THE MARRIAGE MORNING.
I trust that never more in this world's shade
Thine eyes will be upon me: never more
Thy face come back to me. For thou hast made
My whole life sore.
Fare hence, and be forgotten.... Sing thy song,
And braid thy brow,
And be beloved and beautiful--and be
In beauty baleful still ... a Serpent Queen
To others not yet curst in loving thee
As I have been!
--_Meredith_.
Ishmael awoke. After a restless night, followed by an hour't complete
forgetfulness, that more nearly resembled the swoon of exhaustion than
the sleep of health, Ishmael awoke to a new sense of wretchedness.
You who have suffered know what such awakenings are. You have seen
someone dearer than life die; but hours, days, or weeks of expectation
have gradually prepared you for the last scene; and though you have seen
the dear one die, and though you have wept yourself half blind and half
dead, you have slept the sleep of utter oblivion, which is like death;
but you have at last awakened and returned to consciousness to meet the
shock of memory and the sense of sorrow a thousand times more
overwhelming than the first blow of bereavement had been.
Or you have been for weeks looking forward to the parting of one whose
presence is the very light of your days. And in making preparations for
that event the thought of coming separation has been somewhat dulled;
but at last all is ready; the last night has come; you all separate and
go to bed, with the mutual injunction to be up early in the morning for
the sake of seeing "him"--it may be some brave volunteer going to
war--off; after laying awake nearly all night you suddenly drop into
utter forgetfulness of impending grief, and into some sweet dream of
pleasantness and peace. You awake with a start; the hour has come; the
hour of parting; the hour of doom.
Yes, whatever the grief may be, it is in the hour of such awakenings we
feel it most poignantly.
Thus it was with Ishmael. The instant he awoke the spear of memory
transfixed his soul. He could have cried out in his agony. It took all
his manhood to control his pain. He arose and dressed himself and
offered up his morning worship and went to the breakfast room, resolved
to pass through the day's fiery ordeal, cost what it might.
Claudia was not at breakfast. In fact, she seldom or never appeared at
the breakfast table; and this morning of all mornings it was quite
natural she should be absent. But Mrs. Middleton and Bee, Judge Merlin,
Mr. Middleton, Mr. Brudenell, Walter, and Ishmael were present. It was
in order that people should be merry on a marriage morning; but somehow
or other that order was not followed. Judge Merlin, Mrs. Middleton, and
Bee were unusually grave and silent; Mr. Brudenell was always sad;
Ishmael was no conventional talker, and therefore could not seem other
than he was--very serious. It was quite in vain that Mr. Middleton and
Walter tried to get up a little jesting and badinage. And when the
constraint of the breakfast table was over everyone felt relieved.
"Remember," said Mrs. Middleton, with her hand upon the back of her
chair, "that the carriages will be at the door at half-past ten; it is
now half-past nine."
"And that means that we have but an hour to get on our wedding
garments," said Walter. "Bee, have you got my finery ready?"
"You will find everything you require laid out on your bed, Walter."
"You are the best little sister that ever was born. I doubt whether I
shall let Ishmael, or anyone else, hate you until I get a wife of my
own; and even then I don't know but what I shall want you home to look
after her and the children!" rattled Walter, careless or unobservant of
the deep blush that mantled the maiden's face.
"Ishmael," said the judge, "I wish you to take the fourth seat in the
carriage with myself and daughter and Beatrice. Will you do so?"
Ishmael's emotions nearly choked him, but he answered:
"Certainly, if you wish."
"The four bridesmaids will fill the second carriage, and Mr. and Mrs.
Middleton, Mr. Brudenell and Walter the third, I do not know the
arrangements made for our other friends; but I dare say it is all right.
Oh, Ishmael, I feel as though we were arranging a procession to the
grave instead of the altar," he added, with a heavy sigh. Then
correcting himself, he said: "But this is all very morbid. So no more of
it."
And the judge wrung Ishmael's hand; and each went his separate way to
dress for the wedding.
Meanwhile the bride-elect sat alone in her luxurious dressing room.
Around her, scattered over tables, chairs, and stands, lay the splendid
paraphernalia of her bridal array--rich dresses, mantles, bonnets,
veils, magnificent shawls, sparkling jewels, blooming flowers,
intoxicating perfumes.
On the superb malachite stand beside her stood a silver tray, on which
was arranged an elegant breakfast service of Bohemian china. But the
breakfast was untasted and forgotten.
There was no one to watch her; she had sent her maid away with orders
not to return until summoned by her bell.
