THE NIGHT OF MISS JUDSON’S WEDDING.
“The night of that wedding was a terrible one to me. Tortured, wild, and
filled with unutterable sorrow, I saw the house lighted up from roof to
cellar. With my heart aching, and my head hot with pain, I stood by the
window in my room listening to each sound, as a man condemned to death
hears the tramp of a crowd gathering to the scaffold on which he is to
suffer. As each carriage paused at the door, my heart shrunk within my
bosom.
“I was all alone in the house where our father died. You were absent; I
had no human being to comfort me in the great agony of that bereavement,
for there are bereavements worse than death, oh! a thousand times worse
than death.
“I had been all that afternoon walking the streets, in hopes that
fatigue might weary out the pain I felt. Sometimes my whole nature rose
up in rebellion against fate, and against myself. Why had I kept that
long, cowardly silence? I loved the girl a thousand times better than my
own life; yet had never told her of it. Held back by sensitive dread, I
had allowed another man to take the woman I loved out of my life.
Because my poor mother had faults, I had doomed myself to a lonely
future.
“These harassing thoughts embittered the pain I was suffering. I hated
myself for the want of courage that had wrecked my hopes, and left me
standing there, the most humiliated and wretched being, I do think, on
earth. That moment my imagination was sharpened by pain: I fancied, in
my anguish, all that might be passing in that stately dwelling: the
bridegroom in his resplendent happiness, all unconscious that his good
fortune was rending the hope from another man’s life;—the bride, robed
in sumptuous whiteness trembling upon the verge of that abyss, that was
to separate us forever—I wondered if she thought of me. All at once a
faintness, like that of death, fell upon me; I saw the bride walking
past the windows of her chamber; her hand threw aside the curtains,
while she looked forth upon the night, her beautiful head crowned with
orange-blossoms, and the gossamer veil sweeping downward like the furled
wings of a seraph. All excitement left me. I was sad and heart-broken.
The sight of her sweet face filled my soul with tender regrets, as if an
angel, lost to me forever, had looked serenely down upon me, unconscious
of my anguish and lifted forever above it.”
The young man paused and wiped the drops of perspiration that even a
remembrance of former anguish had brought to his forehead.
“I could not stay at the window after those crimson curtains closed upon
my love, but went down to the garden, and leaning upon the frail fence
by which we had stood so often, wept like a child. Remember, George, how
young and inexperienced I was.
“All at once, I heard a footstep on the gravel-walk; and, through my
tears, I saw a figure coming toward me, glistening white and pure
through the moonshine. My heart leaped; my breath stopped. Could it be
my lost love coming to say farewell?
“Hoping this, and faint with expectation, I waited for that white figure
to draw nearer. It came swiftly; I saw the face, and my heart fell back;
the breath left my lips in a moan. It was Louisa Oakley. She saw me in
the arbor, and came forward with a glad look upon her face. I was in the
shadow, and she could not detect the sorrow on mine. The girl was very
happy and full of pleasant excitement.
“‘I felt sure of finding you here,’ she said, ‘and came down to say how
sorry I am that you are not one of the groomsmen. With you, I could
stand up without trembling. If you had only known my brother, it could
have been managed, and then the wedding would be splendid.’
“I replied with such composure as I could command, but she detected the
sadness in my voice, and mistook it for disappointment regarding an
invitation to the wedding.
“‘It couldn’t be helped,’ she said; ‘Mrs. Judson never dreamed how
intimate we have all been; besides, I think she was a little prejudiced
against your mother.’
“Louisa was very gentle and full of affectionate playfulness, but you
can imagine how she wounded me by this mention of my mother. I felt
keenly enough that, but for her, I might have stood where young Oakley
was then. Oh, George, it was hard to bear!
“The kind girl, feeling that I continued sad, insisted on standing out
in the moonlight, that I could admire her dress, which fell about her in
soft fleeciness, like drifts of newly fallen snowflakes. She was not
very beautiful, but the whiteness and tender radiance of the moon,
falling around her as she stood crowned with roses, made a lovely
picture of which she was shyly proud. It was that I might see her in her
pretty dress that she had come down to me, I think.
“These things may seem trivial, George, but the details of a painful
event fix themselves terribly on the memory. There was not a word spoken
that night, or a shadow upon the windows of that house, which was not
imprinted on my soul forever.
“I called Louisa from her conspicuous position in the moonlight—for her
white garments seemed like grave-clothes to me—and with a quietness that
seemed marvellous to me, inquired if the bride seemed happy. It was a
desperate question, but my heart struggled yet for some hope, that, even
at the bridal hour, she would think of me with regret.
“Louisa answered innocently enough that she had never seen a happy bride
in her life. The persons to be married were always nervous and
frightened. It was only the bridesmaids that really enjoyed themselves.
As for her brother, he was happy as a king; but the bride said so little
and moved about so quietly that there was no judging about her.
“Then I asked, ‘Had the bride ever spoken of me?’ My voice was steady,
but I drew no breath till the answer came.
“‘Yes,’ Louisa said, ‘now that I think of it, there has been some
conversation about you this very evening. When the dress was laid out,
the bride whispered, with tears in her eyes, “_He_ will never see me in
my weddingdress! he, our best friend! Oh, Louisa, if it could only be
put off a little longer.”
“‘But that was all nervousness, you know,’ continued my tormentor, for
spite of her kindness she was sure that ‘this getting married is sure to
make one want to hold back just at the time, I suppose. She can’t help
being happy; who could with a husband handsome and kind like my brother?
I tell you, he is splendid—the best fellow in the world. Never fear—they
will be happy as the day is long, both so handsome, and good as gold.’
“I grew impatient under all this. Did that girl love to torture me? What
did she tell me these things for? Was she determined to crush my heart?
or drive me mad? I answered her with sharp impatience. What, I do not
remember, and probably did not know at the time. But it must have
sounded harshly to the poor girl, for she went into the house weeping; I
did not regard it at the time. She had given me a fresh pang, and I had
no pity for her. My whole being was absorbed in self-compassion; there
was not a creature in the world to whom I could have spoken except you,
George, and you were away.
“When Louisa left me, I went up to my chamber; it was a back-room
overlooking the gardens. I sat by the window all night, for my grief and
the solitude were complete. I heard the carriages disappear, while the
hum of voices grew faint upon the night air. I saw the blaze of lights
go out, and at last the beating of my own heart was the loudest sound I
heard.
“The daylight flashed around me where I had sat so many dreary hours,
but still I remained motionless, letting the morning deepen toward the
noon. It seemed to me that I should never care to stir again. I was
aroused as if from a dull dream, by the noise of a carriage driven down
the opposite street. It was Oakley, with his bride, on their way to the
European steamer. It seemed as if the horses that bore her away were
tramping my heart under their hoofs; but when the sound died in the
distance, my breath came more freely. It was over, and I knew the worst.
When that knowledge comes to any brave soul, fate has lost half its
power to torture!”
“I know it,” answered the brother, who, shrouding his face with one
hand, while his elbow rested on the table, had listened attentively.
“But fate sometimes leaves a long, dull waste of lurid hopes to mourn
over, after the worst is known.”