CHAPTER II.
“YOU DON’T KNOW WHAT YOU HAVE DONE!”
All unmindful of the withering curses invoked upon their devoted heads, the young and newly-wedded pair went on their homeward way, as happy and light-hearted as they had come, little dreaming of the reception that awaited the announcement of their mad freak—little dreaming of the sudden and cruel separation in store for them—that the bright day so happily begun, and well-nigh spent, was to close, as it were, in a night of black despair, and long, long years of weary sorrow and heart-pangs intervene ere joy and reunion would come again to them.
Old Prince held his head higher than ever, and stepped briskly along on the homeward route, as if half conscious of the new and strangely important relations which the occupants of the buggy bore to each other.
“Well, Robbie, I don’t feel any different from what I did before, do you?” asked Dora, with a comical look on her rosy face.
“Why, no, Brightie; I didn’t expect to, did you?”
“I d’no,” replied the child, looking somewhat confused. “Well—yes—I thought folks who got married felt bigger and grander some way.”
Robert laughed.
“Did you?” he asked. “I guess it must be because they always have on new clothes, and are fixed up so much.”
“Perhaps so,” replied Dora, still looking puzzled. “And now I’m married, I suppose I shall have to wear my dresses long, like other ladies, and do my hair up in a waterfall behind, and wear bonnets instead of hats, and, oh, dear! now I shall always have to wear gloves and stiff collars.”
She heaved a little sigh here, half regretful, but presently went on:
“And, Robbie, you must have a tall hat and a long-tailed coat, and I wish you had whiskers and a mustache; then I guess it would seem more real, but I don’t feel a bit as if I was married now.”
Robert looked rather sober and sheepish, as he answered:
“I don’t know, Dora; I’m afraid we shouldn’t know each other rigged up in that style. I don’t think I should like you half so well, with your hair bobbed up behind, and then the long dresses would cover up your pretty little feet; and I’m sure I shouldn’t know how to act in a stove-pipe hat, and a long-tailed coat. I like you best as you are, Brightie, so I guess we hadn’t better change.”
“But,” persisted the little lady, still fearful they would not be able to support the dignity of man and wife, “don’t you think you could raise some whiskers? I think you would look real nice if you had some like Professor Allen.”
“I could get some false ones, if you want——”
“Ugh, don’t!” shivered Dora, as she thought of the horrid thing she had seen in the shop windows on the street. “Well, I don’t care much any way,” she continued; “but what do you suppose mamma will say?”
“I rather think she will be surprised when I call her mother, for I love her dearly, and you know I never had one of my own.”
His bright face fell for a moment.
“I don’t believe I can ever say papa to your father. He has been so sober and cross lately I’m almost afraid of him.”
“I guess he’ll get over that when he finds out what a pretty little daughter he’s got,” replied Robert, with a fond look into the lovely face of his little bride. “Here we are at home again,” he added, as he drew up before the gate. “Whoa, old Prince, till I help my wife out and take her into mother.”
Old Prince stopped in obedience to the word of command, and Robert helped Dora out just as Mrs. Dupont’s smiling face appeared at the door of the cottage to welcome them home.
Robert, taking Dora gravely by the hand, led her up to her mother, and said:
“How do you do, mother? We’ve had a nice day, and I’ve brought my wife back to you safe and sound.”
Mrs. Dupont laughed a light mocking laugh, as she said, with comic seriousness:
“Happy to see you, little Mrs. Ellerton, and very glad to know you have had such a nice time.”
“Very nice time, indeed, mamma,” replied Dora, with funny dignity; “only the man who married us acted so strangely that I was almost afraid of him. However, he got over it, and it’s all right now.”
“Really, my dear madam,” replied her mother, still willing to humor what she thought was one of their old jokes, “who was the clergyman that married you?”
“Oh, it wasn’t a minister at all, mamma, but Squire Moulton, and he gave me the certificate, and told me I must never part with it, or I couldn’t prove I was Robbie’s wife.”
“Nonsense, Dora, what do you know about a marriage certificate?”
“Well, but, mamma, he did, and I have it here in my pocket—haven’t I, Robbie?”
“Yes,” answered Robert, now glad of a chance to say a word; “and you are really and truly my mother now. Aren’t you glad you have a son?”
She did not answer; she looked first at one, then at the other with a puzzled expression, hardly knowing what to make of the affair. Both their faces were so earnest, and they talked in such a matter-of-fact way, that she could not comprehend it.
At last Dora, who had been fumbling in her pocket, took out the certificate and handed it to her mother, saying, triumphantly:
“There, mamma, read and see if we ain’t married, really and truly.”
Mrs. Dupont was frightened, and sank down pale and faint on the door-step, the paper still folded in her fingers.
“Now, Robert and Dora, if this is a joke,” she said, “you have carried it far enough; but if you are in earnest, tell me all about it at once.”
Robert then related all that had transpired from the time they left home until their return. He told her how the squire had questioned him about his father and mother, how angry and excited he seemed to get, and about his wanting to know if Dora’s papa was rich, etc. He described the marriage ceremony, their ramble around the grounds, their sail on the lake, and their treat in the house, with such truthful manner that Mrs. Dupont could not doubt him.
With trembling fingers and paling lips Mrs. Dupont opened the paper, and saw it was a regular certificate, with the children’s names and ages attached. She could no longer doubt the truth of what she heard and saw.
With a low moan the paper dropped from her hand, and she cried out in frightened tones:
“Oh, Robert, oh, Dora, my children, what have you done?”
“Why, mamma!” exclaimed Dora, in astonishment, “I thought you’d like it. You know I always promised to be Robbie’s wife, and now I am, what makes you feel so? I’m sure I’m as glad as can be.”
“Stop!” replied her mother, sternly. “You foolish child, you know not what you have done.”
Poor innocent Dora had never heard her mother speak so before, and with her heart almost broken she rushed sobbing into the house, and crouched half frightened in a corner.
Robert, who had listened to all that passed, with surprise and almost anger, grew pale himself at Mrs. Dupont’s strange manner, and began to think it had not been such a happy day after all. That he had done a serious thing was certain, though for his part he could not yet see the harm.
“Robert,” at length said Mrs. Dupont, “drive home as quickly as you can, and bring your father to me. I must talk this matter over with him immediately.”
Robert became seriously alarmed. He thought if he had done anything that demanded a solemn conference with his father, it must be serious indeed.
“Auntie,” he said, looking wistfully into her face and addressing her by the old name, “I am sorry you feel so badly about this, but do not blame Dora, for I alone am to blame for all that has happened.”
“Go!” she said wearily, pointing toward his buggy.
“But please, auntie——”
“Go bring your father here. My brain is in a whirl, I cannot think or act until I have seen him.”
She stooped and picked up the paper she had dropped, and then entered the house.
With a long drawn sigh and a quivering lip he turned to obey her, and entering his buggy, drove rapidly toward home, fearing, he knew not what, but his heart was heavy within his bosom.