At Pinneys Ranch | Page 7

She had ado to crowd back
the scalding tears, as she contrasted her present mood of resignation
with the mingling of virginal timidity and the abandon of love in her
heart that other day. Suddenly, seeming to rise out of this painful
contrast of the past and the present, a feeling of abhorrence for the act
to which she was committed possessed her mind. She had all along
shrunk from it, as any sensitive woman might from a marriage without
love, but there had been nothing in that shrinking to compare in
intensity with this uncontrollable aversion which now seized upon her
to the idea of holding a wife's relation to the man by her side. It had all
at once come oyer her that she could not do it. Nevertheless she was a
sensible and rational woman as well as a sweet and lovely one.
Whatever might be the origin of this sudden repugnance, she knew it
had none in reason. She was fulfilling a promise which she had

maturely considered, and neither in justice to herself nor the man to
whom she had given it could she let a purely hysterical attack like this
prevent its consummation. She called reason and common sense to her
aid, and resolutely struggled to banish the distressing fancies that
assailed her. The moisture stood out upon her forehead with the
severity of the conflict, which momentarily increased. At last the
minister ended his prayer, of which she had not heard a word. The
bridal pair were bidden to take each other by the hand. As the
bridegroom's fingers closed around hers, she could not avoid a shudder
as at a loathsome contact. It was only by a supreme effort of
self-control that she restrained from snatching her hand away with a
scream. She did not hear what the minister went on to say. Every
faculty was concentrated on the struggle, which had now become one
of desperation, to repress an outbreak of the storm that was raging
within. For, despite the shuddering protest of every instinct and the
wild repulsion with which every nerve tingled, she was determined to
go through the ceremony. But though the will in its citadel still held out,
she knew that it could not be for long. Each wave of emotion that it
withstood was higher, stronger, than the last. She felt that it was going,
going. She prayed that the minister might be quick, while yet she
retained a little self-command, and give her an opportunity to utter
some binding vow which should make good her solemn engagement,
and avert the scandal of the outbreak on the verge of which she was
trembling. "Do you," said the minister to Mr. Whitcomb, "take this
woman whom you hold by the hand to be your wife, to honor, protect,
and love while you live?" "I do," replied the bridegroom promptly. "Do
you," said the minister, looking at Mary, "take the man whom you hold
by the hand to be your husband, to love and honor while you live?"
Mary tried to say "Yes," but at the effort there surged up against it an
opposition that was almost tangible in its overpowering force. No
longer merely operating upon her sensibilities, the inexplicable
influence that was conquering her now seized on her physical functions,
and laid its interdict upon her tongue. Three times she strove to throw
off the incubus, to speak, but in vain. Great drops were on her forehead;
she was deadly pale, and her eyes were wild and staring; her features
twitched as in a spasm, while she stood there struggling with the
invisible power that sealed her lips. There was a sudden movement

among the spectators; they were whispering together. They saw that
something was wrong. "Do you thus promise?" repeated the minister,
after a pause. "Nod, if you can't speak," murmured the bridegroom. His
words were the hiss of a serpent in her ears. Her will resisted no longer;
her soul was wholly possessed by unreasoning terror of the man and
horror of the marriage. "No! no! no!" she screamed in piercing tones,
and snatching her hand from the bridegroom, she threw herself upon
the breast of the astonished minister, sobbing wildly as she clung to
him, "Save me, save me! Take me away! I can't marry him,--I can't! Oh,
I can't!"
The wedding broke up in confusion, and that is the way, if you choose
to think so, that John Lansing, one thousand miles away, saved his wife
from marrying another man.
"If you choose to think so," I say, for it is perfectly competent to argue
that the influence to which Mary Lansing yielded was merely an
hysterical attack, not wholly strange at such a moment in the case of a
woman devoted to her