Chapter XVII: An Unusual Wedding

A big tear still undried on her cheek, Dorothy stared at the tall, lanky Somers. Her blank wonderment gradually merged into admiration, and a very becoming blush crept over her fair face.

“Get married to-morrow--anyway?” she asked. “Why--why not? I think it would be just lovely.” She grew more animated as this new idea shaped itself before her imagination. “We couldn’t have a big wedding anyway, after all this horrid trouble--not for months and _months_! And just think of the expense! New invitations, new flowers, another wedding dress, and everything. And Aunt Mary’s been so upset, getting ready for the house guests, and there’d be that to go through with again. And think, Lewis! We’d have to pay rent on our house all that time, without being able to live in it. Oh, I think it would be just lovely! We can bring the flowers down here and decorate the place and have our wedding breakfast right here; just the family, and maybe Marie and Sally Westfall,” naming her bridesmaids. “We’ll do it! Of course we will! Peter, run over to the depot and see if the flowers have come. I’ll have roses over there, and a bank of ferns, and----”

Her happy, excited voice trailed away, as she ran a calculating eye about the bare, cramped place, planning her decorations with truly feminine adaptability.

But my nephew caught her hand. “No, Dorothy!” he cried miserably. “No, honey girl. You know I’d just love it, but I can’t let you. You’re forgetting; I’m in prison, charged with murder. I’ll have to stay here for weeks, anyhow; and then I may be convicted and executed, or worse yet, given life imprisonment. And then you’d be tied for life to a convict, honey; you’d be worse than a widow. No, you must give me up, and maybe, in a year or two, you’ll find somebody else and be married and find happiness after all. And it would be a comfort to me, there in prison, to know your life hadn’t been ruined, too.”

The boy straightened, looking very noble and self-sacrificing. His eyes were moist; I fancy that he found a dismal enjoyment in the thought of this great renunciation. He pictured himself in stripes, no doubt, wandering alone down the long corridor of years, upborne by his own self-sacrifice. The young have a way of enjoying tragedy--in prospect, at least.

But Dorothy only laughed at him. “Fiddlesticks! You’re _not_ going to be convicted. You’re _not_! I won’t have it! You won’t even have to be tried; Doctor Somers will find the man who really did it, and you’ll be home with me in a week, maybe! And, if you’re not, I won’t ever, ever, _ever_ marry any other body--so there! I guess I can be noble too! And we’re going to be married at noon to-morrow, right here in this jail, so you might as well make the best of it!”

Dropping on the narrow bunk beside him she began to whisper eagerly into his ear.

Well, that was all of that. There are limits to any man’s capacity for self-abnegation, and Lewis was very human. Who could have resisted Dorothy McGregor’s sweet pleading, her flushed, bright-eyed anticipation of this pitiful wedding, so different from that she had planned?

“And really,” she argued wisely, “it’ll be lots nicer than a big church affair--lots! I shan’t have to get all tired out running around, looking after a lot of guests we don’t care anything about, getting ice cream spilled on my wedding dress, and having the ushers put all the wrong people into the wrong pews. I’ve been worried out of my life for weeks, just imagining what would happen if they should seat Cousin John beside Uncle Will Marshall. They haven’t spoken for twenty years, you know. Oh, this’ll be so much better. Why, it’s just sweet!”

Lewis smiled bitterly. “‘Sweet,’” he repeated, “marrying a man--in a jail!” But his protest was uncertain, and Dorothy paid no attention to it whatever. He had capitulated; she knew it well enough, and we all recognized it. From that time on my nephew had no more voice in the arrangement of his wedding than has any other well-conducted bridegroom.

In the midst of our excited talk some one tried the jail door. We all stopped short, alarmed, the memory of last night’s attack fresh in our minds. Then Somers, shrugging resignedly, opened the big door, which he had locked again after Peter’s exit.

In the aperture appeared the wide-brimmed hat and leathery, lined face of High Sheriff Redden. He blinked at us queerly, his red-rimmed, rheumy eyes taking in the unusual scene before him; for Dorothy and Lewis sat hand in hand on the narrow bunk, while I huddled uncomfortably on the floor, my back to the cage bars, with a bundle of the McGregors’ best bed linen for a divan. It was a curious spectacle for a well-conducted jail, to say the least.

