THE JOVIAL WEDDING AND RANDOM SHOT.
Two or three mornings after this, I was sent over to the parsonage to
spend the day with Cora. Maria took more than usual care in dressing me.
I went forth in a white muslin dress, fluttering with rose-colored
ribbons, quite too fairy-like for my usual morning visits to this my
second home. But Cora was also floating about in clouds of white muslin,
with glimpses of azure here and there about her arms and bosom, as if
arrayed for some festival. How flowerlike was the style of her
loveliness! Those ringlets of glossy gold; the violet eyes full of
softness, downcast, and yet so brilliant when she smiled; the rounded
arms, the neck and shoulders, white and satiny as when I first saw them
by the spring; the little foot and hand, slender and rosy: all these
points of beauty are before me this instant, vividly as if painted on
canvas. There is a reason why they should have sunk deep into my heart—a
cruel reason which the hereafter will disclose.
Her father was in his clerical robes, walking up and down the little
parlor gently, as he always moved, and with a soft smile on his lips, as
if amusing himself with some odd fancy.
“Come in, my child,” he said, with a change of expression, brought on, I
felt, by a more serious current of thought which my appearance
suggested. “Come in—you will find Cora in her room.”
I paused, as was my habit, to kiss his hand in passing, but he detained
me a moment, pressing his lips upon my forehead.
“God bless you,” he said, “and make you worthy of all that your friends
are so willing to suffer in your behalf.”
I went away to Cora’s room. I have told you how very lovely she appeared
in her pretty dress, but it is impossible to describe the graceful
undulations of each movement, the bewitching softness of her smile! My
own olive complexion and deep bloom seemed coarse and rude beside her.
“And so you have come to the wedding,” she said, wreathing her arm
around my waist, and drawing me before the little mirror at which she
had been dressing. “Isn’t it a droll affair altogether?”
“They are very kind, very good to me,” I replied, a little hurt by her
air of ridicule.
“And to me!” was her laughing reply; “this is the very first wedding I
shall have seen. Isn’t it charming. The people will be here from
Greenhurst; the young heir, perhaps.”
Why did that spasm shoot through my heart so suddenly? I was looking
upon the reflection of Cora’s beauty. It was a lovely vision, but the
color went from my own cheek as I gazed on hers, and that made the
contrast between us strange and darker. I remembered that George Irving
would look on that lovely vision also; and the first sharp pang of
jealousy known to my life tore its way through my bosom. I did not know
what it was, but sickened under it as the grass withers beneath an Upas
tree.
I struggled against myself, conscious that the feeling was wrong, though
ignorant of its nature, but other thoughts mingled with these selfish
ones. I was astonished and hurt that strangers should force themselves
upon a ceremony which the parties desired to be private. It seemed rude
and cruel to the last degree.
But I was called into the parlor. Turner and Maria were in sight quietly
crossing the fields together without the least pretention. Maria looked
nice and matronly in her dress of soft grey silk and cap of snowy lace;
Turner wore his ordinary suit of black, for he had long since flung off
livery, and bore his usual business-like appearance. It was impossible
to find anything to condemn in persons so free from affectation of any
kind. For my part I was proud of my benefactors; there was a
respectability about them that no ridicule could reach.
We entered a little church, and found it already occupied by a large
party of strangers, guests from Greenhurst. I saw Turner start and
change color as he went in, but pressing his thin lips together till
they were almost lost among his wrinkles, he walked firmly on, holding
Maria by the hand.
I saw it all, I knew that he was suffering tortures from those
impertinent people, and all for my sake. It seemed as if my presence
would be some support to them; and when Cora would have turned into a
pew close to that occupied by Lady Catherine, I resisted and led her up
to the altar.
There, on the very spot where Cora’s mother had rested in her death
sleep, Turner and Maria were married. I thought of all this, and it made
my heart swell with unshed tears; but Cora seemed to have forgotten it
entirely. Her downcast eyes wandered sideways toward the intruders all
the time. The two great mysteries of life, death and marriage, which we
had witnessed, and were witnessing together by that altar stone, were
driven from her mind.
