RIGHTED AT LAST.
“Here she comes!” exclaimed the bride, opening the door. “Ah, I was sure
of it! Come in! come in! How late you are; fortunately your dress is all
laid out.”
Mrs. Oakley held out her hand cordially. Catharine did not touch it, but
with a gentle inclination of the head, entered the chamber followed by
old Mrs. Ford.
Mrs. Oakley drew back, surprised and almost offended; for, standing in
the hall, directly behind the old lady, she saw a white-haired
gentleman, leaning upon his cane, as if waiting for something.
“Of course, I am delighted to see your friends. They have given me a
pleasant surprise. I scarcely hoped—”
Mrs. Oakley stopped suddenly. She had caught a glimpse of Catharine’s
white face, and drew slowly back, terrified by its expression.
Catharine was clothed in strange beauty that evening. A painful wildness
glittered in her eyes, her lips were like marble, and her cheeks looked
cold as snow. She had no bonnet on, but a scarlet shawl had been hastily
flung over her dress of black silk, a costume that contrasted vividly
with the snow of Mrs. Oakley’s bridal apparel.
“What is this? Why have you come in a black dress, and with that
mournful face?” she questioned, while Mrs. Judson drew proudly up, first
in resentful astonishment, then with a slow dawning of memory, that left
her pale and aghast, but still haughtily upright.
“I have come,” said Catharine, in a low, pained voice, “I have come,
because it must be. Not to share your joy, but to quench it. Not to
witness your marriage, for the man who waits for you—I would soften
these words, if I knew how, but it must be said—is my own husband.”
For a moment there was a dead silence in the room. Every face was white,
and every person dumb with amazement.
“I wish,” said Catharine, “this duty had been spared me. I struggled and
prayed to cast it off. The wreck of one heart was enough. I would not
have waited so long, or have spoken now, but that silence would become
guilt.”
“This is not true!” exclaimed the bride, pressing a hand to her heart,
that trembled and throbbed till the cloud of lace that fell over it
shook with the agony. “I tell you the thing is impossible!”
“I wish it were. The God of heaven is my judge, that I do not wound you,
or him, willingly. But it is a miserable duty, which I cannot escape.”
“Send for him. Send De Marke hither at once,” almost shrieked the bride,
as she stood up with an effort at firmness, but trembling from head to
foot. “To his face, you must make this charge. Call De Marke, I say!”
The maid went out, leaving the group petrified into silence, waiting
like so many ghosts.
They had not long to wait for the bridegroom. He came with a light step,
in full dress, and with one glove in his hand; a flush of supreme
happiness was on his face. He could not speak without smiling.
“Is it time?” he said, pausing at the door, in not ungraceful confusion,
as he saw that it was a dressing-room to which he had been summoned.
But the silence, and the pale faces turned upon him, drove the blush and
smile instantly away. He stepped hastily forward. “What is this? You are
pale, you tremble. Great heavens, what has happened? Is she ill?”
He looked first at Mrs. Oakley, then at her mother, repeating, “Is she
ill—is she ill?”
Mrs. Oakley, without removing the left hand from her heart, pointed
toward Catharine, who stood, pale and motionless, with her eyes fixed on
his face.
“Look on that woman, and say if she is known to you.”
De Marke turned and looked in Catharine’s face. His glance was firm and
searching, his countenance agitated, but truthful as noonday. “No,” he
said, “I haven’t the slightest recollection of this lady; yet—yet there
is something in her face—”
“Then you know her—it is true—mother, mother!”
The bride staggered back, clinging to Mrs. Judson, who stood in her
place, firm and cold as a statue.
“No, I did not say that—there was something in the eyes; but it is
gone—certainly I have never seen this lady before!”
Catharine uttered a low moan, and moving toward him, put the hair back
from her temples with both hands, exposing her beautiful but deathly
features to his entire scrutiny. He looked at her with a glance as cold
as ice; that look fell upon her like a blight; she reeled, a mist swum
before her eyes, and she could not discern a feature of the face to
which her own was so pathetically uplifted. Not a word did those white
lips utter. She stood before him, mute and trembling, till the young man
turned away, pained and almost angry.
Then all the strength left that poor wife, and she fell forward upon her
knees.
“Explain this scene, if you can, madam,” said the young man, motioning
Catharine away with his hand, while he turned to Mrs. Judson.
Before the lady could answer, Catharine held up one hand, with a paper
quivering like a dead leaf between the fingers.
“Look at me! look at me! I am Catharine. Forgive me. They would not let
me die—forgive me; but I am Catharine Lacy.”
De Marke snatched the paper from her hand, read it at a glance, and with
an exclamation of “thank God—oh! thank God,” uttered as it were in a
flood of joy, lifted Catharine from his feet, and kissed her upon the
forehead, again and again.
The bride uttered a cry, sharp with pain; De Marke took no heed of it,
but bent tenderly over Catharine.
