Together | Page 4

rich. A thin girl, also
blond, with deep blue eyes, and a fine bony contour of the face, was
swept by the stream near the solitary observer and held out a hand:--
"Cornelia!"
"Margaret!"
"Isn't it ideal!" Margaret Lawton exclaimed, her nervous face still
stirred by all that she had felt during the service,--"the day, the country,
and this dear little chapel!"
"Very sweet," the large woman replied in a purring voice, properly
modulated for the sentiment expressed. "Isabelle made an impressive
bride." And these two school friends moved on towards the door.
Cornelia Pallanton, still surveying the scene, nodded and said to her

companion, "There's your cousin Nannie Lawton. Her husband isn't
here, I suppose? There are a good many St. Louis people."
The guests were now scattered in little groups over the green, dawdling
in talk and breathing happily the June-scented air. The stolid man and
his placid wife who had sat near the rear had already started for the
Colonel's house, following the foot-path across the fields. They walked
silently side by side, as if long used to wordless companionship.
The amiable Senator and his friend Beals examined critically the little
Gothic chapel, which had been a gift to his native town by the Colonel,
as well as the stone library at the other end of the green. "Nice idea of
Price," the Senator was saying, "handsome buildings--pleasant little
village," and he moved in the direction of Miss Pallanton, who was
alone.
Down below in the valley, on the railroad siding, lay the special train
that had brought most of the guests from New York that morning. The
engine emitted little puffs of white smoke in the still noon, ready to
carry its load back to the city after the breakfast. About the library steps
were the carriages of those who had driven over from neighboring
towns; the whole village had a disturbed and festal air.
The procession was straggling across the village street through the stile
and into the meadow, tramping down the thick young grass, up the
slope to the comfortable old white house that opened its broad verandas
like hospitable arms. The President of the Atlantic and Pacific, deserted
by the Senator, had offered his arm to a stern old lady with knotty
hands partly concealed in lace gloves. Her lined face had grown serious
in age and contention with life. She clung stiffly to the arm of the
railroad president,--proud, silent, and shy. She was his mother. From
her one might conclude that the groom's people were less comfortably
circumstanced than the bride's--that this was not a marriage of ambition
on the woman's part. It was the first time Mrs. Lane had been "back
east" since she had left her country home as a young bride. It was a
proud moment, walking with her son's chief; but the old lady did not
betray any elation, as she listened to the kindly words that Beals found
to say about her son.

"A first-rate railroad man, Mrs. Lane,--he will move up rapidly. We
can't get enough of that sort."
The mother, never relaxing her tight lips, drank it all in, treasured it as
a reward for the hard years spent in keeping that boarding-house in
Omaha, after the death of her husband, who had been a country doctor.
"He's a good son," she admitted as the eulogy flagged. "And he knows
how to get on with all kinds of folks...."
At their heels were Vickers Price and the thin Southern girl, Margaret
Lawton. Vickers, just back from Munich for this event, had managed to
give the conventional dress that he was obliged to wear a touch of
strangeness, with an enormous flowing tie of delicate pink, a velvet
waistcoat, and broad-brimmed hat. The clothes and the full beard, the
rippling chestnut hair and pointed mustache, showed a desire for
eccentricity on the part of the young man that distinguished him from
all the other well-dressed young Americans. He carried a thin cane and
balanced a cigarette between his lips.
"Yes," he was saying, "I had to come over to see Isabelle married, but I
shall go back after a look around--not the place for me!" He laughed
and waved his cane towards the company with an ironic sense of his
inappropriateness to an American domestic scene.
"You are a composer,--music, isn't it?" the girl asked, a flash in her
blue eyes at the thought of youth, Munich, music.
"I have written a few things; am getting ready, you know," Vickers
Price admitted modestly.
Just there they were joined by a handsome, fashionably dressed man,
his face red with rapid walking. He touched his long, well-brushed
black mustache with his handkerchief as he explained:--
"Missed the train--missed the show--but got here in time for the fun, on
the