Читать книгу The Bride of a Moment - Carolyn Wells - Страница 4

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A big limousine came to a standstill beneath the porte-cochère of the church, and with much watchful protection of their frocks from possible damage, two girls got out of the car and hurried into the church.

Their elaborate gowns, exactly alike, their twin flower-decked hats, and their enormous bouquets proclaimed them bridesmaids. Smilingly they separated themselves from the crowd pouring in at the church doors, and then stood waiting in that end of the vestibule reserved for the purpose.

“I’m glad we’re here first,” exclaimed Betty Stratton, in a stage whisper; “and oh, goody! somebody has put a long mirror here. Aren’t our frocks wonderful? I’m just crazy over them!” She smiled and preened before the glass in a very ecstasy of delightful excitement “It’ll be the greatest wedding ever. Ethel is the most beautiful girl I know.”

“Yes, in her way,” agreed the other bridesmaid, as she elbowed Betty away from the mirror, and carefully touched her pink cheek with a powder-puff; “she’s stunning—like a statuesque goddess—”

“No, she’s more like those wax angels we used to have at the top of a Christmas tree. How do you like him?” and Betty gazed in absorbed admiration at her own fascinating reflection.

“Mr. Bingham? I don’t know him very well, but I think he’s just the man for a bridegroom. He’s so perfectly polished—if you know what I mean.”

“Yes, isn’t he! They’ll look wonderful coming down the other aisle, afterward. The presents are beyond words! My dear! she has forty-eight silver candlesticks! Forty-eight! And the silver bowls and dishes! M—m—!”

What did he give her?”

“A solitaire diamond pendant The biggest one I ever saw, and more than flawless! No setting, you know, just a thread of a silver chain. Oh, Molly, do you s’pose I’ll ever get married to a rich man—”

“Hush; here comes the bride, and the other girls—oh, Ethel!”

With the aid of several assistants and advisers, the bride and her regalia were safely piloted from the motor-car to the church, and in the vestibule the lovely vision was disclosed to the adoring eyes of her satellites.

The bridal gown was the last word of fashion, and the cap, for a wonder becoming, crowned the soft golden hair and exquisite face of the most haughty beauty of Boscombe Fells. But the face was as white as the encircling lace. The pale lips trembled and the violet eyes now stared with a frightened look, and now were hidden by the white, golden-fringed lids that drooped over them.

For once the cool, calm poise of Ethel Moulton was shaken. For once the proud, imperious beauty looked humble and even afraid. She stood passively while attendants adjusted her train and veil. She watched with unseeing eyes as the rest of the bridal party gathered and formed in line. She glanced in the mirror, and, seeing the white, scared face, she smiled and flushed scarlet, only to turn ashy pale again the next moment.

“Now, Ethel,” said Betty Stratton for the twentieth time, “you must control yourself! Smile and look happy or I’ll shake you! Look as pensive as you like, but don’t spoil this whole show by acting as if you were a lamb dragged to the altar—or whatever it is. Get your mind off of it, if it affects you that way. Think of the last vaudeville show you saw—think of chicken hash with green peppers,—think of anything pleasant and gay!”

“Stop it, Betty,” said Eileen Randall, the maid of honour, “let her alone! She shan’t be ‘bused! It’s quite all right for a bride to look nervous,—it’s much more interesting. Isn’t it time to start?”

The whole bridal cortege was now crowded into the vestibule of the church, nervously awaiting the stroke of twelve. The bridesmaids stood demurely, if restlessly, in their appointed places, but the maid of honour still darted about here and there, adjusting, supervising, reminding.

“Cheer up, Mr. Swift,” she said to the soldierly-looking grey-haired man who stood beside the bride; “you’ll never have to give Ethel away again, so do it prettily this time, Keep your eyes straight ahead, don’t look either up or down, and everybody will say, ‘How beautifully he behaves!’ Ethel, dear, now do brace up! Bridal shyness is all very well,—but you mustn’t look like a wilted lily. What time is it, Mr. Farrish? Oh, you men do look sweet in your clean white kimonos.”

Guy Farrish, one of the vested choir who were waiting to lead the bridal procession down the aisle, answered: “Only four minutes more, Miss Randall! Better get your place.”

The bride looked up, startled. Only four minutes more! “I can’t—” she said; “I can’t go—oh, I can’t go!”

“There, there, Ethel,” said her uncle, “don’t talk like that, my girl. Brace up; come, now, is your bouquet all right? It’s about time to start.”

“Yes, it’s all right,” said the maid of honour, giving the mass of white orchids and valley lilies a final pat and then, after a swift glance in the long mirror at her own pink-streamered bunch of roses, she slipped into her place, and said, “Ready, girls! Watch your step!”