“And is it indeed true? Catharine, Catharine Lacy? Oh! this is joy
indeed.”
“Mother, mother, take me away; he wishes to kill me!” cried the bride,
throwing her arms wildly around Mrs. Judson.
De Marke heard her, and looked around.
“No, beloved, no,—I am only mad with joy. One moment, one moment!”
Putting Catharine gently away, he rushed past Mrs. Judson, pressed the
pale hand of her daughter suddenly to his lips, and left the room.
Again all was still. Mrs. Judson whispered soothing words to her
daughter, and old Mrs. Ford knelt beside Catharine, who lay weak and
helpless on her bosom.
De Marke returned, flushed, smiling, but with tears in his eyes.
Directly behind him came another person, so like himself, that a
stranger might have been startled by a resemblance so remarkable.
“See! there she is, take care of her yourself, George, while I beg
pardon of this lady.”
George De Marke fell upon his knees before the old lady, who still held
Catharine in her arms.
“Give her to me! Let me look on her face. Catharine, Catharine, my wife,
my wife!”
Catharine knew the voice. She started up. In an instant her face was
flooded with tears. The other voice had seemed cold and strange—this
penetrated her very soul. She reached out her arms like a little child—a
long sweet sigh, as he gathered her to his bosom; and then it seemed as
if she could never speak again, that trance of happiness was so perfect.
George De Marke was still upon his knees, holding his wife in those
strong arms, and thanking God that she was his again, when old Mrs. Ford
arose and laid her two hands upon his head, with the softest and
sweetest blessing that ever came out of a woman’s heart.
The young man looked up and met her eyes—those meek, brown eyes, so full
of pathetic tenderness. Then an old man came into the group, and laid
his hand, all wrinkled and quivering, upon those of the gentle matron.
“Son of my child,” he said, “God’s blessing be with you, even as mine
is!”
A soft and holy amen stole from the lips of that dear old lady. Then the
venerable couple retreated a little way off, leaving the dew of their
benediction on the young man’s heart, which had risen full and
gratefully to the touch of those hands.
“You have been _her_ friends, I can see that. God bless you for it!”
“Yes,” answered the old woman, gently, “we are her friends and your
grandparents.”
“My grandparents! I do not know what all this means; but God bless you
both for everything you are and have done. Catharine shall tell me all
about it. I want to hear her voice. Look up, darling, and tell me if I
belong to this dear old lady and gentleman.”
Catharine struggled a little in his arms and lifted her face from his
bosom; it had fallen there, pale as a lily, but now the flush of summer
roses glowed upon it from neck to forehead. Happiness had made her
radiant.
“Not now,” said the old man; “let us take nothing from her happiness.
To-morrow our grandson will come to us, but now he belongs to her.”
And so the old couple went quietly home together, thanking God all the
way.
One by one the persons who had witnessed the reunion of that husband and
wife glided from the room; and for a few precious minutes they were
alone together. But scarcely a word was said. They looked in each
other’s faces, smiling, and yet with a shy sort of reserve, wondering at
themselves that, having so much to say, sweet silence seemed pleasanter
than words.
“Yes, darling, you have changed, but only to become more lovely,” he
said in answer to the fond question in her eyes. “And I—you would not
have known me, I am certain.”
“I had but to hear your voice, the tears blinded me so—now that I can
see you, it is the same face, older, braver.”
“But brother Louis is more like what I was. No wonder you took him for
me.”
“But I do wonder my eyes were traitors. How would they betray me so? but
I only saw him from a distance, and to-night my distress—”
Here Mrs. Oakley knocked at the door, interrupting them.
“Come,” she said, “the people below are getting impatient. I want my
bridesmaid. Louis is waiting for you in the other room, Mr. De Marke.”
George De Marke went out, obediently, and then Mrs. Judson’s maid
commenced a second toilet, to which Catharine submitted without protest;
she was far too happy for anything like that.
The bridal ceremony was delayed a little; and that was all the guests
knew of the scene we have just described. Half an hour later there came
forth from that chamber four persons so radiant with happiness, so
grandly beautiful, that curiosity, if any had existed, was swallowed up
in admiration. A murmur of surprise ran from lip to lip, for the
moonlight beauty of the bride was exquisitely contrasted by the radiant
loveliness of her bridesmaid, who was, it began to be whispered about,
already married to the elder brother of the bridegroom, excellent
matches both, for Madame De Marke, the mother, had left an immense
fortune, which would be divided equally between the young men.
The guests also observed that Mrs. Judson, the stately mother of the
bride, lost somewhat of her queenly self-possession that night. She kept
aloof from the wedding-party, and seemed shy of addressing the
bridesmaid, while giving congratulations to her daughter and the newly
married husband. But these things were only matters of passing comment,
and no one guessed how deep a current of human joy was swelling beneath
the commonplaces of this wedding.