The ceremony was over. Turner and his wife moved away, passing through
the crowd with a serious dignity that would make itself respected. I
would have followed close, but Cora held back, keeping on a range with
the intruders. Lady Catherine was directly before us, leaning upon the
arm of an old gentleman I had seen in the hunt.
“Ah, Lady Catherine, your benign goodness is felt everywhere,” he was
saying. “It must have had an angel’s power in reforming this old stoic!”
“Hush,” said the lady, touching his arm with her gloved finger, “his
daughter is just behind us!”
“What, the little Diana!” exclaimed the gentleman, looking over his
shoulder. “I would give fifty pounds to see her again.”
“She will hear you!” whispered the lady, impatiently.
“And who is the other little elf?” cried the old squire, whose
admiration was not to be subdued. “Why, dear lady, you have a new race
of fairies and goddesses springing up about Greenhurst. Take heed that
my friend George is not made captive.”
“I followed the old squire’s look, and saw George Irving, with another
young man, fairer and taller than himself, with their eyes riveted on
Cora.”
I remained with Cora all night. She was full of gleeful gossip about the
wedding, and more than once spoke of the young gentleman who had looked
at her so often. She did not say so admiringly, but I knew well the glow
of vanity that led her thoughts that way, and the subject caused me
unaccountable pain. I listened to her, therefore, with impatience, and
while her beauty seemed more fascinating than ever, its brilliancy
wounded me. It was a precocious and wrong feeling, I confess, but there
were many passionate sensations in my heart even then, which some women
live from youth to age and never know.
I was reluctant to go home—to meet Turner and Maria after the sacrifice
and insult of the previous day. It seemed as if they must hate me for
being the cause of it all. But deep in the morning, I put on my bonnet
and prepared to return home. Cora proposed to go part way with me, and
though I preferred to be alone, she persisted with laughing obstinacy,
and flinging a scarf over her head, ran after me down the garden.
I was very willing to loiter on the way, and we turned into the fields
enjoying the soft autumn air, and searching for hazelnuts along the
stone fences.
We came to a thicket where the fruit was abundant, and so ripe that we
had but to shake the golden husks, and the nuts came rattling in showers
around us. I clambered up the wall, and seizing a heavy branch from the
thicket, showered the nuts into the pretty silk apron which Cora held up
with both white hands.
I think in my whole life I never saw anything so lovely as she was at
that moment. The blue scarf floated back upon the wind, circling her
head as you see the drapery around one of Guido’s angels; her eyes
sparkled with merriment: and she shook back the curls from her face with
a laugh, gleeful and mellow, as if she had fed on ripe peaches all her
days.
“Stop, stop, you will smother me!” she shouted, gathering the apron in a
heap, and holding up both hands to protect her curls from the shower of
nuts that I was impetuously beating over her.
I paused, instantly, ashamed of the action, which had been unconscious
as it was violent.
“Did the nuts hurt you?” I said, bending forward to address her.
“No, no; just a little when they struck my forehead: nothing more!” she
said, still laughing, but with the rosy palm of her hand pressed to one
temple that was slightly flushed.
That instant I heard the report of a fowling-piece close by, and a
thrush fell, with a death shriek, down to the hazel thicket. It beat its
wings about among the green leaves an instant, then fell heavily
through, lodging at Cora’s feet. Her laugh died away in a sob; the poor
thing grew pale as death, and I saw with a shudder that two great drops
of blood had fallen upon her neck.
She dropped the nuts from her apron, and sank down to the earth. I
sprang upright on the wall and looked around, excited and angry, for the
shot had rattled against the very stones upon which I was seated.
“Great heavens! what is this? Are you hurt?” cried a voice, and I saw
George Irving, with his young companion of the previous day, running
toward us; while a fine pointer cleared the wall in search of the dead
bird.
