THE CYPRESS WREATH.
"Bride, upon thy marriage-day,
Did the fluttering of thy breath
Speak of joy or woe beneath?
And the hue that went and came
On thy cheek like waving flame,
Flowed that crimson from the unrest,
Or the gladness of thy breast?"--HEMANS.
"Squire Erliston, can I have a few moments' private conversation with
you this morning?" said Oranmore, as he sought the squire, whom Mrs.
Gower was just helping to ensconce in his easy-chair.
"Certainly, certainly, my boy. Mrs. Gower, bring the rest of the pillows
by and by. 'Time for everything,' as Solomon says. Clear out now, ma'am,
while I attend to this young man's case."
Barry Oranmore stood in the middle of the floor, resting one hand
lightly on the back of a chair. Squire Erliston, propped up in an
easy-chair with pillows and cushions, and wearing an unusually benign
expression of countenance--caused, probably, by Miss Aurora's
extraordinary quietness on that morning.
"You have doubtless perceived, sir, my attentions to your daughter,"
went on the young man, in a tone that was almost careless. "Miss Lizzie,
I am happy to say, returns my affection; and, in short, sir, I have
asked this interview to solicit your daughter's hand."
He bowed slightly, and stood awaiting a reply. The squire jumped from
his seat, kicked one pillow to the other end of the room, waved another
above his head, and shouted:
"Bless my soul! it's just what I wanted! Give us your hand, my dear boy.
Solicit her hand! Take it, take it, with all my heart. If she had a
dozen of hands, you should have them all."
"I thank you sincerely, Squire Erliston. Believe me, it only needed your
consent to our union to fill my cup of _happiness_ to the brim."
His voice was low--almost scornful; and the emphasis upon "happiness"
was bitter, indeed. But the squire, in his delight, neither heeded nor
noticed.
"The wedding must come off immediately, my dear fellow. We'll have a
rousing one, and no mistake. I was afraid Liz might run off with some
penniless scamp, as Esther did; but now it's all right. Yes, the sooner
the wedding comes off the better. 'He who giveth not his daughter in
marriage, doeth well; but he who giveth her doeth better,' as Solomon
ought to know, seeing he had some thousands of 'em. Be off now, and
arrange with Lizzie the day for the wedding, while I take a sleep. When
it's all over, wake me up. There, go! Mrs. Gower! hallo! Mrs. Gower, I
say! come here with the pillows."
Oranmore hurried out, while Mrs. Gower hurried in--he to tell Lizzie of
the success of his mission, and she to prepare her master for the arms
of Morpheus.
That day fortnight was fixed upon as their marriage-day. The Bishop of
P---- was to visit St. Mark's, and during his advent in the village the
nuptials were to be celebrated.
And such a busy place as Sunset Hall became after the important fact was
announced! Poor Mrs. Gower lost, perceptibly, fifty pounds of flesh,
with running in and out, and up and down stairs. Old carpets and old
servants were turned out, and new curtains and French cooks turned in.
Carpets and custards, and ice-creams and Aurora's screams, and milliners
and feathers, and flowers and flounces, and jellies and jams, and
upholstery reigned supreme, until the squire swore by all the "fiends in
flames" that it was worse than pandemonium, and rushed from the place in
despair to seek refuge with Giles Fox, and smoke his pipe in peace at
the "Eagle."
Barry Oranmore, finding his bride so busily engaged superintending
jewels, and satins, and laces, as to be able to dispense with his
services, mounted his horse each day, and seldom returned before night.
And, amid all the bustle and confusion, no one noticed that he grew
thinner and paler day after day; nor the deep melancholy filling his
dark eyes; nor the bitter, self-scorning look his proud, handsome face
ever wore. They knew not how he paced up and down his room, night after
night, trying to still the sound of _one_ voice that was ever mournfully
calling his name. They knew not that when he quitted the
brilliantly-lighted rooms, and plunged into the deep, dark forest, it
was to shut out the sight of a sad, reproachful face, that ever haunted
him, day and night.
