One Wonderful Night: A Romance of New York
"Then never let anyone tell me that the age of chivalry has passed."
"I fancy it has just begun," he said, though the jest nearly choked him.
"But why should you do this kind and gracious thing for a girl you have
been acquainted with only a brief half-hour? You see, I understand
that you are a gentleman--I realize that, although I have plenty of
money, I cannot offer to recompense you as I did that poor Jean de
Courtois."
"No," he agreed grimly.
"Don't you grasp what this one-sided bargain implies? You are merely
to pose as my husband until Count Vassilan leaves me in peace?"
"Yes."
"And then we are to obtain a divorce?"
"You are, not I."
"Isn't that a distinction without a difference?"
"Perhaps. The fact remains that I shall agree to all your terms save
one--you, of course, can divorce me at your own pleasure. The
procedure is simple in some States of the Union."
For no obvious reason, Lady Hermione blushed. For an instant, indeed,
she was somewhat disconcerted, and the vivacity fled from her mobile
face.
"Perhaps, Mr. Curtis, I have no right to let you make this sacrifice,"
she said, a trifle coldly. "It would be different if I could repay you
in some way. Surely, although you may be a wealthy man, there will be
expenses--you will, at least, lose a good deal of time, which you could
occupy to better purpose?"
"I have given myself twelve months' respite from railway construction
in China. I really don't see how I could pass a part of my holiday
better than as your husband."
"In idle make-believe?"
"Every decent man has the heart of a child, and make-believe is reality
to some children."
"But, even though in my need I take you at your word, how can a
marriage become possible?"
"Here is the license. For the purposes of the ceremony I become Jean
de Courtois. By singular chance, the change of name is not such a
wrench as it might be if I didn't happen to be called John D. Curtis."
Still she hesitated. Somehow, becoming Mrs. John D. Curtis impressed
her as a far more serious undertaking than purchasing the right to pose
as Madame de Courtois.
"We don't even know where to get married," she faltered.
"Given a license and a comparatively small sum of money, New York
abounds with facilities."
"Are you sure the ceremony will be legal if you appear under a false
name?"
"Quite positive."
"Can you be punished if it is found out?"
"I'll run the risk."
After a fateful pause, which would have been considerably curtailed had
Lady Hermione Grandison been vouchsafed the least premonition of events
in which the night was still rich, she held out her hand.
"I can only thank you from the depths of my heart, Mr. Curtis," she
said. "I must trust someone, and I do trust you most implicitly."
"You will never regret it, Lady Hermione," he said reverently. He
wondered whether or not this was an occasion on which hand-kissing was
permissible, but contented himself with returning the friendly pressure
of the girl's fingers--retaining them, in fact, for a second or two.
"I have your word of honor that you will regard the ceremony as a
formal compact between us two?" she murmured, unaccountably shy, and
seemingly half-afraid that he meant to clasp her in his arms then and
there.
"You have," he said, relinquishing her hand. Perhaps, at that instant,
Puck sighed, and wondered what would have happened had this husband
only in name strained to his heart the bride whom he had vowed not to
embrace. But Curtis did nothing of the sort. His tone became
intensely practical and businesslike, and he glanced at his watch.
"It is half-past eight," he said. "How soon will you be ready to come
with me and hunt up a minister?"
"Now--I am ready now. Marcelle and I were waiting for--for that
unhappy Monsieur de Courtois when you arrived. It sounds rather
dreadful, Mr. Curtis, to talk of marriage, even as a mere means of
cheating the law, at a moment when a man is already lying dead for my
sake. Please don't consider me, but draw back, if you want to, before
it is too late."
"My grandfather commanded the Fifth Cavalry during the Civil War, Lady
Hermione."
"Pray, how does that interesting fact affect us?"
"It is well-known that the Fifth never retreat, and the habit has
become a family tradition."
He pocketed the license, and picked up the overcoat, meaning to put it
on in the hall while her ladyship was rearranging her hat. But
Marcelle was waiting there, hatted, and gloved.
"Have you fixed things?" she whispered breathlessly.
"We have," said Curtis.
"Goodness me! But I guessed it. Nobody can resist her, can they?"
"I didn't try," said Curtis, wriggling into the coat sideways.
"Poor _dear_. She has had a time. What a piece of luck I met her the
day she landed."
Curtis had no opportunity to inquire just what Marcelle meant, for Lady
Hermione had joined them. Sedulously keeping that tell-tale sleeve out
of sight, Curtis took the lead, and opened the door, which Marcelle
closed and locked.
While they were waiting for the elevator, Curtis fathomed Marcelle's
stock of information as to the addresses of neighboring ministers of
the Protestant Episcopal Church. It was nil. He appealed to the
attendant when the elevator came up, but that worthy thoughtfully
tickled his scalp under his cap, and suggested a consultation with the
taxi-driver. Indeed, to further the quest, he went with them to the
door, and, while Lady Hermione and Marcelle seated themselves in the
cab, the three men discussed the religious problem on the sidewalk.
"Ministers don't use taxis much in N' York, sir," commented the driver.
"Fact is, they mostly can't afford 'em, but I do happen to know where
one old gentleman lives, an' he's sure to be home, because he's
crippled something cruel with the rheumatiz."