“I do not know; there is blood on Cora’s neck, it may be only from the
bird,” I answered, leaping to the ground. “Cora, Cora, look up—are you
hurt?”
I trembled from head to foot, and strove to lift her from the ground,
for she made no answer. Some one cleared the wall with the leap of a
deer and pushed me aside. I saw Cora lifted in the arms of a young man,
and heard her begin to sob with hysterical violence.
“She is not hurt; it is not her blood!” he said, in a voice so calm,
that though full of music, it grated on my ear, and with his cambric
handkerchief he wiped the blood spots from her neck. “She is frightened
a little, nothing more.”
“Nothing more!” exclaimed Irving, passionately, “why, is not that
enough, brigands that we are, to terrify the sweet child into this
state!”
I felt myself growing cold from head to foot, for Irving had taken the
weeping girl from her supporter, and held her gently in his own arms.
She opened her eyes—those beautiful violet eyes—and a smile broke
through the tears that filled them.
I grew faint, a mist crept around me, and I leaned against the wall for
support. No one seemed to observe it, for I made no noise, and they were
busy with her.
“I am glad, that it is no worse; the leaves were so thick, and I looked
only at the bird: Can you stand now? The blood is all away, nothing but
a rosy glow on your neck is left to reproach us.”
It was Irving’s voice, and I could see dimly as through a mist that Cora
still clung to him, and that he was looking into her eyes. Then I heard
another voice, calm and caustic as if feelings like my own lay at the
bottom, suppressed but observant.
“In all this you overlook the real evil,” it said, “don’t you see,
Irving, that while this child does not require so much care, the other
is really suffering—nay, wounded?”
I felt a sharp pain in my arm, just above the elbow, as he spoke,
forgotten till then in the more bitter pang at my heart; and through the
mistiness that still crept over my eyes, I saw a slender stream of
crimson trickling down and dropping from my fingers.
“She is hurt indeed—a shot has gone through her arm,” exclaimed Irving,
and I felt through every nerve that he had put Cora away from his
support almost forcibly, and was close by me. Young as I was, the master
feeling of my nature awoke then, and I started from the wall, dizzy and
confused, but determined that he should not touch me.
“It is nothing,” I said, winding my handkerchief around the arm, and
turning haughtily away. “Come, Cora, shall we go?”
“Let me rest, Zana, I am so tired and frightened!” she said, and her
beautiful eyes filled again.
Irving’s face flushed crimson as I repulsed his offered support, and
though the look with which he regarded me was regretful, it was proud
too. When Cora spoke in her sweet pleading way, he bent his eyes upon
her with an expression of relief, but turned to me again.
“It is an accident; you cannot suppose I wounded you on purpose,” he
said, pleadingly. “Why are you so unforgiving?”
“There is nothing to forgive,” was my cold answer.
“You are wounded! Is that nothing?”
“It is nothing; and if it were, the wound was not intended for me.”
He looked at me earnestly, as if pained and embarrassed by the manner
with which I received his apologies; then he turned toward Cora.
“I hope my friend is not mistaken—that I have not injured you also.”
“No,” replied Cora, casting her eyes to the ground and blushing. “I was
terrified; the feeling of blood: fear for Zana made me tremble, but I am
not hurt.”
“Thank heaven!” exclaimed young Irving, and gathering up her azure
scarf, he dropped it lightly over the shining gold of her hair. I
watched him with burning indignation. His gentle interest in Cora, who
was all unharmed, seemed a mockery to the stinging pain of my arm. I
forgot how coldly I had received his sympathy, and like all impulsive
but proud natures, fancied that he must read my feelings, not my
actions, and judged him by the fancy.
“I must go home now, the morning is almost gone!” I said to Cora. “Are
you well enough to move on?”
“No, I tremble yet,” she said sweetly; “your wound pains me more than it
does yourself, Zana, it has taken away all my strength.”
“Then I will go alone,” was my curt rejoinder. “My arm bleeds.”
