David laughed happily. "I was, but I am very much alive now. I am to be married, Mrs. Towers; our wedding is to be quite _comme il faut_. It is to be at high noon, and the ceremony performed by a bishop."

"James!" Betty dropped into a chair and looked helplessly at her husband. "You haven't your vestments here!"

"I have all I need, dear. You know, Doctor, from Mr. Belew's telegram we were led to expect--"

"A death instead of a wedding?" David finished.

Betty turned to him. "Why didn't you tell us when you were down? You never gave the slightest hint of your state of mind, and there I was with my heart aching for Ca.s.sandra, when you--you stood ready to save her. I'm so glad for Ca.s.sandra; I could hug you, Doctor Thryng."

Suddenly she turned on her husband. "James! Have you thought of everything--all the consequences? What will his mother--and the family over in England say?"

James threw up his hand and laughed.

"Don't laugh, James. Have you thought this all out, Doctor? Are you sure you can make them understand over there? Won't they think this awfully irregular? Will they ever be reconciled? I know how they are. My father was English."

"They never need be reconciled. It's our affair, and there's nothing to call me back there to live. What I do, or whom I make my wife, is nothing to them. I may visit my mother, of course, but for the rest, they gave me up years ago, when I had no use for the life they mapped out for me. I have nothing to inherit there. It would go to my older brother, anyway. I may follow my own inclination--thank G.o.d! And as for it's being irregular--on the contrary--we are distinguished enough to have a bishop perform the ceremony. That will be considered a great thing at home--when they do come to hear of it."

"But it is very sudden, Doctor; I suppose that's why I said irregular."

Betty Towers paused a moment with a little frown, then laughed outright.

"Does Ca.s.sandra know she is to be married to-day?"

"She learned the fact yesterday--incidentally--bless her! and her only objection was a most feminine one. She had no proper dress. She said she was wearing her best when she found me and--but--I told her the trousseau was to come later."

Betty rose with impulsive importance. "Well, James, we've so little time, I must go and help her prepare. And you'll rest now, won't you, Doctor? You stay up here with him, James, and I'll find some way of sending your things up."

"Thar's Hoyle; he kin he'p a heap. He kin ride the mule an' tote anything ye like; and Marthy, I reckon ye kin git her up here on my horse--hit's thar at her place," said Sally, who had been standing in the doorway, keenly interested.

When they were alone she said to David: "Hit's a right quare way o'

doin' things--gitt'n married in bed, but if Bishop Towahs do hit, hit sure must be all right--leastways Ca.s.sandry'll think so."

David took the superintendence of the arrangement of his cabin upon himself, and Hoke Belew, with the bishop's aid, carried out his directions. One side of his canvas room was rolled to the top, leaving the place open to the hills and the beauty without. His bed was placed so that he might face the open s.p.a.ce, and that Ca.s.sandra could kneel at his right side. His writing-table, draped with a white cloth and covered with green hemlock boughs, formed the altar. It was all very quickly and simply done, and then David lay quiet, with closed eyes, listening to his musicians in the tree-tops, fluting their own gladness, while Hoke Belew went down below, and the bishop sat out on the rock and meditated.

Ca.s.sandra came up to the cabin alone and sat with David, while the bishop donned his priestly vestments, and the wedding procession wound slowly up the trail from the Fall Place, decorously and gravely, clad in their best. Azalea and Betty came, side by side, the mother rode Sally's speckled white horse, and little Hoyle ran on ahead; Hoke carried his baby in his arms. Behind them all rode Uncle Jerry Carew, full of the liveliest interest and curiosity.

Said David: "This is May-day. I know what they're doing at home now, if the weather will let them. They're having gay times with out-of-door fetes. The country girls are wearing their prettiest gowns, and the men are wearing sprigs of May in their b.u.t.tonholes. Where did you get your roses?"

"Azalie brought them."

"And who put them in your hair?"

"Mrs. Towahs did that. Do you like me this way, David?"

"You are the loveliest being my eyes ever rested on."

"This was my best dress last year. I did it up and mended it this morning. It's home-woven like the one I--like the other one you said you liked."

David smiled, looking up into the gray eyes with the green lights and blue depths in them. How serene and poised her manner was, on the verge of the momentous step she was about to take, while his own heart was beating high. He wondered if she really comprehended the change it was to make in her life, that she showed no apprehension or fear.

"Ca.s.sandra, do you realize that in fifteen minutes you will be my wife?

It will be a great change for you, dearest. In spite of all I can do, you may be sad sometimes, and I may ask of you things you don't want to do."

"I've been sad already in my life, and done things I didn't want to do.