"Is it far?" demanded Curtis.
"Three blocks away, in 56th Street, near Seventh Avenue. Lives next
door to the church, he does."
"Take us there," and Curtis entered the vehicle, which whirled out of
sight in the peculiarly downright fashion of the automobile.
The elevator man looked after it, and tickled another section of his
scalp.
"I'd a notion she was going to marry that Frenchman," he said to
himself. "Of course, it's her business, an' not mine, but of the two
I'd take a chance with this new fellar. An' it's odd, too, that they
shouldn't know where to go, unless they mean to pick up Froggy on the
road. Well, wimmen is queer creetures, they are, sure, an' the English
ones are just as queer as the Americans. Not that Miss Grandison ain't
a peach wherever she comes from, an' I hope she'll be happy, night an'
day till the time comes when she don't care if it snows."
He glanced up at the sky, rolled a cigarette, and, before returning
indoors, sniffed a keen wind which was rustling the last crisp leaves
in Central Park. The street was quiet, and no one was stirring in the
mansion.
"I'm not likely to be wanted for another minnit or two," he said, "so
I'll just give the furnace a shake-out. Unless I'm mistaken, there's a
frost coming."
Had he prophesied a hurricane he would not have been far wrong, but it
was entirely in keeping with the other remarkable developments of a
night already noteworthy for its strange happenings that the elevator
attendant at No. 1000 59th Street should have chosen the next few
minutes to attend to the steam-heating arrangements in the basement.
There is little to be gained, however, from speculation as to the
probable outcome of conditions which did not obtain, and the trivial
space of time which was demanded for the shaking-out and re-coaling of
a furnace was largely responsible for John D. Curtis and Hermione
Beauregard Grandison being made man and wife.
Curiously enough, the tying of this particular knot was facilitated by
the fact that the clergyman was hale mentally but decrepit physically,
and, as might be expected, resented the conclusion, long ago arrived at
by his friends, that he was unfitted for work. He burgeoned with
delight when a servant announced that two young people wanting to get
married were waiting in the vestibule; he hobbled out of the library,
where he was poring over an essay on the Sixtine text of the
Septuagint, and ushered them into a parlor. The room was not
well-lighted, because of some defect in the electric installation, but
the old gentleman--"Rev. Thomas J. Hughes" was the legend on the
door-plate--bustled about in the liveliest way, and talked most
cheerfully.
"Ah, young folk--as usual, leaving things to the last moment, and then
in a desperate hurry," he chirped. "Got the license--yes? Complied
with all the formalities? Of course, of course. Where's the ring?
You've _not_ forgotten the ring?"
Curtis and Hermione looked at each other in blank dismay; even
Marcelle's aplomb yielded under this unforeseen strain, and her
agitation showed itself in a gasping murmur:
"Oh dear! What shall we do now?"
Mr. Hughes positively chortled over their discomfiture. He limped to a
secretaire, and opened a drawer.
"See what it is to have a long experience in these affairs," he cried.
"Do you fancy you are the first couple who failed to provide a ring?
Ah me! When I was quite a boy in the cloth I learnt the necessity of
keeping rings in stock, so a jeweler friend of mind replenishes my
store, and, when I sell one, I apply a small profit to a favorite
charity of mine. The wearing of a wedding ring has no legal
significance, but it is a fine old custom, and should be preserved.
Among the Romans the ring was a pledge, _pignus_, that the betrothal
contract would be fulfilled. Pliny tells us that the ring, or circle,
was of iron, but the ladies speedily determined that it should be of
gold, and the Church went a step farther in recognizing it as a symbol
of matrimony. Hence, perhaps, the Episcopal ring, and even the Ring of
the Fisherman itself, though some authorities hold that signets--Ah,
yes," for Curtis had intimated politely that the hour was growing late,
"if the lady will say which of these rings fits; they are fifteen
dollars each--cheaper, I believe, than you can buy them in Fifth
Avenue. . . . Ah, _that_ one? Very well. Now, as to the form of
service?"
"The full marriage rite," said Curtis.
"Precisely, just what I would have suggested. I adhere to the
time-honored formula. Now, let me examine the license--my eyes fail me
a little, but I take the utmost pains to be accurate, because accuracy
is of the greatest importance. . . . Yes, yes, State of New York--what
are the names?"
"John D. Curtis and Hermione Beauregard Grandison," said Curtis. His
tone was so calm and self-confident that even the prospective bride was
deaf for a moment to the vital significance of the words. Then she
whispered tremulously:
"Are you not making some mistake?"
"No," he replied, looking her straight in the eyes.
The minister, whose ears partook of the defects in his other faculties,
caught the word "mistake."
"This is no place for mistakes, my dear young lady," he said, "A nice
young couple like you should only require to be married once in your
lives. Take my advice, and stick to one another in sunshine and in
storm, and you shall be blessed even unto the fourth generation. . . .
Now, all is in order. . . . Is this your witness?" and he nodded
affably toward Marcelle. "Shall we have one other? William Jenkins,
my factotum, has been privileged to assist on many such
occasions. . . . Wil-li-am!"
He raised his voice, and a wizened little man appeared suddenly, having
evidently waited outside the door until he was summoned.
Then, with due ritual, John Delancy Curtis and Hermione Beauregard