There was a hush over the assembly so complete that
it seemed as if the very personalities of the listeners
were drawn back from self-consciousness to give free
scope for sound. When Burr spoke, everybody heard.
“The marriage between Dorothy Fair and myself
is broken off,” was all he said. Then he
went out of the room as proudly as if his bride had
been by his side, through the entry to the study.
Parson Fair and his mother were there. “They
know it,” he announced, quite calmly; then he
took his fine wedding-hat from the table.
“Where are you going?” his mother demanded,
quickly.
“To walk a little way.” Burr turned
to Parson Fair. “I beg you not to feel
that you must deal severely with your daughter for
this,” he said, “for she does not deserve
it. She was justified in asking what she did,
and in feeling distrust that I did not answer.”
“If a wife’s faith cannot survive her
husband’s silence, then is she no true spouse,
and ’twas the part of a man not to answer,”
said this Parson Fair, who had all his life followed
in most roads the lead of his womankind, and not known
it, so much state had he been allowed in his captivity.
“She was justified,” said Burr, “and
I beg you, sir, not to visit any displeasure upon
her. I have not at any time been worthy of her,
although God knows had she not cast me off, and did
not this last, with what I remember now of her manner
for the last few weeks, make me sure that her heart
is no longer mine, I would have lived my life for
her, as best I could; and will now, should she say
the word.”
With that, Burr Gordon thrust on his wedding-hat,
and was out of the study and out of the south door
of the house.
In the yard was drawn up in state, behind the five
white horses, the grand old Gordon coach, which had
not been used before since the death of Lot’s
father. Lot had insisted upon furnishing the coach
and the horses for his cousin’s wedding.
The man who stood by the horses’ heads looked
up at Burr in a dazed way when he came out of the house
and spoke to him.
“When my mother is ready you can take her home,
Silas,” said Burr. “Then drive over
to my cousin’s, and put up the coach and the
horses.”
The man gasped and looked at him. “Do you
hear what I say?” said Burr, shortly.
The man gave an affirmative grunt, and strove to speak,
but Burr cut him short. “Look out for that
bad place in the road, before you get to the bridge,”
he said, and went on out of the yard. The road
was suddenly full of departing wedding-guests, fluttering
along with shrill clatter of persistently individual
notes, like a flock of birds.
Burr, out of the yard, passed along through their
midst with a hasty yet dignified pace. He said
to himself that he would not seem to be running away.
He looked neither to the right nor left, except to
avoid collisions with silken and muslin petticoats,
yet he was conscious of the hush of voices as he passed,
and knew that they all recognized him in the broad
moonlight.