Eileen Randall was a born commander. As maid of honour at her friend’s wedding, she had organized and directed all the elaborate details of the affair. It was she who had insisted on the full choral service, who had designed the wonderful floral decorations, and who had even chosen the costumes, the bridesmaids’ frocks of pale pink taffeta brocaded with blue and silver roses, her own pink tulle over blue, and even the bridal gown of white and silver brocade. She had planned the procession and conducted its rehearsal, and now at the last moment she glanced around, well satisfied with her results.

The first two choristers stood in the doorway that led into the church, their eyes on the organ at the farther end. The ushers came, importantly, and took their places. Through a tiny opening of the door beside the pulpit, the best man watched, and reported progress in whispers to the determinedly composed bridegroom.

The church, a complacent, comfortable affair, of Congregational denomination, was usually of a dim unresponsiveness, but to-day it seemed to shine and sing in epithalamium. The June sunshine crowded in at the open windows, and the stained-glass panes above threw riotous colour-effects on the already gaily clad audience.

For Boscombe Fells was as pretentious as its name indicates. A small settlement of exclusive people, not far from New York City, it prided itself on being a worth-while place to live, and in such matters as wedding pageants and the like its taste was correct and exacting.

The first note of noon pealed from the church clock. The organ sounded, the eight members of the vested choir started singing, down the aisle toward the flower-banked pulpit. Followed the ushers, the dainty bridesmaids, the maid of honour, and then the bride, beautiful Ethel Moulton, on the arm of her uncle, Everson Swift. White as her own orange-blossoms, the girl trembled until her uncle, alarmed, so far forgot the instructions of the maid of honour as to steal a side glance at his charge. An instant’s flash of her blue eyes reassured him, and he thought no more of the bride’s most natural agitation. Her trembling ceased and she was calm save for the quick rise and fall of the great diamond, the gift of the bridegroom, which hung on her breast, held only by an invisible silver chain.

On they went to the music of the processional; slowly, and still singing, the choir ascended into the organ loft, behind the pulpit, the bridesmaids took their places indicated by faint chalk marks on the carpet, and the maid of honour, seeing that the bridegroom and best man were conducting themselves correctly, took her own place at the left of the bride.

The music grew fainter. The whispered harmonies of “The Voice That Breathed O’er Eden” did not drown the sonorous tones of the minister, who asked the vital questions of the pair kneeling before him.

Mr. Swift gave his niece away, with a heart full of gladness. He loved the girl, his dead sister’s child, and he knew he was giving her to a man of fine, sterling character. Stanford Bingham, a man of nearly thirty, was well-born, rich, and talented. What more could he ask for Ethel? And Mrs. Swift, in her place in the front pew, looked on complacently, as she awaited her husband’s return to her side. His part done, Everson Swift turned, smiling, and went to his seat in the front pew, and Ethel was left, her hand in that of the man who in another moment would be her husband.

Parrot-like, the vows were repeated after the minister. The ring was placed carefully on the white finger in its ripped glove, and Doctor Van Sutton pronounced Stanford Bingham and Ethel Moulton man and wife.

The benediction was spoken, and then, as the minister smilingly took the bride’s hand, the organ pealed, the choir sounded forth glorious notes, and the hush that had been upon the assemblage gave way to a sudden hubbub of gay laughter and chatter.

And then, without a word, without a sound, the bride dropped to the floor.

The maid of honour who was adjusting the white and silver brocaded train, preparatory to the march down the other aisle, gazed, stunned, at a crimson stain that spread slowly over the bridal veil and bodice. She saw the beautiful terrified face, and the wide, frightened eyes, and then the lovely head fell, and veil, silver brocade, and white orchids were crushed in a terrible crumpled heap.

What had happened? The bridegroom stood as if turned to stone. The bridesmaids screamed. The maid of honour clenched her hands and gritted her teeth in a determination not to faint, and Mrs. Everson Swift turned uncomprehending eyes to her husband, saying, “What is the matter, dear?”

It was the best man who made the first move. Warren Swift, Ethel’s cousin, tried to raise the fallen figure.

“My God! She’s shot!” he exclaimed, without thought of decorum or caution. He lifted his head, wild-eyed, and looked around.

Others crowded up then. The ushers, the people from the front pews, the bridesmaids, all glanced at the bride, and then turned, white-faced, to gaze at each other. The choristers and organist came down from their places and stood aside, aghast.

Everson Swift went to his niece, as the others fell back to let him pass. “Has she fainted?” he said, tremblingly, not willing to believe or imply what he feared.

“She is shot, father,” said his son, Warren; “shot.”

