"FOR after this manner in the old time the holy women also whotrusted in God adorned themselves, being in subjection unto theirown husbands; even as Sarah obeyed Abraham, calling him lord;whose daughters ye are as long as ye do well, and are not afraidwith any amazement."

Concluding the Marriage Service of the Church of England in thosewell-known words, my uncle Starkweather shut up his book, andlooked at me across the altar rails with a hearty expression ofinterest on his broad, red face. At the same time my aunt, Mrs.Starkweather, standing by my side, tapped me smartly on theshoulder, and said,

"Valeria, you are married!"

Where were my thoughts? What had become of my attention? I wastoo bewildered to know. I started and looked at my new husband.He seemed to be almost as much bewildered as I was. The samethought had, as I believe, occurred to us both at the samemoment. Was it really possible--in spite of his mother'sopposition to our marriage--that we were Man and Wife? My auntStarkweather settled the question by a second tap on my shoulder.

"Take his arm!" she whispered, in the tone of a woman who hadlost all patience with me.

I took his arm.

"Follow your uncle."

Holding fast by my husband's arm, I followed my uncle and thecurate who had assisted him at the marriage.

The two clergymen led us into the vestry. The church was in oneof the dreary quarters of London, situated between the City andthe West End; the day was dull; the atmosphere was heavy anddamp. We were a melancholy little wedding party, worthy of thedreary neighborhood and the dull day. No relatives or friends ofmy husband's were present; his family, as I have already hinted,disapproved of his marriage. Except my uncle and my aunt, noother relations appeared on my side. I had lost both my parents,and I had but few friends. My dear father's faithful old clerk,Benjamin, attended the wedding to "give me away," as the phraseis. He had known me from a child, and, in my forlorn position, hewas as good as a father to me.

The last ceremony left to be performed was, as usual, the signingof the marriage register. In the confusion of the moment (and inthe absence of any information to guide me) I committed amistake--ominous, in my aunt Starkweather's opinion, of evil tocome. I signed my married instead of my maiden name.

"What!" cried my uncle, in his loudest and cheeriest tones, "youhave forgotten your own name already? Well, well! let us hope youwill never repent parting with it so readily. Try again,Valeria--try again."

With trembling fingers I struck the pen through my first effort,and wrote my maiden name, very badly indeed, as follows:

Valeria Brinton

When it came to my husband's turn I noticed, with surprise, thathis hand trembled too, and that he produced a very poor specimenof his customary signature:

Eustace Woodville

My aunt, on being requested to sign, complied under protest. "Abad beginning!" she said, pointing to my first unfortunatesignature with the feather end of her pen. "I hope, my dear, youmay not live to regret it."

Even then, in the days of my ignorance and my innocence, thatcurious outbreak of my aunt's superstition produced a certainuneasy sensation in my mind. It was a consolation to me to feelthe reassuring pressure of my husband's hand. It was anindescribable relief to hear my uncle's hearty voice wishing me ahappy life at parting. The good man had left his north-countryVicarage (my home since the death of my parents) expressly toread the service at my marriage; and he and my aunt had arrangedto return by the mid-day train. He folded me in his great strongarms, and he gave me a kiss which must certainly have been heardby the idlers waiting for the bride and bridegroom outside thechurch door.

"I wish you health and happiness, my love, with all my heart. Youare old enough to choose for yourself, and--no offense, Mr.Woodville, you and I are new friends--and I pray God, Valeria, itmay turn out that you have chosen well. Our house will be drearyenough without you; but I don't complain, my dear. On thecontrary, if this change in your life makes you happier, Irejoice. Come, come! don't cry, or you will set your auntoff--and it's no joke at her time of life. Besides, crying willspoil your beauty. Dry your eyes and look in the glass there, andyou will see that I am right. Good-by, child--and God bless you!"

He tucked my aunt under his arm, and hurried out. My heart sank alittle, dearly as I loved my husband, when I had seen the last ofthe true friend and protector of my maiden days.

The parting with old Benjamin came next. "I wish you well, mydear; don't forget me," was all he said. But the old days at homecame back on me at those few words. Benjamin always dined with uson Sundays in my father's time, and always brought some littlepresent with him for his master's child. I was very near to"spoiling my beauty" (as my uncle had put it) when I offered theold man my cheek to kiss, and heard him sigh to himself, as if hetoo were not quite hopeful about my future life.