Lizzie was in her glory, flitting about like a bird from morning till
night. Such wonderful things as she had manufactured out of white satin
and Mechlin lace, and such confusion as she caused--flying through the
house, boxing the servants' ears, and lecturing Mrs. Gower and shaking
Aurora--who had leave now to yell to her heart's content--and turning
everything topsy-turvy, until the squire brought down his fist with a
thump, and declared that though Solomon had said there was a time for
everything, neither Solomon, nor any other man, could ever convince him
that there was a time allotted for such a racket and rumpus as _that_.
But out of chaos, long ago, was brought forth order; and the "eve before
the bridal" everything in Sunset Hall was restored to peace and
quietness once more. The rooms were perfectly dazzling with the glitter
of new furniture and the blaze of myriads of lusters. And such a crowd
as on the wedding night filled those splendid rooms! There was Mrs.
Gower, magnificent in brown velvet, preserved for state occasions like
the present, with such a miraculous combination of white ribbons and
lace on her head. There was the squire, edifying the public generally
with copious extracts from Solomon and some that were _not_ from
Solomon. There was Mrs. Oranmore, grim and gray as ever, moving like the
guilty shadow of a lost soul, through those gorgeous rooms and that
glittering crowd, with the miserable feeling at her heart, that her only
son was to be offered that night a sacrifice on the altar of her pride
and ambition. There was Doctor Wiseman, all legs and arms, as usual,
slinking among the guests. There was the bishop, a fat, pompous,
oily-looking gentleman, in full canonicals, waiting to tie the Gordian
knot.
There was a bustle near the door, a swaying to and fro of the crowd, and
the bridal party entered. Every voice was instantaneously hushed, every
eye was fixed upon them. How beautiful the bride looked, with her
elegant robes and gleaming jewels, her downcast eyes, and rose-flushed
cheeks, and half-smiling lips. The eyes of all the gentlemen present
were fixed wistfully upon her. And the eyes of the ladies wandered to
the bridegroom, with something very like a feeling of awe, as they saw
how pale and cold he was looking--how different from any bridegroom they
had ever seen before. Were his thoughts wandering to _another_ bridal,
in a land beyond the sea, with one for whose blue eyes and golden hair
he would _then_ willingly have surrendered fame, and wealth, and
ambition? And now, she who had left friends, and home, and country for
his sake, was deserted for another. Yet still that unknown, penniless
girl was dearer than all the world beside. Well might he look and feel
unlike a bridegroom, with but one image filling his heart, but one name
on his lips--"_Eveleen! Eveleen!_"
But no one there could read the heart, throbbing so tumultuously beneath
that cold, proud exterior. They passed through the long rooms--the
bishop stood before them--the service began. To _him_ it seemed like the
service for the dead--to _her_ it was the most delightful thing in the
world. There was fluttering of fans, flirting of perfumed handkerchiefs,
smiling lips and eyes, and
"With decorum all things carried;
Miss smiled, and blushed, and then was--married."
The ceremony was over, and Lizzie Erliston was Lizzie Erliston no
longer.
But just at that moment, when the crowd around were about to press
forward to offer their congratulations, a loud, ringing footstep, that
sounded as though shod with steel, was heard approaching. A moment more,
and an uninvited guest stood among them. The tall, thin, sharp, angular
figure of a woman past middle age, with a grim, weird, old-maidenish
face; a stiff, rustling dress of iron-gray; a black net cap over her
grizzled locks, and a tramp like that of a dragoon, completed the
external of this rather unprepossessing figure.
All fell back and made way for her, while a murmur: "Miss Hagar! What
brings Miss Hagar here?" passed through the room.
She advanced straight to where Lizzie stood, leaning proudly and fondly
on the arm of Oranmore, and drawing forth a wreath of mingled cypress
and dismal yew, laid it amid the orange blossoms on the head of the
bride.
With a shriek of superstitious terror, Lizzie tore the ominous wreath
from her head, and flung it on the floor. Heeding not the action, the
woman raised her long, gaunt, fleshless arm like an inspired sibyl, and
chanted in a voice so wild and dreary, that every heart stood still:
"Oh, bride! woe to thee!
