"You ought not to expect me to respond for the Army. I can't speak for the ladies thereof because they never gave me a chance to practise (oh! slander!), and I can't drink for the men because they insist on doing it for themselves (another libel!). In fact, after being here five days as the guest of our hospitable friends at the club, I'm wondering how any one ever could see anything to drink to in the army. Life there is a fearful grind. In the lofty and inspired language of Canon Kingsley,—if not cannon, he was at least a big gun in ecclesiastical circles (oh!),—it is a life in which
'Men must shirk and women must sweep.'"
(Loud protestations.) "Indeed, if it were not for the ladies—God bless them!—we would have nothing but fighting in the field and stagnation at home; but, whenever they get to running things their way, it—it is just the reverse." (Shame! No! Wretch!) He vainly strives to rally under the fire of imprecation, but it is too late. The groomsmen are denouncing him, as he deserves to be, as a slanderer and recreant. Mr. Ferris and Mr. Waring spring to their feet to implore the assembly to reject any and all such statements as the emanations of an embittered, oft-rejected, and "subtle, perjured, false, disloyal man;" and poor Blake, who really wanted to wind up with an apostrophe to the crowning excellences of the bride, is driven to cover, a victim of his vicious propensity for burlesque. He has created illimitable merriment, however, and is to be infinitely congratulated on getting off so easily. And then the bride-cake is cut, and eager is the excitement over the search for the prophetic ring, and the blushing bridesmaid who gets it has plainly made a deep impression on the young artilleryman who is seated next her, and is accused of already wearing his colors in her cheeks; and then comes the dance, and the crash-covered floors are speedily alive with twinkling feet, and the bride's own set in the lanciers is surrounded by a throng of eager lookers-on. And Ray's color has come back to his bronzed cheeks, and he has looked so well, so infinitely happy, so proud and radiant all the evening, and yet so grave withal, so quiet and self-restrained. All men speak of the earnest feeling that is evident in his acceptance of the showered congratulations, and the army comrades who have been long separated from him wonder at the change that has come over the fellow they once called "Rattling Ray."
And Marion! Heaven's blessings never lighted a more exquisite face than is hers to-night! She is simply radiant, simply irresistible, for the girls hang about her to repeat their congratulations again and again, to win another kiss, to hear the winning, gracious accents of the voice that has so long charmed and enthralled them. Old and young, rich and poor, big and little, those kinsfolk, school-mates, and neighbors, especially the little ones who were her scholars in the Sunday-school, flock about her, watch her with fascinated eyes; and for every one she has sweet and gracious words and beaming smiles; she holds them to the last. The children troop about her as she is led away to change her bridal-dress for the journey. 'Tis approaching midnight and the "owl train" leaves within the hour; and they hang about the stairways waiting for her reappearance, and hover in mysterious fascination about Captain Ray as he comes in his travelling suit of mufti, and wonder why he should discard his uniform and sword, and the carriage is now at the door, and great store of rice and old slippers are got in readiness, and presently down the broad stairway she comes, metamorphosed as to raiment, but radiant, winsome as ever; and they seize upon her and bear her off bodily into the great parlor, and throng about her and pull her this way, that way, every way, and kiss and maul and squeeze and rumple, and never seem to exhaust her infinite patience or their own extravagant capacity; but at last they begin to surge towards the door-way, and the bridesmaids hover in circle for the closing ceremony, and she tosses her bouquet to the ceiling amid shouts and scurry, and, marvel of marvels! it is captured by her of the rosy cheeks and dancing eyes who has already secured the ring and fascinated the artilleryman, and they reach the door, and Ray has squeezed out to the steps, and some of the emotional cousins have retreated sobbing to deserted nooks and corners about the house, and at last she comes forth and springs lightly down the stairs, and the rice rattles after her along the broad walk, and the groomsmen line the gate-way and usher her into the carriage, and stand there ready to volley them with old slippers, and Ray is just about springing in beside her, when down comes Blake with his seven-league strides, bearing a sobbing little sunny-haired maiden of seven in his arms.
"Hold on!" he shouts. "This is my little sweetheart, and she shan't be left out in the cold."
And Marion leans from the carriage, and Ray stands to one side, as the weeping little one holds out her arms.
"Oh, Miss Ma—wion, I haven't had one kiss. They all cwowded so, and I was the only one." And her sobs break forth afresh.
"My own little kitten!" she cries, as the child is seized and folded to her heart. "How could I have come away without seeing my baby scholar?" And the mite is hugged and kissed and comforted and sent back to Blake's strong arms, rapturous because she has had Queen Marion's last embrace, and then Ray springs to her side and the door slams, and the horses plunge, and away they drive amid a shower of blessings and old slippers; and they have gone a block before she notes his silence, and, turning, sees that his eyes are closed, that a tear is glistening on his bronzed cheek.
"Will,—husband," she whispers, lovingly, tenderly, half-reproachfully. "What is it?" And her little hand steals into his.
For a moment there is no reply. His arm is quickly thrown around her and she is drawn close to his breast; his lips are pressed to her forehead, but he utters no word.
At last she hears the answer,—
"My darling. I am wondering what I ever did to deserve one moment of your love. I am wondering what man could deserve—you; and, I—was praying God's guidance that I might never disappoint your trust."
* * *
It is many a long year since that bright summer. Men have come and men have gone. Vows have been made and vows and hearts together have been broken, and yet, some lives, though into each "some rain must fall," have been full of sunshine.
Only the other day there came Eastward a letter from a proud young matron,—still young despite the cares incidental to the possession of a lively brood, among whom there seems no higher ambition than to emulate the exploits of a certain Master Sandy Ray, who is in pristine knickerbockers and perennial mischief. "Jack says," writes this proud mamma, "that with all his pranks that blessed little rascal is his father all over, fearless, truthful, and generous, and Captain Ray fairly idolizes him. My Jack junior is a head taller and nearly two years older, but the two are inseparable, and it is a sight to see them 'going off scouting' on their Indian ponies. As for Marion, I believe she is the happiest woman in the army."
Well! Mrs. Truscott ought to know, and this goes far towards substantiation of Truscott's theory, that Marion's faith was given to a man who was loyal in every fibre of his being, tender as he was brave, steadfast as he was loving, and he loves her as such a woman deserves to be loved, tenderly, faithfully, and to
THE END.
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Marions Faith Page 37