As IF IN benediction, a shaft of May sunshine, streaming in through the narrow, arched windows of the church, enveloped the couple standing at the altar rail in its golden light. To those attending the wedding ceremony of Rose Meredith and Malcolm Montrose, it seemed to hold special significance.
Vanessa Howard beheld the scene through a blur of unaccustomed tears. Usually not a woman prone to a show of emotion nor given to displays of affection, she dabbed at her eyes discreetly. Her niece was very dear to her. She sincerely hoped Malcolm would understand how sensitive she was, how easily hurt, how loyal and loving.
Rose had been such an interesting child—bright, lively, and with a vivid imagination. She had given to Vanessa, then a spinster past thirty, the gift of a relationship she would never have known otherwise. When Vanessa had come into that motherless home fifteen years ago to take care of John and Rose, it might have seemed to others that she was making a sacrifice. But her sojourn in the Meredith household had proved to be quite the opposite. Helping rear those children had brought her unprecedented joy and fulfillment. This day marked the end of her task.
She was handing over her precious charge to the young stranger from the South who would take Rose away to another life. Vanessa prayed with all her heart that he would treat his bride tenderly, keep all those promises he was making today. But who could say what lay ahead of them? They were so young and so gloriously in love that it made the heart ache to see them.
Taking his place at the altar, the Reverend Amos Brandon looked at the two young people in front of him and felt a sudden tightening in his chest. Though he had performed hundreds of marriage ceremonies, this one had added meaning. Perhaps it was because he had known Rose's mother, Ellen, had married her in this same church, and had buried her not five years later.
But no. There was something else, something particularly touching about this wedding, about these two people. It was as if a mantle of sadness hovered above the beautiful couple—as though this day were an ending, not a beginning. He tried to dismiss the pervasive melancholy as he cleared his throat and began the time-honored words.
"Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to join this man and this woman in the bonds of holy matrimony, a state instituted by God and blessed by Him as an honorable estate—"
Seeing his daughter's enchanting profile turned toward her bridegroom, Thomas Meredith was conscious of an ache in his throat. Rose was very like her mother, his own Ellen, hardly more than a bride when he lost her. Yet Rose was very different. While Ellen had been gentle, submissive, quiet, Rose was intense and intelligent, with a strength of mind and a clear individuality—qualities not often appreciated by men. Perhaps it had been unwise to educate her as highly as her brother. Still, Malcolm had not found this unappealing. In fact, he seemed drawn to Rose by those very traits. That these gifts would blend with her sweet nature and femininity was devoutly to be hoped, her father sighed.
'These vows you are about to exchange should not be taken without full understanding of their importance, their mutual binding, and without any mental reservations whatsoever, as you shall answer on the dreadful day of judgment—"
Clayborn Montrose, Malcolm's father, the silver-haired, impeccably tailored gentleman in the front pew, shifted uneasily. As opinionated as he was strong-featured, he did not take to this kind of pious threat. Of course his son knew marriage was a serious step! Malcolm was a serious young man—thoughtful, reserved, not given to foolishness or flirting like his brothers, Bryce and Leighton. Malcolm was the intellectual one. Yet he could sit a horse as well as any other Virginian, even if he did not spend every waking hour in the saddle—riding, hunting, courting every pretty girl in the county. Clay might have wished his eldest son had chosen a bride from among the many eligible young ladies in Virginia, daughters of his lifelong planter friends.
But he had to concede that Rose Meredith was graceful and charming. A real beauty, as well. And her background was as prestigious and proud as his own. Her family, wealthy and well-born, her dignified father and refined aunt all spoke well of Malcolm's choice of brides. Clay had been equally impressed with the stately pink-bricked Federal house facing the well-kept common in the historic town of Milford as well as with the elegance of its furnishings, the gracious hospitality accorded by his host, and the well-trained servants in the household. Now, if only this present unpleasantness between the northern and southern states of the nation would get settled quickly—a subject that no one in this well-bred gathering had mentioned over the last few days—things would be fine.
Of course, there was Sara.
Ah, Sam, Clay sighed, remembering his own beautiful bride. Tall, slender, as graceful on horseback as on a dance floor, Sara had ridden daily until the terrible day of her accident. Clay closed his eyes, recalling the scene with an awful clarity.
He and Malcolm, then only a little boy, were watching her from the fence along the pasture as she practiced her jumps. The sun was shining that day on the slim figure in royal blue velvet, with dark hair tightly netted into a chignon under the plumed hat. Then suddenly the magnificent bay shied and turned at a stone hurdle, throwing Sara to the ground. When Clay reached her, she was lying motionless, the lovely dark hair loosened and spread on the grass, the lithe body broken. Malcolm had seen it all.
When even the finest doctors in Richmond could not promise that Sara would ever walk again, Malcolm had kept his mother's hope alive, staying by her bedside constantly. From that time a deep bond had been forged between mother and son, deeper and stronger than Sara had with either of her other sons—or with anyone else, Clay thought ruefully.
From that time on Sara had lived the life of a semi-invalid. Since he could not give her back the active life she had once enjoyed, adoring her as he did, Clay had tried to give her everything else.
The one exception was in Clay's choice of schools for their eldest son. Sara had not wanted Malcolm sent north to be educated, had argued hotly against it, but Clay had insisted, secretly believing Sara's possessive love for Malcolm to be unhealthy. Now, of course, Sara blamed him for Malcolm's choice of a Yankee bride.