I started suddenly, and almost ran toward home.
Directly I heard a light step following me.
“This is unkind, cruel!” said Irving, pleading; “let me help you?”
The pride of my heart was subdued; I relaxed the speed with which I had
moved, and listened with a thrill of grateful pleasure.
“You smile—your color comes back, thanks!” he said, gaily.
I could not answer. The sweet sensations that overwhelmed me were too
exquisite for words.
“You will not speak to me,” said Irving, stooping forward to look in my
face.
My eyes met his, I felt the lids drooping over them, and, spite of
myself, began to tremble with delicious joy. Like a cup full of honey,
my heart overflowed with sighs, but I could neither speak nor look him
in the face. Did he understand it all? Did he read in my face all that
was making a heaven in my heart? All I know is, that he grew silent like
myself, and we moved on together through the soft atmosphere like two
young creatures in a dream. At length some obstacle arose in our path. I
know not how it was, but we paused and looked at each other. My eyes did
not droop then, but were fascinated by the deep, earnest tenderness that
filled his. I met that gaze, and kept it forever in my soul, the most
solemn and beautiful memory ever known to it.
“Zana, do you love me?”
The question fell upon my ear like a whisper of expected music. I had
listened for it with hushed breath, for with the soft atmosphere of love
all around me, it came naturally as lightning in a summer cloud. I think
he repeated the question twice before the joy at my heart sprang with a
deep, delicious breath to my lips.
“Zana, do you love me?”
“Do I love you? Yes, oh, yes!”
As the words left my soul, a calm, solemn contentment brooded down like
a dove upon it. The feeling was too holy and sweet for blushes. It
seemed to me as if I had partaken of an angel’s nature while uttering
it. Up to that moment I had never dwelt upon the thought of love, save
as a pleasant household feeling. The passion of love I did not even then
comprehend, notwithstanding it beat in every pulse of my warm southern
blood.
He took my hand, holding it with a firm, gentle pressure, and thus we
walked on softly and still as the summer air moves among the daisies. I
can imagine Adam and Eve walking thus in Paradise, when the temptation
first crept across their path. I can imagine them starting at the evil
thing, as we did when Irving’s tutor came suddenly upon us. He was a
sweet-voiced, quiet man some ten years older than Irving, and a great
favorite with Lady Catherine. I did not like his manners, they were
fawning and yet cold—his very humility was oppressive.
“You walk slowly,” he said, in his calm, silky way; “no wonder, it is a
delightful morning.”
Irving tightened his grasp on my hand.
“You can find the way home now,” he said, dropping it and turning away
with his tutor.
“Nay, this is ungallant, Irving,” said that person, moving toward me;
“you forget her arm seems hurt.”
“Yes, I had forgotten it,” was the reply, and he came back.
“Can you forgive me!”
I, too, had forgotten it.
“There is no pain left,” was my answer. “Go away with him, he troubles
me.”
“And me!” was the murmured reply.
They went away together, leaving me alone with my great happiness.
It is said that love gives beauty to all material things. It may be so
with others, but to me nature looked faded and insignificant that day. I
longed for a rainbow in the skies; for a carpet of blossoms under my
feet; for the breath of roses in every gush of air. Nothing but heaven
could have matched the beautiful joy of my soul.
For three days my rich contentment lasted. During that time I scarcely
seemed to have a mortal feeling. When fancy could sustain itself no
longer, came the material want of his presence. My heart had fed upon
its one memory over and over again. Now it grew hungry for fresh
certainties. I began to think of the future, to speculate and doubt. Why
had he kept away? Where was he now? Had I been dreaming—only dreaming?
I did not observe Turner and Maria in their new relations. At another
time their awkward tenderness and shy love-making would have amused me,
but now I scarcely remarked it, and in their embarrassment they forgot
to notice me.
Perhaps they would have detected nothing remarkable had they been ever
so vigilant, for I was self-centred in my own happiness, and joy like
mine was too deep and dreamy for easy detection.