I don't guess you could change that--only G.o.d could."

"And you don't feel in the least disturbed? Your heart doesn't beat any harder nor your breath come quicker? Tell me how you feel."

She smiled and drew a long breath. "I don't know how it is. Everything is right peaceful and sweet outside--the sky and the hills and all the birds--even the wind is still in the trees, like everything was waiting for something good to happen."

"In your heart it is sweet and peaceful, too, and waiting for something good to happen?"

"Yes, David."

"G.o.d forgive me if ever I fail you," he said, drawing her down to him.

"G.o.d make me worthy of you."

Then the bishop entered, and the little procession followed, and gathered about while the solemn words of the service were uttered.

Ca.s.sandra knelt at David's side, as together they partook of the bread and wine, and with the worn circlet of gold which had been tied to her father's little Greek books, they were p.r.o.nounced man and wife. Then, rising from her knees, she bent and kissed David, the long first kiss of the wedded pair, and turned her gravely happy face to the bishop, who admitted to Betty afterward that he had never kissed a bride, other than his own, with such unalloyed satisfaction.

It was all over quickly, and Ca.s.sandra was standing in a new world. Her eyes shone with the love-light no longer held back and veiled. She accompanied them all to the door and parted from them, even her mother and little Hoyle, as a hostess parting from her guests. She would not allow any one to stay behind, for the wedding feast had been spread in her mother's house, and thither they repaired to eat, and talk everything over.

"Mother felt right bad to leave us alone. She meant to bring everything up and all eat together here, but I thought it would be better, just we two, and me to set things out for you. Lie quiet and close your eyes, David, and make out like you are sleeping while I do it."

With perfect contentment he obeyed, and lay watching her through half-closed lids. It was always the same vision. She moved between him and a halo of light that seemed to be a part of her and to go with her, now at his bedside, now bending before the fireplace. At last the small pine table, which had served as an altar, was set with their first meal.

The home was established.

He opened his eyes and looked on the feast she had set before him. The pink rose was still in her hair, and one at her throat, and two perfect ones were in a gla.s.s near his plate. The table was drawn close to his bedside, and strawberries were upon it, and a gla.s.s pitcher of cream.

There were white beaten biscuit, and tea--as he had made it for her so long ago on her first and only visit to his cabin when he was at home, so she had made it for him now. There were chicken and green peas, also.

"How quickly everything has happened! How perfect it all is! How did you get all these things together?"

So she told him where everything came from. "Mother churned the b.u.t.ter to have it right fresh, and she left it without salt for you, like you said you used to have it in England. Uncle Jerry brought the peas from his garden, and he sh.e.l.led them himself. I made the biscuit this morning, and Aunt Sally fried the chicken when she came down, and Azalie prepared the peas, and we kept them all hot in the fireplace, theirs down there, and ours up here." Ca.s.sandra laughed merrily. "I reckon it looked funny. Every one carried something when they came up. Hoyle had the peas in a tin pail, and mother rode Aunt Sally's Speckle and carried the biscuit in a pan on front. Shut your eyes and you can see them come that way, David, while I sit here with you, talking and feeling that happy. Don't try to use your right hand that way; I can see it hurts you. Let me go on feeding you like I am. Don't I do it right?"

"Perfectly, but I want you to bring that cushion over here and put it under my pillow so you won't have to lift my head. That's right. Now I want to see you eat. You can't feed me and yourself at the same time.

You won't? Then we'll take it turn about."

"How have you managed these days? Did Aunt Sally feed you? Oh, I don't believe you ate anything. You couldn't, could you?"

She spoke so sadly, he laughed. "It's a lucky thing you sent for the bishop instead of the doctor, or I would have had no wife and would have starved to death. I couldn't have survived another day."

Again she laughed out, as she seemed so suddenly to have learned to do.

"And I would have stayed away and let you starve to death? You must open your mouth, David, and not try to talk now."

"Ah, no, that's enough. We've a thousand things to say and plans to make. You eat while I talk. When I am up, we must find some one to stay with your mother. She should not be left alone." Ca.s.sandra paled a little. He was watching her face. "You will be staying up here with me, you know, all the time."

"Yes--I know." Her throat seemed to tighten, and she looked off toward the hills, as her way was.

"Don't you like the thought of staying up here with me? Make your confession, dearest one." He drew her down to look in his eyes. "It's done. We are man and wife."

Her eyes swam with tears, but her lips smiled. "I do. I do want to bide with you. All the way before me now looks like a long path of light--like what I have dreamed sometimes when the moon shines long down the mists at night. Only one place--I can't quite see--is it shadow or not. Perhaps it's only the thought of mother down there alone."