" . . . and should not be entered into ill-advisedly without prayerful consideration—"
Clay Montrose changed his position again, mentally decrying the fact that New England churches had such hard benches. Probably a leftover Puritanical belief that there is some virtue in being as uncomfortable as possible, he thought and chuckled inwardly, recalling with some longing the cushioned comfort of the Montrose family's private pew in the church they occasionally attended in Williamsburg.
"So, now I do ask you both to search your hearts and consciences that you may freely agree to the questions I will now put to you—"
John Meredith regarded his sister with eyes both affectionate and thoughtful. He had spent long hours with a deeply distressed and disappointed Kendall Carpenter in their lodgings at Harvard, talking about Rose's planned marriage to Malcolm.
Although he entertained some of the same misgivings about the match, John also admired and respected the Virginian. He had found Malcolm to be unusually intelligent, cultured, compassionate. Besides, Malcolm had spoken so convincingly of his love for Rose, his intention to devote his life to making her happy that John had no reason to doubt him. No, it wasn't the man she had chosen that struck some fear into his heart; it was the way of life to which Rose must become accustomed, a way of life so diverse and foreign to her that he could not help wondering if her happiness was really assured. Or if, once the newness of their mutual passion faded, the differences in upbringing and outlook would become more apparent.
John sighed heavily. There was nothing he could say or do that would have changed either of their minds, he realized. Rose, for all her soft sweetness, was strong-willed and stubborn, and Malcolm had been quietly determined.
"If there be anyone present who knows any reason why these two should not be joined together as man and wife, let him now speak or forever hold his peace—"
Kendall Carpenter, arms folded across his chest, sitting in the very last row, swallowed hard. He had not wanted to come to this wedding. It had taken every ounce of his strength and will power to bring himself here to witness another man marrying the girl he had dreamed and hoped and longed to have for his own. He set his jaw and clenched his teeth together, willing himself not to leap to his feet and stop the ceremony, shouting, "Yes, I do! It's wrong! It's a terrible mistake!"
He recalled clearly, with every detail distinct, the first day he had set eyes on John Meredith's sister. It was their first year at Harvard and John had invited him home for the Thanksgiving weekend. He remembered his thoughts when John had introduced him, saying, "This is my sister, Rose." Of course, what other name could this delightful creature be called? The slender figure, the graceful bearing, the petal-soft mouth, the delicate rosy coloring . . . what, but Rose?
He had fallen in love with her at once and had loved her every day since . . . and today he was losing her forever.
"Do you then, Malcolm, take Rose—to love, honor, and cherish in sickness and in health, for better or for worse?"
Malcolm had experienced a feeling of unreality ever since he had awakened that morning and realized with his first moment of awareness that this was the day Rose would become his bride.
Every miserable moment of his years at Harvard faded away after he met her. Now, as he looked down into her upturned face, her eyes radiating such warmth that his heart pounded, roaring in his ears, he thought of his happiness the day he had asked her to marry him and how she answered almost before he had gotten the words out of his mouth.
"Oh, my dearest, yes!" she had whispered and her voice was husky and tremulous with emotion. She went into his arms then as trustfully as a child, and he was overwhelmed with the sweetness and ardor of her surrender.
As Malcolm repeated the vows the minister was reciting, he prayed that God would help him to keep them, that he would never fail Rose nor do anything to take away the happy bright shining in those love-filled eyes.
"Do you, Rose Ellen, take Malcolm for your lawful husband, to live together in God's ordinance as his wife, to love, honor and obey him—"
"I do," Rose replied in a tone so light, so soft it had an almost childlike breathlessness.
At last it was here. . . . She was standing "in the presence of God and this company," as Pastor Brandon had said, taking the most solemn vow of her life, making the most binding promises, blending her life—past, present, and future—with this man whom she loved with a blinding, blazing emotion beyond anything she could ever imagine or had ever known. . . ."From this day forward" . . . for all her life on down all the years to come, into eternity, she and Malcolm would be one soul, one spirit, one body. . . before the Creator—one—enduring, exclusive, encompassing all they had been, were, or would become. It was happening! Now! I love you, Malcolm! her heart sang as his voice quietly spoke the words of the traditional service.
"And with the giving and receiving of this ring, pledging your troth one to the other, I now pronounce you husband and wife—"
Malcolm took Rose's hand and she felt a quicksilver tingle as he slipped the wide gold band on her finger.
Reverend Brandon took their clasped hands and, placing his own upon their joined ones, said, "Henceforth you will belong entirely to each other. You will be one in mind, one in heart, one in affections."
As if from a long distance, Rose heard the deep tones of the organ begin to play the familiar recessional hymn. Malcolm was smiling, offering her his arm as they turned to face the congregation. She slipped her hand through it, and with his other hand he pressed hers and said in a low voice intended only for her ears, "My darling wife . . . Mrs. Montrose!"
The radiance in Rose's face brought tears to the eyes of the observers as the couple started down the aisle. If wishes and prayers could ensure their future happiness, it is a certain thing, Vanessa thought, turning to watch their departure for the reception area and the European honeymoon to follow. Unfortunately, that was sometimes not enough. Life, after all, was as the minister had said, "a vale of tears." She only hoped that this day would always remain in their hearts and minds as completely and blissfully happy, no matter what came afterward.