And now, while her coffee unheeded grew cold, she sat, leaning forward
in her easy-chair, with her hands tightly clasped together over her
knees, her tumbled black ringlets fallen down upon her dressing gown,
and her eyes flared open and fixed in a dreadful stare upon the far
distance as if spellbound by some horror there.
To have seen her thus, knowing that she was a bride-elect, you might
have judged that she was about to be forced into some loathed marriage,
from which her whole tortured nature revolted.
And you would have judged truly. She was being thus forced into such a
marriage, not by any tyrannical parent or guardian, for flesh and blood
could not have forced Claudia Merlin into any measure she had set her
will against. She was forced by the demon Pride, who had taken
possession of her soul.
And now she sat alone with her sin, dispossessed of all her better self,
face to face with her lost soul.
She was aroused by the entrance of Mrs. Middleton--Mrs. Middleton in
full carriage-dress--robe and mantle of mauve-colored moire-antique, a
white lace bonnet with mauve-colored flowers, and white kid gloves
finished at the wrists with mauve ribbon quillings.
"Why, Claudia, is it possible? Not commenced dressing yet, and everybody
else ready, and the clock on the stroke of ten! What have you been
thinking of, child?"
Claudia started like one suddenly aroused from sleep, threw her hands
to her face as if to clear away a mist, and looked around.
But Mrs. Middleton had hurried to the door and was calling:
"Here, Alice! Laura! 'Gena! Lotty! Where are you?"
Receiving no answer, she flew to the bell and rang it and brought
Claudia's maid to the room.
"Ruth, hurry to the young ladies' room and give my compliments, and ask
them to come here as soon as possible! Miss Merlin is not yet dressed."
The girl went on her errand and Mrs. Middleton turned again to Claudia:
"Not even eaten your breakfast yet. Oh, Claudia!" and she poured out a
cup of coffee and handed it to her niece.
And Claudia drank it, because it was easier to do so than to
expostulate.
At the moment that Claudia returned the cup the door opened and the four
bridesmaids entered--all dressed in floating, cloud-like, misty white
tulle, and crowned with wreaths of white roses and holding bouquets of
the same.
They laid down their bouquets, drew on their white gloves and fluttered
around the bride and with their busy fingers quickly dressed her
luxuriant black hair, and arrayed her stately form in her superb bridal
dress.
This dress was composed of an under-skirt of the richest white satin and
an upper robe of the finest Valenciennes lace looped up with bunches of
orange flowers. A bertha of lace fell over the satin bodice. And a long
veil of lace flowed from the queenly head down to the tiny foot. A
wreath of orange flowers, sprinkled over with the icy dew of small
diamonds, crowned her black ringlets. And diamonds adorned her neck,
bosom, arms, and stomacher. Her bouquet holder was studded with
diamonds, and her initials on the white velvet cover of her prayer-book
were formed of tiny seed-like diamonds.
No sovereign queen on her bridal morn was ever more richly arrayed. But,
oh, how deadly pale and cold she was!
"There!" they said triumphantly, when they had finished dressing her,
even to the arranging of the bouquet of orange flowers in its costly
holder and putting it in her hand. "There!" And they wheeled the tall
Psyche mirror up before her, that she might view and admire herself.
She looked thoughtfully at the image reflected there. She looked so long
that Mrs. Middleton, growing impatient, said:
"My love, it is time to go."
"Leave me alone for a few minutes, all of you! I will not keep you
waiting long," said Claudia.
"She wishes to be alone to offer up a short prayer before going to be
married," was the thought in the heart of each one of the party, as they
filed out of the room.
Did Claudia wish to pray? Did she intend to ask God's protection against
evil? Did she dare to ask his blessing on the act she contemplated?
We shall see.
She went after the last retreating figure and closed and bolted the
door. Then she returned to her dressing bureau, opened a little secret
drawer and took from it a tiny jar of rouge, and with a piece of
cotton-wool applied it to her deathly-white cheeks until she had
produced there an artificial bloom, more brilliant than that of her
happiest days, only because it was more brilliant than that of nature.
Then to soften its fire she powdered her face with pearl white, and
finally with a fine handkerchief carefully dusted off the superfluous
particles.
Having done this, she put away her cosmetics and took from the same
receptacle a vial of the spirits of lavender and mixed a spoonful of it
with water and drank it off.
Then she returned the vial to its place and locked up the secret drawer
where she kept her deceptions.
She gave one last look at the mirror, saw that between the artificial
bloom and the artificial stimulant her face presented a passable
counterfeit of its long-lost radiance; she drew her bridal veil around
so as to shade it a little, lowered her head and raised her bouquet,
that her friends might not see the suspicious suddenness of the
transformation from deadly pallor to living bloom--for though Claudia,
in an hour of hysterical passion, had discovered this secret of her
toilet to Beatrice, yet she was really ashamed of it, and wished to
conceal it from all others.
