24 “Whither Thou Goest, I Will Go”

The village of Silver Bow is three miles from my grandmother’s house, and four miles from Mrs. Maynard’s, the three forming a triangle. A majority of its small number of inhabitants were zealous supporters of secession and the Southern cause, but at the same time they were the friends of my grandmother and myself, and I had little fear that any of them would detain us. So, when we saw the houses, long after midnight, it was with no feeling of apprehension.

“They are waiting yonder,” said William Penn, pointing to the single building in which a light shone.

“That is where we are to be married,” I said to Elinor, “and in a half hour it will be done.”

I saw her, even in the dusk, smile, and blush, and tremble.

The house was that of a widow, Mrs. Hunter, a great friend of my grandmother’s, and a fearless woman like Madam Arlington. She was indebted to us, moreover, in many ways, and I did not believe that she would fail to help us at a time when we needed help most. Nor did she.

We dismounted, William Penn took the horses, and I knocked on the door. The Rev. Elkanah Armstrong opened it, his lean, strong face showing like a cameo against the light.

“You have come at last, thank God!” he said; “and you have brought her with you. I have had many fears for you both.”

We entered, and, closing the door, he bent down from his great height and kissed Elinor on the forehead.

“You are about to take a great step, daughter,” he said, “and to take it under unusual circumstances; but, with so many dangers threatening you, I think that it is wisest.”

I looked for Mrs. Hunter, in order that I might give Elinor to her a little while, but it was my grandmother who came instead. She went at once to Elinor, not noticing me, and took her in her arms and told her how much she loved her. There seemed to be a strange pity in my grandmother’s voice, and I saw tears in her eyes. Then she turned to me, and said:

“Did you think, Henry, that you could be married without my knowing it, or even without my being present?”

“Grandmother,” I said, “I was afraid, if I told you, that you might forbid it, or that it might bring trouble upon you. It was a desperate venture.”

“I knew that,” she replied; “but William Penn, who has the greatest faith in me, told me, and I have been waiting here many, many hours to give you both my blessing.”

I was glad that she came since it had turned out so well, and I told her how much joy it was to me that she could be present at my wedding.

“I know it,” she replied; “I was chiding you only because I love you.”

She showed sentiment so rarely that I looked up in surprise, and she kissed me on the forehead as of old.

“I have never realized until to-night, on the eve of your wedding, what a man you have become, Henry,” she said.

Then she took Elinor away, and William Penn came in. He proudly showed the marriage license, issued by the county clerk, another friend of ours, and endorsed by himself as my best man, and voucher for my good conduct and ability to support a wife, according to our law.

“And I signed all that under oath,” he said, shaking his head ruefully. “How shall I ever get forgiveness for it?”

“You won’t need any, William Penn,” I said, but he continued to shake his head.

It was a full hour before Madam Arlington and Mrs. Hunter returned with my bride, and then she stood before me smiling, and blushing, and trembling again, and looking at me with appealing eyes.

“It is my own,” said my grandmother proudly; “I was married in it to your grandfather before he went to the battle of New Orleans. Did you think that Elinor should be cheated of her bridal robe? and, Henry, isn’t she beautiful?”

It was a dress of lustrous white satin, with a flowered hem, and puffed sleeves trimmed with several rows of filmy lace. There was a pink rose in her hair, and a chain of pearls encircled the whitest neck in the world. She blushed again when her eyes met the admiring look of mine, and I answered a fervent affirmative to my grandmother’s question.

“I have saved it all these years,” said Madam Arlington; “but I did not know that I was keeping it for the most beautiful bride that ever pleased these old eyes.”

My grandmother, with all her sternness, was a soft-hearted woman. Nodding her head toward Elinor, she said:

“You are forgetting something, Henry.”

So there, before them all, I kissed my bride. Then we were married, the Rev. Elkanah Armstrong conducting the service; my grandmother, Mrs. Hunter, and William Perm being the witnesses. It was a solemn scene, the hour, the strangeness of the situation, and the earnest voice of the minister adding to its impressiveness. When it was over he bent down like a father and kissed Elinor on the cheek, saying:

“My daughter, this is the greatest event in the life of any one, above all in the life of a woman, and I wish you the happiness that I know you deserve.”

“And now,” said my grandmother to me, “you must go. The rage of a jealous and disappointed man is pursuing you, and your life is not safe.”

“And you, grandmother?” I asked.

“Have you ever known a time, grandson, when I could not take care of myself?” she replied with great pride; “and you know, too, that everybody within twenty miles of this place is my friend. Do you think that they would let any harm happen to me?”

She spoke the truth, and my mind was easy upon that point. Varian himself could not allow her to be annoyed.

William Penn came suddenly into the room. I had not noticed until then that he had slipped out directly after my marriage.

“You must go, and go now, Henry,” he cried, “or you’ll spend your honeymoon under a double guard. They haven’t missed Miss Elinor yet, at least the news hasn’t come here, but soldiers are already in the town hunting for you.”

I turned to tell Elinor good-bye, but she, too, had gone quietly from the room. Well, I would say farewell after I had made my preparations. They were brief: a little food in a knapsack, a fresh supply of ammunition from William Penn, and some directions about the road from the same unfailing source.

“And now,” I said, “I wish to tell Elinor good-bye.”

She reappeared, as if my words had summoned her. The bridal dress was replaced by another of dark cloth, and a riding cloak was over her arm. Her eyes met mine, and she smiled and then blushed at my look of surprise.

“Did you think that you could run away from me so soon?” she said. “I am going with you.”

“But, Elinor”

“A wife should cleave to her husband through troubles and dangers.”

I wished to take her with me but I was afraid. Then my grandmother, ever a woman of decision and clear mind, spoke up.

“She is right,” she said. “They will pursue and slay you if they can, and then Elinor is more completely in their hands than before. If you escape, you must escape together.”

The two women bade each other a long farewell, and I saw tears in my grandmother’s eyes as I had seen them there when I first came to her.

“Remember, grandson,” she said, “that you now have in your keeping two lives that are dear to me.”

“We shall both come back to you safe and happy,” I said.

We mounted the horses, now well rested, and turned their faces toward the east. But I was troubled about William Penn.

“William Penn,” I said, “if you think it unsafe for you here you might go with us.”

“Never fear,” he replied. “Nobody knows my part, and what would I do away from the place where I’ve lived all my life?”

A dozen people, most of whom knew us, had gathered by the roadside and were watching us with curiosity, but none offered either advice or interference.

We said another good-bye, this time the last, and then we rode toward the northeast, and into the darkness.

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