Ere the spring leaves deck the tree,
Those locks you now with jewels twine
Shall wear this cypress wreath of mine."
Then striding through the awe-struck crowd, she passed out and
disappeared.
Faint and sick with terror, Lizzie hid her face in the arm that
supported her. A moment's silence ensued, broken by the squire, who came
stamping along, exclaiming:
"Hallo! what's the matter here! Have either of these good people
repented of their bargain, already. 'Better late than never,' as Solomon
says."
"It was only my sister Hagar, who came here to predict fortunes, as
usual," said Doctor Wiseman, with an uneasy attempt at a laugh, "and
succeeded in scaring Miss Lizzie--Mrs. Oranmore, I mean--half out of her
wits."
"Pooh! pooh! is that all. Liz, don't be such a little fool! There goes
the music. Let every youngster be off, on penalty of death, to the
dancing-room. 'Time to dance,' as Solomon says, and if it's not at
weddings, I'd like to know when it is. Clear!"
Thus adjured, with a great deal of laughing and chatting, the company
dispersed. The folding-doors flew open, and merry feet were soon
tripping gayly to the music, and flirting, and laughing, and
love-making, and ice-creams were soon at their height, and Lizzie, as
she floated airily around the room in the waltz, soon forgot all about
Miss Hagar's prediction. Barry Oranmore, by an effort, shook off his
gloom, and laughed with the merriest, and waltzed with his bride, and
the pretty bride-maids; and all the time his heart was far away with
that haunting shape that had stood by his side all the night.
* * * * *
A month had passed away. Their bridal tour had been a short one, and the
newly wedded pair had returned to Sunset Hall. And Lizzie was at last
beginning to open her eyes, and wonder what ailed her husband. So
silent, so absent, so restless, growing more and more so day after day.
His long rides over the hills were now taken alone; and he would only
return to lie on a lounge in some darkened room, with his face hidden
from view by his long, neglected locks. At first she pouted a little at
this; but seeing it produced no effect, she at last concluded to let him
have his own way, and she would take hers. So evening after evening,
while he lay alone, so still and motionless, in his darkened chamber,
Lizzie frequented parties and _soirees_, giving plausible excuses for
her husband's absence, and was the gayest of the gay.
One morning, returning with the gray dawn, from an unusually brilliant
_soiree_, she inquired for her husband, and learned that, half an hour
before, he had called for his horse and ridden off. This did not
surprise her, for it had often happened so before; so, without giving
the matter a second thought, she flung herself on her bed, and fell fast
asleep.
Half an hour after the sound of many feet, and a confused murmur of many
voices below, fell on her ear.
Wondering what it could mean, she raised herself on her elbow to
listen, when the door was burst open; and Totty, gray, gasping,
horror-stricken, stood before her.
"Totty, what in the name of heaven is the matter!" exclaimed Lizzie, in
surprise and alarm.
"Oh, missus! Oh, missus!" were the only words the frightened negress
could utter.
"Merciful heaven! what has happened?" exclaimed Lizzie, springing to her
feet, in undefined terror. "Totty, Totty, tell me, or I shall go and
see."
"Oh, Miss Lizzie! Oh, Miss Lizzie!" cried the girl, falling on her
knees, "for de dear Lord's sake, don't go. Oh, Miss Lizzie, it's too
drefful to tell! It would kill you!"
With a wild cry, Lizzie snatched her robe from the clinging hands that
held it, and fled from the room down the long staircase. There was a
crowd round the parlor door; all the servants were collected there, and
inside she could see many of the neighbors gathered. She strove to force
her way through the throng of appalled servants, who mechanically made
way for her to pass.
"Keep her back--keep her back, I tell you," cried the voice of Dr.
Wiseman, "would you kill her?"
A score of hands were extended to keep her back, but they were too late.
She had entered, and a sight met her eyes that sent the blood curdling
with horror to her heart. A wild, terrific shriek rang through the
house, as she threw up both arms and fell, in strong convulsions, on the
floor.