“But I heard no sound, no shot—” and the older man looked dazed and helpless.

“Lift her up,” said Eileen Randall, imperatively; “don’t leave her there on the floor! She isn’t dead.”

Hesitatingly, Warren Swift leaned toward the ghastly heap of bridal finery, and then drew back, unable to obey the dictatorial maid of honour.

Two of the ushers stepped forward. “We will take her,” said one of them; “where to, Miss Randall?”

“Into the church parlour,—I’ll show you the way.”

Eileen crossed to the right of the pulpit and opened a door, the one through which the bridegroom and his best man had come so short a time before. It opened into a quaint old-fashioned room, known as the church parlour, which was used for meetings of the Sewing Society and other church organizations. The two men followed, gently bearing their pathetic burden.

“Lay her here,” directed Eileen, as she smoothed a pillow on a wide old-fashioned sofa.

And there they laid the beautiful, still form of the white-robed bride.

Unable to keep away, others came. The uncle and aunt, the cousin, and then the bridegroom,—looking like a man in a dream. He stood staring at his bride, at the masses of white satin and lace and tulle that seemed to billow over the old sofa and lie in foamy waves on the floor, at the terrible, hideous wound that changed the beautiful face to a horror.

Doctor Endicott, the family physician of the Swifts, came hurrying in. Pushing the others away, he examined the wound in the right temple; he felt the pulse; he listened for heart-beats. Eagerly he strove to find some sign of life,—some ground for hope. But at last, with a sigh of despair, he shook his head.

“Death was instantaneous,” he said, straightforwardly. “Who fired that bullet?”

Not only did no one answer, but almost none present grasped the significance of his words. A bride, shot and killed at the altar! It was too unbelievable! Such a thing could not happen. Mrs. Swift clung to her husband in dumb terror. The bridesmaids huddled together in shuddering fear. Even the capable and brave Eileen succumbed and dropping into a chair hid her face and sobbed. The men stood baffled and helpless. Warren Swift looked dazed and terror-stricken, as he edged over toward his father and mother in an impulse of family feeling.

The bridegroom stood alone. At the head of the couch where lay his new-made bride, Stanford Bingham stood, with folded arms and set face, looking down at the awful sight.

Into the hushed room came the minister.

“I must dismiss the congregation,” he said, addressing himself to Mrs. Swift

“Yes,” replied her husband, for she could not speak, nor, indeed, understand what was said.

Then Everson Swift pulled himself together. Many things must be attended to, and he, of course, must take the helm.

“Yes, Doctor Van Sutton,” he went on; “ask the people to go away, and then we must—we must notify the—the police, I suppose.”

“Yes, it is necessary. Perhaps Mrs. Swift will go home now?”

“It would be better. Go, my dear; Warren, go with your mother.”

Submissively, Warren Swift took his mother by the arm and led her away. Her gorgeous gown of pearl-embroidered mauve satin trailed far behind her, and accented the awfulness of the occasion. “Oh,” she cried suddenly, “I can’t go home,—to that house!”

And all suddenly had a mental vision of the spacious home, decorated in gala mood, for the home-coming of the bride; the floral bower in the drawing-room, the laden tables in the dining-room, the going-away gown and hat in Ethel’s own room—how could she go back there?

“Don’t go there now, Mrs. Swift,” said Eileen Randall, raising her head; “oh, don’t! Go to my home; Charlotte is there, she’ll look after you. Take your mother there, Warry.”

And still Stanford Bingham stood, immovable, looking down on his murdered bride.

The minister returned to the church. The tumultuous throng of wedding guests hushed their excited talk to listen to him. He told them the bride had died suddenly, he did not say by what means. He asked them to go home, and he pronounced a broken-voiced benediction. In many strange positions the Reverend Doctor Van Sutton had found himself, but never before in one so terrible as this.

The congregation moved out slowly. The better-minded ones went at once, but others, curious and questioning, could not tear themselves from the scene of mystery and tragedy.

Twice, at intervals, the minister repeated his request that the church be vacated. The second time he was obliged to make it an order, and even then, it was not until the blue-coated officers of the law appeared that the last intrusive lingerers were induced to go.

Seeing a great heap of white flowers in front of him, half unconsciously the minister picked up the bride’s bouquet. Helplessly he gathered up its trailing, ribbon-tied sprays, and returning to the church parlour, he laid it, with a vague idea of the fitness of things, on the breast of the still white form on the sofa.

It was too dreadful. That touch completed the horrible mockery of the wedding array, and with an hysterical scream Betty Stratton ran out of the room and went home. The other three bridesmaids followed her, but Eileen Randall stayed, shaken to her very soul, but ready to do her part, whatever it might be.