing provoked him so much as a delay.

Maud listened to the brief conversation, but said not a word. Indeed, when Longley attempted to utter some words of friendly assurance that all would go well, she turned away and looked out of a window.

The long clock on the wall struck the hour in slow, measured tones; struck it so sedately that she shivered, and pressed her lips together more tightly than ever to control her feelings.

Ten o’clock—the hour set for the ceremony—and neither the minister nor the bridegroom at hand. Surely something had gone wrong. But now a gentleman, in clerical black with a light top-coat, came rushing in, all out of breath. It was Doctor Parlington, the minister.

“So sorry for the delay, but I really couldn’t get away from poor Mrs. Bidwell, who, I fear, is dying!” he exclaimed, as he rushed up to the colonel and grasped his hand. “Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. What a delightful day for the marriage! I will be ready in half a minute,” and he started for his private room.

“There is no need to hurry, doctor,” returned the colonel, a trifle sharply. “Mr. Chesterbrook has not yet arrived.”

“Ah!” Doctor Parlington was about to say more, but suddenly stopped. “No doubt he will be here by the time I am prepared,” he went on, after an awkward pause.

He disappeared, closing a little door behind him. Hardly had he done so when Ned Degroot rushed from the main church into the vestry room. His face was ashen, and it was with difficulty that he brought himself to speak.

“Maud—Colonel—Allen has been—that is——” He stopped short and gazed helplessly at the crowd before him, then caught Walter Gardener by the arm. “You tell them, Walter; I cannot!” he whispered hoarsely. “Tell them Allen can’t come—he—he has been murdered!”

“Murdered!”

Who uttered the cry none of the others could afterward tell. In a moment intense excitement prevailed, as the news spread like wildfire throughout the vast assemblage of people. Men and women started from their seats, and ran hither and thither to ascertain if such a horrible calamity could be true.

And in the vestry room, like a marble statue, so set and grim, stood Colonel Willowby, with Maud folded to his breast. Not a sound escaped the young woman’s lips, nor did she move hand or foot. To those standing around it was as if the seal of death had set itself on her heart.