“THE SOUTHERN PLANTER’S NORTHERN BRIDE.”
Over the New England hills the hazy light of a most glorious Indian
Summer was shining, while the forest trees, in their gorgeous array of
crimson and gold, lifted their tall heads as proudly as if they heard
not in the distance the voice of coming sorrows, and the sighing of
winter winds. The birds had flown to their southern home where I fondly
hoped to meet them, for I was to be a bride—Richard’s bride—and the day
for my bridal had come. We had been everywhere—Richard and I—all over
the old Meadow Brook farm, sacred to me for the many hallowed
associations which clustered around it, and very, very dear to _him_
because it was my childhood’s home. So he told me when we stood for the
last time beneath the spreading grape-vine, and I pointed out to him the
place where years before I had lain in the long green grass and wept
over the fickleness of one who was naught to me now, save a near friend.
Together we had sat in the old brown schoolhouse,—he in the big arm
chair, and I—but no matter where _I_ sat when I told him of the little
romping girl with yellow hair, who had there first learned to con the
alphabet and to trace on the gaily colored maps the boundary lines of
Georgia, little dreaming that her home would one day be there. Then when
I showed him the bench where I had lain when the faintness came over me,
he wound his arm closer around me,—though wherefore I do not know.
Together too, we had gone over the old farmhouse, he lingering longest
in the room where I was born, and when he thought I didn’t see him,
gathering a withered leaf from the rose bush which grew beneath the
window, and which I told him I had planted when a little girl.
Every woman, young and old, in the neighborhood and in the village had
seen him, either face to face or from behind the folds of a muslin
curtain, some calling him “black and ugly,” while others pronounced him
“splendid,” and all I believe united in saying that, “Rosa Lee had done
wonders, considering she had no great amount of beauty to do it with!”
Once, when a remark like this came to Richard’s ear he smiled quietly
and said, “Rosa Lee is beautiful to me, for though her face may lack
perfect regularity of features and brilliancy of complexion, she has
beauty of a higher order, a beauty of the mind, which is seen in her
laughing blue eyes and sunny smile.”
Thus you see, my reader, that Richard thought I was handsome, while
strange as it may seem there were others who said so too, and even I was
sensible of a thrill of pride, such as I suppose conscious _beauties_
feel, when I stood up before the mirror and saw how well I looked in my
bridal dress of satin and lace—_his_ gift, but not the same which he had
purchased for me some months before. At first I had proposed wearing the
one intended for Dr. Clayton’s bride, but Richard would not suffer it,
so I gave it to Lizzy, who, as soon as _John Thompson_ was of age, which
would be in January, would probably have need of it! This same John was
to be our groomsman and much he amused Richard by telling him of the
tall, hateful boy who had once been a terror to a little schoolma’am
thirteen years of age, who now, with a heightened bloom upon her cheek
and a strange light in her eye, stood waiting the summons to the parlor
below. It came at last and as I laid my hand on Richard’s arm he
imprinted a kiss upon my lips, “the last,” he said, “he should ever give
to Rosa _Lee_.”
Of what came next I have only a faint remembrance. There was a rustling
of satin upon the narrow stair-case, down which Lizzie and I went a
little in advance of Richard and John Thompson, the latter of whom said
something in a low tone about _hoops_ and the space they occupied! this
remark shocked _me_ inexpressibly, but Richard didn’t seem to mind it at
all. As we passed the front door, the cool night wind (for it was
evening) blew over my face, reminding me of the South, it was so soft
and balmy. When we entered the parlor, I was conscious of a goodly
number of eyes fixed upon me, and as I crossed over to a vacant spot
under the looking glass I heard more than one say in a whisper, “Isn’t
she pretty?” meaning Lizzie, I suppose! Then a man, whom I recognized as
the new Episcopal clergyman (I believe I’ve never said that Richard was
an Episcopalian) stood up before us and said something about “_You
Richard_—and _You Rose_,” after which Richard placed a ring upon my
finger squeezing my hand a very little as he did so. Then followed a
short prayer, in which I fancied the minister made a mistake in our
names, inasmuch as he spoke of _Isaac_ and _Rebecca_ instead of
_Richard_ and _Rose_! This being done I glanced at the bridegroom. There
was no scowl upon his forehead now, and I could see the light shining
out all over his face as he bent down and gently whispered “_my wife!_”
This dispelled the clouds at once, and as guest after guest crowded
around, offering their congratulations, while Charlie and John Thompson
vied with each other in repeating my new name, I began to realize that I
was no longer Rosa Lee, but _Mrs. Richard Delafield_.