The sheriff swept off his hat and bowed deeply. “Mornin’, ma’am,” he said to the girl deferentially. “Howdy, folks! You-all aim t’ be comf’table as you kin, I see.” He fingered his wispy white mustache and turned to Somers. “Howdy, stranger! F’om Rufe’s story you an’ him saved my pris’ner f’om gittin’ lynched las’ night--or, anyways, it was Rufe mostly, accordin’ to his tell.”

He winked elaborately at the physician. Over his shoulder appeared the anxious face of the huge constable. Wakefield shook a leonine head in agonized appeal, winked frantically, laid a finger to his lips, begging dumbly for our silence.

Somers grinned. “Oh, yes! Mr. Wakefield showed the best part of valor, certainly.”

“H’m! Yuh cain’t tell me nothin’ about Rufe Wakefield, stranger. But I’m obliged to yuh, sir. They’d of been right smart talk round Carabas County if anythin’ had happened to one of Hank Redden’s prisoners. Ain’t aimin’ t’ have no lynchin’s hereabouts, w’ile _I’m_ sheriff! Nossir!”

He extended a gnarled hand gravely, looking Somers up and down. “Yo’re lengthy enough t’ give anybody a battle, stranger,” he drawled, “even if they ain’t s’ much to yuh crossways.”

Somers laughed. “We can’t all be fat, sheriff.”

Redden fingered his wispy mustache. He was thin to emaciation. “H’m, I reckon not. An’ now, folks, this here ain’t quite reg’lar. I know it’s all right, but Rufe hadn’t ought to of give you-all that key. I’m responsible f’r havin’ Doc Parker here guarded right. Cain’t let things go on this a way; folks ’ud talk.”

“Oh, Mr. Redden,” said Dorothy prettily, “you won’t make it any harder for us? Why, Lewis and I are going to be married to-morrow!”

“H’m,” said the sheriff. His watery eyes blinked rapidly, but I fancied that their pale gaze softened. “H’m! Aimin’ t’ git married here?”

“Uh-huh,” said Dorothy, like a little, bashful schoolgirl.

Peter pushed in, breathless. “The flowers have come. Shall I bring ’em here?”

“We-ell, I be dogged! H’m! Yessum!” The sheriff’s face cleared. “I reckon I c’n fix it up, ma’am--anyways, if you’ll invite me to it.”

“Why, of course! I was counting on you to give me away,” declared Dorothy shamelessly. “My aunt can’t come; she’s paralyzed, you know; and Uncle George couldn’t do it very well because he’s Lewis’ uncle. _Will_ you, sheriff?”

“I jus’ reckon I will, ma’am! W’y, twenty mewels couldn’t keep me away. Hold up yore right hand, stranger, and you, McGregor, an’ you, Mr. Uhlman. I deppytize you-all. Yo’re depitty sheriffs of the County of Carabas, State of No’th Carolina, charged with th’ guardin’ of this here pris’ner an’ responsible fer his body to me. You c’n keep them keys now, gentlemen. Rufe, you got to feed ’im yit; you c’n fix it up ’ith them t’ let you in, mealtimes.”

And with no more formality than this, we became deputy sheriffs. Mr. Redden departed presently, promising to return for the ceremony to-morrow; and, before we had settled all details and departed homeward for lunch, an ancient roadster rattled up to the jail door and the lean, tobacco-chewing deputy sheriff from the county jail appeared in the doorway.

“Here,” said he laconically, as he thrust a package at me. “Sheriff says t’ wear ’em whenever yuh come round th’ jail.”

I unwrapped the newspaper to find three stars; Peter, Somers, and I pinned them to our coat fronts, not without pride. We were officers of the law!