She opened the door, went out, and joined her friends in the hall,
saying with a cheerfulness that she had found in the lavender vial:
"I am quite ready for the show now!"
But she kept her head lowered and averted, for a little while, though in
fact her party were too much excited to scrutinize her appearance,
especially as they had had a good view of her while making her toilet.
They went down into the drawing room, where the family and their nearest
relations were assembled and waiting for them.
Bee was there, looking lovely as usual. Bee, who almost always wore
white when in full dress, now varied from her custom by wearing a glacé
silk of delicate pale blue, with a white lace mantle and a white lace
bonnet and veil. Bee did this because she did not mean to be mustered
into the bride's service, or even mistaken by any person for one of the
bridesmaids. Beyond her obligatory presence in the church as one of the
bride's family, Bee was resolved to have nothing to do with the
sacrilegious marriage.
"Come, my dear! Are you ready? How beautiful you are, my Claudia! I
never paid you a compliment before, my child; but surely I may be
excused for doing so now that you are about to leave me! 'How blessings
brighten as they take their flight,'" whispered the judge, as he met and
kissed his daughter.
And certainly Claudia's beauty seemed perfectly dazzling this morning.
She smiled a greeting to all her friends assembled there, and then gave
her hand to her father, who drew it within his arm and led her to the
carriage.
Ishmael, like one in a splendid, terrible dream, from which he could not
wake, in which he was obliged to act, went up to Bee and drew her little
white-gloved hand under his arm, and led her after the father and
daughter.
The other members of the marriage party followed in order.
Besides Judge Merlin's brougham and Mr. Middleton's barouche, there were
several other carriages drawn up before the house.
Bee surveyed this retinue and murmured:
"Indeed, except that we all wear light colors instead of black, and the
coachmen have no hat-scarfs, this looks quite as much like a funeral as
a wedding."
Ishmael did not reply; he could not wake from the dazzling, horrible
dream.
When they were seated in the carriage, Claudia and Beatrice occupied the
back seat; the judge and Ishmael the front one; the judge sat opposite
Bee, and Ishmael opposite Claudia.
The rich drifts of shining white satin and misty white lace that formed
her bridal dress floated around him; her foot inadvertently touched his,
and her warm, balmy breath passed him. Never had he been so close to
Claudia before; that carriage was so confined and crowded--dread
proximity! The dream deepened; it became a trance--that strange trance
that sometimes falls upon the victim in the midst of his sufferings held
Ishmael's faculties in abeyance and deadened his sense of pain.
And indeed the same spell, though with less force, acted upon all the
party in that carriage. Its mood was expectant, excited, yet dream-like.
There was scarcely any conversation. There seldom is under such
circumstances. Once the judge inquired:
"Bee, my dear, how is it that you are not one of Claudia's bridesmaids?"
"I did not wish to be, and Claudia was so kind as to excuse me,"
Beatrice replied.
"But why not, my love? I thought young ladies always liked to fill such
positions."
Bee blushed and lowered her head, but did not reply.
Claudia answered for her:
"Beatrice does not like Lord Vincent; and does not approve of the
marriage," she said defiantly.
"Humph!" exclaimed the judge, and not another word was spoken during the
drive.
It was a rather long one. The church selected for the performance of the
marriage rites being St. John's, at the west end of the town, where the
bridegroom and his friends were to meet the bride and her attendants.
They reached the church at last; the other carriages arrived a few
seconds after them, and the whole party alighted and went in.
The bridegroom and his friends were already there. And the bridal
procession formed and went up the middle aisle to the altar, where the
bishop in his sacerdotal robes stood ready to perform the ceremony.
The bridal party formed before the altar, the bishop opened the book,
and the ceremony commenced. It proceeded according to the ritual, and
without the slightest deviation from commonplace routine.
When the bishop came to that part of the rites in which he utters the
awful adjuration--"I require and charge you both, as ye shall answer at
the dreadful day of judgment, when the secrets of all hearts shall be
disclosed, that if either of you know any impediment why ye may not be
lawfully joined together in matrimony, ye do now confess it. For be ye
well assured, that if any persons are joined together, otherwise than
God's word doth allow, their marriage is not lawful,"--Bee, who was
standing with her mother and father near the bridal circle, looked up at
the bride.
Oh, could Claudia, loving another, loathing the bridegroom, kneel in
that sacred church, before that holy altar, in the presence of God's
minister, in the presence of God himself, hear that solemn adjuration,
and persevere in her awful sin?
