THE WEDDING.
It took place early in October, on the morning when I commenced this
story; and when from my chamber-window I saw the bridal train go by, and
heard the pealing of the merry marriage-bells, and the shouting of the
children from the mission-school, who strewed the bride’s path from the
carriage to the church with flowers, and to whom Godfrey promised a
_fête_ upon the lawn, with all the candy and ice-cream they could eat,
when he returned from his journey. Never before, nor since, was the
church so full as it was that lovely October morning, when the maples
were turning scarlet, and the walnut trees were golden in the autumnal
sunshine, which fell so softly and warmly, as if in blessing, on the
beautiful young bride and the perfectly happy groom.
There was a trip to the West as far as Denver, and then one day in
November, the bridal pair came back to Hampstead, where the bells rang
merrily in honor of their return; and the boys of the mission-school,
remembering the promised candy and ice-cream, made a bonfire in the
street, and hurrahed lustily for Mr. Godfrey Schuyler, and a tiger, too!
They had their _fête_, and candy and cream, and ate it in the November
rain; but not until after the grand party at the Hill, which, for
elegance and expenditure, far outdid the one given a few years before,
when Edith was the bride, and Gertie the little unknown girl, watching
the ladies as they came, and wishing that she was one of them.
She _was_ one of them now, or rather _the_ one around whom everything
else centred, and I never saw a creature so dazzlingly beautiful as she
was in her bridal robes, when, with Godfrey at her side, she stood to
receive the guests. Everybody who had been bidden was there,—except the
Bartons, from whom there came a note of regret, saying that “sudden and
severe illness in the family would keep them at home.”
“Who can it be? Not Rosamond, for she wrote the regret,” Gertie said;
and then, as her eyes met mine, we both thought of Tom, who had never
been seen in town since the morning of Gertie’s bridal.
He was present at the ceremony and stood where he could look in Gertie’s
face, and it was said by those who watched him that at the words, “I,
Gertrude, take thee, Godfrey, to be my wedded husband,” he put up his
hand and started as if smitten heavily. He came to me after it was over,
and said, in a half-laughing, half-serious way, that there was a feeling
in his stomach as if a hornet’s nest had been stirred up, and each
individual hornet was doing its best to sting him! I know Gertie thought
of him many times that night when she moved a queen amid the brilliant
throng, where only one vied with her at all in point of loveliness, and
that one, her mother, who, with every shadow lifted from her heart,
seemed to have recovered all the beauty of her early womanhood. Edith’s
dress was a heavy silk of a creamy tint, with overskirt and bertha of
soft, rich lace, while at Gertie’s request she wore her hair in curls,
arranged at the back of her head, and held by a coral comb. Coral was
very becoming to Edith, and she looked so young and handsome that none
would ever have dreamed that she was mother to the bride. They were like
two sisters, and the colonel might have passed for the father of them
both. He seemed very proud of Edith, and in his eyes, which followed her
constantly, there was a world of love and tenderness, which told how
dear she was to him, even now that everything pertaining to her early
life was known to him and the world.
Later in the evening, when the dancing began to flag a little, and the
New York belles had one after another tried Gertie’s new Steinway, Edith
was persuaded to take her seat at the piano.
“Give us one of those sweet, plaintive little airs you sang at Oakwood,”
Godfrey said, as he bent over her.
Edith had never tried so much as a single note since the day when she
learned from her mother that her daughter was alive, but something told
her she could sing now, for the iron fingers were gone forever; and
selecting a German song, which a year before would have been far beyond
her power, she began to sing,—her voice, which had once been so rich,
and full, and strong, gathering strength, and depth, and power as she
progressed, and soaring up, and up, and up, ever clear, ever sweet, ever
ringing, until the whole house was full of melody, and the guests came
flocking in to hear.
“Edith, my darling,” and “mamma, mamma,” were said in the same breath of
astonishment as the music ceased, and Gertie and the colonel laid a hand
on Edith’s shoulder. “I never dreamed you had a voice like that. I am
prouder of you to-night than ever I was before,” the colonel said, as at
a sign from Edith, who was looking very white, he led her away from the
piano and out upon a balcony, where she stood a moment to recover
herself, and force down the rapid beating of her heart ere she told him
_why_ she could not sing before, and that with the confession of
everything, and the finding of Gertie, her glorious voice had come back
to her again.