The preparations for this most unconventional wedding went merrily on. We ate a hurried lunch, scarcely heeding Aunt Mary’s acid comments. She would never have given her consent to such an insane proceeding, if she’d been asked. But no one ever considered her; she was used to being ignored. Such a disgrace--to be married in a common jail! What were young people coming to, anyhow? No modesty, no idea of common decency, even. Why, the very thought of this monstrous proceeding sent queer feelings all up and down her spine! She could feel the knots coming in her neck already. But of course that was nothing; she’d be the last to expect any consideration for _her_ sufferings. Thank Heaven she was given strength and patience to bear them without a murmur! “Take me to my room, Miss Christie, please; I can’t eat one mouthful. I don’t believe I shall survive this blow, but, no doubt, it’s for the best. A poor, crippled old woman like me--I shall be glad to die and find rest in the grave! Ah, well, you might wait until I finish my tea, nurse!”

Presently Miss McGregor was wheeled away, and we all sighed our relief at her going. “Don’t forget to take your tablet, Miss Christie!” Somers called after them.

The nurse nodded and smiled over her shoulder, a becoming color in her round cheeks.

“In-deed!” murmured Aunt Mary to herself, quite audibly, as the wheel chair disappeared. “Every one needs medical attention except me, it appears. Pity her sufferings wouldn’t keep her awake!”

After lunch we hurried back to the jail, of which we were now free officially and regularly. And all that afternoon and evening I risked my aged, rheumatic limbs upon a wabbly stepladder, arranging draperies, hanging wreaths, tacking up ferns, until the lockup had become a bower of beauty. Peter ran errands indefatigably, and Somers, whose lathy length needed no ladder, worked at my side, performing prodigies of reaching with those lank arms. Dorothy bossed us all unmercifully; and poor Lewis was driven from one corner to another. His toes were trodden on, he was abused roundly for getting in the way, and generally made to feel as useless and unnecessary as any other bridegroom.

The last straw was added when Dorothy ordered us to heap his bunk with roses and ferns. “Where’ll I sleep to-night?” he inquired mournfully.

“Why, we’ll make you up a nice bed on the floor, dearest, with both mattresses and all the covers I brought from the house. It’ll be just as comfortable; and we’ve got to hide that horrid old bunk.”

“Whose jail is this, anyhow?” asked Lewis of me, being very careful, however, to keep his voice down. “You’re one of my stern jailors now, unk. Tell me, hasn’t a poor prisoner any rights?”

“As a prisoner, yes, my boy; but as a bridegroom, no!” I said to him firmly. “Bridegrooms are only permitted to live at all on condition that they keep out of the way of their betters.”

At last it was done, and we went home, flushed and tired, leaving Lewis to sleep on the floor.

“It’s going to be just lovely!” said Dorothy. “I’ll be awfully busy all morning, seeing to the wedding breakfast; we’ll have to pack it all up and bring it to the jail in baskets. Peter, I want you to go after Mr. Duncan. No, you’d better do that, Uncle George; there will be some explaining to do.”

I sighed resignedly. I could see myself explaining to the Reverend Percy Duncan that Miss McGregor’s wedding was to be solemnized after all--in the village lockup, and that he was invited to officiate.

“You, Peter,” our inexorable task-mistress went on, “will have to keep Lewis’ flivver going; Rosina and I’ll be back and forth with baskets and things. And, Doctor Somers, you go down first thing and stay with Lewis; see that he doesn’t upset any of our decorations.”

“I’ll take care of him,” replied Somers. “Yes,” to Dorothy’s mute, questioning gaze, “yes, I’ve got the ring and all that. Don’t you worry. I’ve been best man before now.”

“I--I wish I could come, too!” said Miss Christie wistfully. Aunt Mary, ostentatiously resigned, had retired for the night, and the nurse had joined us in the living room, which was not her usual custom. Her blond hair was coiled about a shapely head; she had discarded her unbecoming white uniform and wore a simple dress of some soft, clinging blue stuff--chiffon, I suppose. Her violet eyes were unwontedly bright; the bovine calm of her face had melted, so that she seemed almost animated.

Dorothy nudged me. “Look!” she whispered. “I told you!”

I knew what she meant. And, indeed, to-night Miss Christie was very near to being a beauty. “I wish I could go,” she repeated softly, her big eyes on Doctor Somers.

“I wish you could,” he answered sincerely.

Dorothy rose abruptly, tugged at my arm and beckoned to Peter, and dragged us both incontinently out of the room. “Go to bed, both of you!” she ordered. “There’s a hard day ahead of you.”