Yes, Claudia could! as tens of thousands, from ignorance, from
insensibility, or from recklessness, have done before her; and as tens
of thousands more, from the same causes, will do after her.
The ceremony proceeded until it reached the part where the ring is
placed upon the bride's finger, and all went well enough until, as they
were rising from the prayer of "Our Father," the bride happened to lower
her hand, and the ring, which was too large for her finger, dropped off,
and rolled away and passed out of sight.
The ceremony ended, and the ring was sought for; but could not be found
then: and, I may as well tell you now, it has not been found yet.
Seeing at length that their search was quite fruitless, the gentlemen of
the bridal train reluctantly gave up the ring for lost, and the whole
party filed into the chancel to enter their names in the register, that
lay for this purpose on the communion table.
The bridegroom first approached and wrote his. It was a prolonged and
sonorous roll of names, such as frequently compose the tail of a
nobleman's title:
Malcolm--Victor--Stuart--Douglass--Gordon--Dugald, Viscount Vincent.
Then the bride signed hers, and the witnesses theirs.
When Mr. Brudenell came to sign his own name as one of the witnesses, he
happened to glance at the bridegroom's long train of names. He read them
over with a smile at their length, but his eye fastened upon the last
one--"Dugald," "Dugald"? Herman Brudenell, like the immortal Burton,
thought he had "heard that name before," in fact, was sure he had "heard
that name before!" Yes, verily; he had heard it in connection with his
sister's fatal flight, in which a certain Captain Dugald had been her
companion! And he resolved to make cautious inquiries of the viscount.
He had known Lord Vincent on the Continent, but he had either never
happened to hear what his family name was, or if he had chanced to do
so, he had forgotten the circumstances. At all events, it was not until
the instant in which he read the viscount's signature in the register
that he discovered the family name of Lord Vincent and the disreputable
name of Eleanor Brudenell's unprincipled lover to be the same.
But this was no time for brooding over the subject. He affixed his own
signature, which was the last one on the list, and then joined the
bridal party, who were now leaving the church.
At the door a signal change took place in the order of the procession.
Lord Vincent, with a courtesy as earnest and a smile as beaming as
gallantry and the occasion required, handed his bride into his own
carriage.
Judge Merlin, Ishmael, and Beatrice rode together.
And others returned in the order in which they had come.
Ishmael was coming out of that strange, benumbed state that had deadened
for a while all his sense of suffering--coming back to a consciousness
of utter bereavement and insupportable anguish--anguish written in such
awful characters upon his pallid and writhen brow that Beatrice and her
uncle exchanged glances of wonder and alarm.
But Ishmael, in his fixed agony, did not perceive the looks of anxiety
they turned towards him--did not even perceive the passage of time or
space, until they arrived at home again, and the wedding guests once
more began to alight from the carriages.
The party temporarily separated in the hall, the ladies dispersing each
to her own chamber to make some trifling change in her toilet before
appearing in the drawing room.
"Ishmael, come here, my lad," said the judge, as soon as they were left
alone.
Ishmael mechanically followed him to the little breakfast parlor of the
family, where on the sideboard sat decanters of brandy and wine, and
pitchers of water, and glasses of all shapes and sizes.
He poured out two glasses of brandy--one for himself and one for
Ishmael.
"Let us drink the health of the newly-married couple," he said, pushing
one glass towards Ishmael, and raising the other to his own lips.
But Ishmael hesitated, and poured out a tumbler of pure water, saying,
in a faint voice:
"I will drink her health in this."
"Nonsense! put it down. You are chilled enough without drinking that to
throw you into an ague. Drink something, warm and strong, boy! drink
something warm and strong. I tell you, I, for one, cannot get through
this day without some such support as this," said the judge
authoritatively, as he took from the young man's nerveless hand the
harmless glass of water, and put into it the perilous glass of brandy.
For ah! good men do wicked things sometimes, and wise men foolish ones.
Still Ishmael hesitated; for even in the midst of his great trouble he
heard the "still, small voice" of some good angel--it might have been
his mother's spirit--whispering him to dash from his lips the Circean
draught, that would indeed allay his sense of suffering for a few
minutes, but might endanger his character through all his life and his
soul through all eternity. The voice that whispered this, as I said, was
a "still, small voice" speaking softly within him. But the voice of the
judge was bluff and hearty, and he stood there, a visible presence,
enforcing his advice with strength of action.
And Ishmael, scarcely well assured of what he did, put the glass to his
lips and quaffed the contents, and felt at once falsely exhilarated.
"Come, now, we will go into the drawing room. I dare say they are all
down by this time," said the judge. And in they went.
