FullReads

And Lydia, with the glorious recuperation of youth, ran joyously upstairs, smiling and singing like a lark, transformed with the first unadulterated happiness she had ever felt or known.

PART III.

Upon George Mansion’s arrival at the garrison town he had been met on the wharf by the major, who took him to the hotel, while hurriedly explaining just why he must not go near Lydia’s sister and the clergyman whom George had expected would perform the marriage ceremony. “So,” continued the major, “you and Lydia are not to be married at the cathedral after all, but Mrs. Harold and I have arranged that the ceremony shall take place at little St. Swithin’s Church in the West End. So you’ll be there at eleven o’clock, eh, boy?”

“Yes, major, I’ll be there, and before eleven, I’m afraid, I’m so anxious to take her home. I shall not endeavour to thank you and Mrs. Harold for what you have done for my homeless girl. I can’t even–“

“Tut, tut, tut!” growled the major. “Haven’t done anything. Bless my soul, Chief, take my word for it, haven’t done a thing to be thanked for. Here’s your hotel. Get some coffee to brace your nerves up with, for I can assure you, boy, a wedding is a trying ordeal, even if there is but a handful of folks to see it through. Be a good boy, now–good-bye until eleven–St. Swithin’s, remember, and God bless you!” and the big-hearted, blustering major was whisked away in his carriage, leaving the young Indian half overwhelmed with his kindness, but as happy as the golden day.

An hour or so later he stood at the hotel door a moment awaiting the cab that was to take him to the church. He was dressed in the height of the fashion of the early fifties–very dark wine broadcloth, the coat shaped tightly to the waist and adorned with a silk velvet collar, a pale lavender, flowered satin waistcoat, a dull white silk stock collar, a bell-shaped black silk hat. He carried his gloves, for throughout his entire life he declared he breathed through his hands, and the wearing of gloves was abhorrent to him. Suddenly a gentleman accosted him with:

“I hear an Indian chief is in town. Going to be married here this morning. Where is the ceremony to take place? Do you know anything of it?”

Like all his race, George Mansion had a subtle sense of humor. It seized upon him now.

“Certainly I know,” he replied. “I happened to come down on the boat with the chief. I intend to go to the wedding myself. I understand the ceremony was arranged to be at the cathedral.”

“Splendid!” said the gentleman. “And thank you, sir.”

Just then the cab arrived. Young Mansion stepped hastily in, nodded good-bye to his acquaintance, and smilingly said in an undertone to the driver, “St. Swithin’s Church–and quickly.”

* * * * *

“With this ring I thee wed,” he found himself saying to a little figure in a soft grey gown at his side, while a gentle-faced old clergyman in a snowy surplice stood before him, and a square-shouldered, soldierly person in a brilliant uniform almost hugged his elbow.

“I pronounce you man and wife.” At the words she turned towards her husband like a carrier pigeon winging for home. Then somehow the solemnity all disappeared. The major, the major’s wife, two handsome young officers, one girl friend, the clergyman, the clergyman’s wife, were all embracing her, and she was dimpling with laughter and happiness; and George Mansion stood proudly by, his fine dark face eager, tender and very noble.

“My dear,” whispered the major’s wife, “he’s a perfect prince–he’s just as royal as he can be! I never saw such manners, such ease. Why, girlie, he’s a courtier!”