The Law and the Lady | Page 5

rather too
sedate and serious in her moments of silence and repose--in short, a
person who fails to strike the ordinary observer at first sight, but who
gains in general estimation on a second, and sometimes on a third view.
As for her dress, it studiously conceals, instead of proclaiming, that she
has been married that morning. She wears a gray cashmere tunic
trimmed with gray silk, and having a skirt of the same material and
color beneath it. On her head is a bonnet to match, relieved by a
quilling of white muslin with one deep red rose, as a morsel of positive
color, to complete the effect of the whole dress.
Have I succeeded or failed in describing the picture of myself which I
see in the glass? It is not for me to say. I have done my best to keep
clear of the two vanities--the vanity of depreciating and the vanity of
praising my own personal appearance. For the rest, well written or
badly written, thank Heaven it is done!
And whom do I see in the glass standing by my side?
I see a man who is not quite so tall as I am, and who has the misfortune
of looking older than his years. His forehead is prematurely bald. His
big chestnut-colored beard and his long overhanging mustache are
prematurely streaked with gray. He has the color in the face which my
face wants, and the firmness in his figure which my figure wants. He
looks at me with the tenderest and gentlest eyes (of a light brown) that I
ever saw in the countenance of a man. His smile is rare and sweet; his
manner, perfectly quiet and retiring, has yet a latent persuasiveness in it
which is (to women) irresistibly winning. He just halts a little in his

walk, from the effect of an injury received in past years, when he was a
soldier serving in India, and he carries a thick bamboo cane, with a
curious crutch handle (an old favorite), to help himself along whenever
he gets on his feet, in doors or out. With this one little drawback (if it is
a drawback), there is nothing infirm or old or awkward about him; his
slight limp when he walks has (perhaps to my partial eyes) a certain
quaint grace of its own, which is pleasanter to see than the unrestrained
activity of other men. And last and best of all, I love him! I love him! I
love him! And there is an end of my portrait of my husband on our
wedding-day.
The glass has told me all I want to know. We leave the vestry at last.
The sky, cloudy since the morning, has darkened while we have been in
the church, and the rain is beginning to fall heavily. The idlers outside
stare at us grimly under their umbrellas as we pass through their ranks
and hasten into our carriage. No cheering; no sunshine; no flowers
strewn in our path; no grand breakfast; no genial speeches; no
bridesmaids; no fathers or mother's blessing. A dreary wedding--there
is no denying it--and (if Aunt Starkweather is right) a bad beginning as
well!
A coup has been reserved for us at the railway station. The attentive
porter, on the look-out for his fee pulls down the blinds over the side
windows of the carriage, and shuts out all prying eyes in that way.
After what seems to be an interminable delay the train starts. My
husband winds his arm round me. "At last!" he whispers, with love in
his eyes that no words can utter, and presses me to him gently. My arm
steals round his neck; my eyes answer his eyes. Our lips meet in the
first long, lingering kiss of our married life.
Oh, what recollections of that journey rise in me as I write! Let me dry
my eyes, and shut up my paper for the day.
CHAPTER II.
THE BRIDE'S THOUGHTS.

WE had been traveling for a little more than an hour when a change
passed insensibly over us both.
Still sitting close together, with my hand in his, with my head on his
shoulder, little by little we fell insensibly into silence. Had we already
exhausted the narrow yet eloquent vocabulary of love? Or had we
determined by unexpressed consent, after enjoying the luxury of
passion that speaks, to try the deeper and finer rapture of passion that
thinks? I can hardly determine; I only know that a time came when,
under some strange influence, our lips were closed toward each other.
We traveled along, each of us absorbed in our own reverie. Was he
thinking exclusively of me--as I was thinking exclusively of him?
Before the journey's end I had my doubts; at a little