My husband's voice roused me, and turned my mind to happierthoughts.

"Shall we go, Valeria?" he asked.

I stopped him on our way out to take advantage of my uncle'sadvice; in other words, to see how I looked in the glass over thevestry fireplace.

What does the glass show me?

The glass shows a tall and slender young woman ofthree-and-twenty years of age. She is not at all the sort ofperson who attracts attention in the street, seeing that shefails to exhibit the popular yellow hair and the popular paintedcheeks. Her hair is black; dressed, in these later days (as itwas dressed years since to please her father), in broad ripplesdrawn back from the forehead, and gathered into a simple knotbehind (like the hair of the Venus de Medicis), so as to show theneck beneath. Her complexion is pale: except in moments ofviolent agitation there is no color to be seen in her face. Hereyes are of so dark a blue that they are generally mistaken forblack. Her eyebrows are well enough in form, but they are toodark and too strongly marked. Her nose just inclines toward theaquiline bend, and is considered a little too large by personsdifficult to please in the matter of noses. The mouth, her bestfeature, is very delicately shaped, and is capable of presentinggreat varieties of expression. As to the face in general, it istoo narrow and too long at the lower part, too broad and too lowin the higher regions of the eyes and the head. The wholepicture, as reflected in the glass, represents a woman of someelegance, rather too pale, and rather too sedate and serious inher moments of silence and repose--in short, a person who failsto strike the ordinary observer at first sight, but who gains ingeneral estimation on a second, and sometimes on a third view. Asfor her dress, it studiously conceals, instead of proclaiming,that she has been married that morning. She wears a gray cashmeretunic trimmed with gray silk, and having a skirt of the samematerial and color beneath it. On her head is a bonnet to match,relieved by a quilling of white muslin with one deep red rose, asa morsel of positive color, to complete the effect of the wholedress.

Have I succeeded or failed in describing the picture of myselfwhich I see in the glass? It is not for me to say. I have done mybest to keep clear of the two vanities--the vanity ofdepreciating and the vanity of praising my own personalappearance. For the rest, well written or badly written, thankHeaven it is done!

And whom do I see in the glass standing by my side?

I see a man who is not quite so tall as I am, and who has themisfortune of looking older than his years. His forehead isprematurely bald. His big chestnut-colored beard and his longoverhanging mustache are prematurely streaked with gray. He hasthe color in the face which my face wants, and the firmness inhis figure which my figure wants. He looks at me with thetenderest and gentlest eyes (of a light brown) that I ever saw inthe countenance of a man. His smile is rare and sweet; hismanner, perfectly quiet and retiring, has yet a latentpersuasiveness in it which is (to women) irresistibly winning. Hejust halts a little in his walk, from the effect of an injuryreceived in past years, when he was a soldier serving in India,and he carries a thick bamboo cane, with a curious crutch handle(an old favorite), to help himself along whenever he gets on hisfeet, in doors or out. With this one little drawback (if it is adrawback), there is nothing infirm or old or awkward about him;his slight limp when he walks has (perhaps to my partial eyes) acertain quaint grace of its own, which is pleasanter to see thanthe unrestrained activity of other men. And last and best of all,I love him! I love him! I love him! And there is an end of myportrait of my husband on our wedding-day.

The glass has told me all I want to know. We leave the vestry atlast.

The sky, cloudy since the morning, has darkened while we havebeen in the church, and the rain is beginning to fall heavily.The idlers outside stare at us grimly under their umbrellas as wepass through their ranks and hasten into our carriage. Nocheering; no sunshine; no flowers strewn in our path; no grandbreakfast; no genial speeches; no bridesmaids; no fathers ormother's blessing. A dreary wedding--there is no denying it--and(if Aunt Starkweather is right) a bad beginning as well!

A _coup_ has been reserved for us at the railway station. Theattentive porter, on the look-out for his fee pulls down theblinds over the side windows of the carriage, and shuts out allprying eyes in that way. After what seems to be an interminabledelay the train starts. My husband winds his arm round me. "Atlast!" he whispers, with love in his eyes that no words canutter, and presses me to him gently. My arm steals round hisneck; my eyes answer his eyes. Our lips meet in the first long,lingering kiss of our married life.

Oh, what recollections of that journey rise in me as I write! Letme dry my eyes, and shut up my paper for the day.