He was right in his conjecture; the wedding guests were all assembled
there.
And soon after his entrance the sliding doors between the drawing room
and the dining room were pushed back, and Devizac, who was the presiding
genius of the wedding feast, appeared and announced that breakfast was
served.
The company filed in--the bride and bridegroom walking together, and
followed by the bridesmaids and the gentlemen of the party.
Ishmael gave his arm to Beatrice. Mr. Brudenell conducted Mrs.
Middleton, and the judge led one of the lady guests.
The scene they entered upon was one of splendor, beauty, and luxury,
never surpassed even by the great Vourienne and Devizac themselves!
Painting, gilding, and flowers had not been spared. The walls were
covered with frescoes of Venus, Psyche, Cupid, the Graces, and the
Muses, seen among the rosy bowers and shady groves of Arcadia. The
ceiling was covered with celestial scenery, in the midst of which was
seen the cloudy court of Jupiter and Juno and their attendant gods and
goddesses; the pillars were covered with gilding and twined with
flowers, and long wreaths of flowers connected one pillar with another
and festooned the doorways and windows and the corners of the room.
The breakfast table was a marvel of art--blazing with gold plate,
blooming with beautiful and fragrant exotics, and intoxicating with the
aroma of the richest and rarest viands.
At the upper end of the room a temporary raised and gilded balcony
wreathed with roses was occupied by Dureezie's celebrated band, who, as
the company came in, struck up an inspiring bridal march composed
expressly for this occasion.
The wedding party took their seats at the table and the feasting began.
The viands were carved and served and praised. The bride's cake was cut
and the slices distributed. The ring fell to one of the bridesmaids and
provoked the usual badinage. The wine circulated freely.
Mr. Middleton arose and in a neat little speech proposed the fair
bride's health, which proposal was hailed with enthusiasm.
Judge Merlin, in another little speech, returned thanks to the company,
and begged leave to propose the bridegroom's health, which was duly
honored.
Then it was Lord Vincent's turn to rise and express his gratitude and
propose Judge Merlin's health.
This necessitated a second rising of the judge, who after making due
acknowledgments of the compliments paid him, proposed--the fair
bridesmaids.
And so the breakfast proceeded.
They sat at table an hour, and then, at a signal from Mrs. Middleton,
all arose.
The gentlemen adjourned to the little breakfast parlor to drink a
parting glass with their host in something stronger than the light
French breakfast wines they had been quaffing so freely.
And the bride, followed by all her attendants, went up to her room to
change her bridal robe and veil for her traveling dress and bonnet; as
the pair were to take the one o'clock train to Baltimore en route for
New York, Niagara, and the Lakes.
She found her dressing room all restored to the dreary good order that
spoke of abandonment. Her rich dresses and jewels and bridal presents
were all packed up. And every trunk was locked and corded and ready for
transportation to the railway station, except one large trunk that stood
open, with its upper tray waiting for the bridal dress she was about to
put off.
Ruth, who had been very busy with all this packing, while the wedding
party were at church and at breakfast, now stood with the brown silk
dress and mantle that was to be Claudia's traveling costume, laid over
her arm.
Claudia, assisted by Mrs. Middleton, changed her dress with the feverish
haste of one who longed to get a painful ordeal over; and while Ruth
hastily packed away the wedding finery and closed the last trunk,
Claudia tied on her brown silk bonnet and drew on her gloves and
expressed herself ready to depart.
They went downstairs to the drawing room, where all the wedding guests
were once more gathered to see the young pair off.
There was no time to lose, and so all her friends gathered around the
bride to receive her adieus and to express their good wishes.
One by one she bade them farewell.
When she came to her cousin, Bee burst into tears and whispered:
"God forgive you, poor Claudia! God avert from you all evil consequences
of your own act!"
She caught her breath, wrung Bee's hand and turned away, and looked
around. She had taken leave of all except her father and Ishmael.
Her father she knew would accompany her as far as the railway station,
for he had said as much.
But there was Ishmael.
As she went up to him slowly and fearfully, every vein and artery in her
body seemed to throb with the agony of her heart. She tried to speak;
but could utter no articulate sound. She held out her hand; but he did
not take it; then she lifted her beautiful eyes to his, with a glance so
helpless, so anguished, so imploring, as if silently praying from him
some kind word before she should go, that Ishmael's generous heart was
melted and he took her hand and pressing it while he spoke, said in low
and fervent tones:
"God bless you, Lady Vincent. God shield you from all evil. God save you
in every crisis of your life."
And she bowed her head, lowly and humbly, to receive this benediction as
though it had been uttered by an authorized minister of God.