WEDDED.
It was the seventeenth of October--the wedding day at “Ashland.” Little
ruffles of south wind blew out of a fair sky, breathing the air of
simplicity into grandeur. Up among the ivy leaves, a couple of birds
flashed and sang. But indoors, people were so mightily interested in a
pair of unwinged lovers, that these two sang their song out, and then
flew away unheard.
Carriages bearing guests to the wedding were already rolling past.
Those who alighted were the intimate friends. No stranger’s curious
stare would fall upon this scene to contrast with its fairness. No
shadow was necessary to the harmony of it.
Robert stood at an upper window, and his eyes fell upon the matted
honey-suckle where Cherokee had first lifted so sad a face to him--so
sad, that, though the first throb of grief awakened by his mother’s
death had scarcely yet been stilled, he forgot his own sorrow in the
effort to bring happiness again to her--his living love. How his
words of tenderness had made her face soft like the late sunshine of
a summer day. He looked with emotion upon the scene whose vividness
came back with double force to-day. Could all this influence be as
fleeting as it was charming? What would be his verdict at the end of a
year--what hers?
He was called clever, and “people of talent should keep to themselves
and not get married.” Yet his love had overruled the sage’s counsel.
This feeling for Cherokee he knew could not be called another name less
sweet. Since the first sight of her he had worshipped her from afar, as
a devout heathen might worship an idol, or as a neophyte in art might
worship the masterpiece of a master. And she was proud of him, too;
women want the world’s respect for their husbands. Would he, could he,
do anything to make her and the world lose that respect? No, he thought
not now--he would be away from his old associations and temptings.
“Artists are such funny chaps, they all have the gift of talk and
good manners,” he mused, “but they are generally upon the verge of
starvation; they are too great spendthrifts to be anything else but
worthless fellows. Now I am not a spendthrift, and if I can but conquer
_one little evil_, of which I should have told her, maybe, I will break
the record they have made.”
Lost for a time in this reverie, he was dead to the passing of the
precious moments. Recalled to himself, he turned quickly to the
clock--it still wanted five and twenty minutes to twelve.
As for Cherokee, there were no moments of sober reflection. She was
too much in love to calculate for the future, and did not imagine that
so delicious a life could ever come to an end. Happy in being the
help-mate of Robert, she thought that his inextinguishable love would
always be for her the most beautiful of all ornaments, as her devotion
and obedience would be an eternal attraction to him.
There was but one thing now left undone. She slipped out the side
entrance, down into the lawn where Sylvan was. She laid her soft cheek
against his great silvered neck. “I am going away,” she whispered, half
aloud, as though he could understand. “But you know he must be very
kind and dear if I leave my good friends and you, for him, you brave,
big beast; how I hope your next mistress will care for you as I have.”
She pressed his neck affectionately, the while his eyes mirrored and
caressed her, and, when she started back towards the house, he followed
her with a tread that was pathetic.
Inside, the rooms, and halls, and stairway, were wreathed about with
delicate vines and roses. All Ashland was in attendance, if not in the
house or on the verandas, then gazing through the windows; or waiting
outside the gate. Even the negroes, as they peered, tiptoe, had a sense
of ownership in the affair.
It was noon--that supreme moment of life and light. The tall
silver-faced clock rang out twelve silvery chimes as ten maidens, in
wash-white, entered, strewing flowers in the path. These white robed
attendants, standing now aisle-wise, made a symphony of bloom. All eyes
followed the bride as she appeared on the arm of the handsome, kindly
Major, full of dignity, full of sweetness as well. Every heart burst
forth into an exclamation of delight and admiration. There was youth,
sweetness and love on her flushing face. Few brides have looked happier
than Cherokee; few men have looked more manly than Robert Milburn, as
he met and took her hand for life.
The ceremony was followed by a shower of congratulations. A hurried
change to her going-away gown, and they were ready to take their final
leave. The Major and his wife said good-bye, and then again, good-bye,
with a lingering emphasis that made the word as kind as a caress.
A few minutes more and they were gone. There was nothing left but the
scattered rice on the ground, and Sylvan, with bowed head--as though
he knew the hand of Cherokee had now another charge; while over all
sifted the long benediction of sunlight and falling leaves.