_BRIDE’S PROPOSAL_
“Papa,” said Bride softly, coming into the Duke’s study and standing
behind his chair with her arms loosely clasped about his neck, “will
you let me marry Eustace now?”
The Duke gave a very slight start, and then sat perfectly still. He
could not see Bride’s face, and he was glad for a moment that his own
could not be seen.
“My dear child,” he said, after an appreciable pause, “do you mean that
you do not know?”
“I think I know everything,” answered Bride softly. “I know that
Eustace will be as he is now for two or three years--perhaps all his
life; but I do not think it will be that--I mean not all his life. I
had a long talk before he went with the doctor from London, and he said
he was almost confident that power would return, only the patient must
have good nursing, care, and freedom from worry of mind, or anxious
fears for himself, which might react unfavourably upon him. It is only
for a few years he will be helpless; and I want to be his wife during
those years, to help him through with them, to keep him from the worry
and the care which I believe he will feel if he thinks he may perhaps
never be a strong man again, never be able to ask me to marry him.
I know that he loves me, papa, and that I can do more for him than
anybody else. I know that even now he is beginning to lose heart,
not because his work is stopped--he is most wonderfully brave over
that--but because he thinks he may lose me. Does it sound vain to say
that? But indeed it is true. I can read Eustace through and through,
because I love him so. Why should I not be his wife? Then I could nurse
him back to health and strength, and he could stay here with us all the
time, and we should be so happy together!”
The Duke had been silent at first from sheer amaze. He had never
yet entered into all the still depths of Bride’s nature; and though
personally conscious of his disappointment that his daughter and heir
could not now think of marriage till the health of the latter was
reestablished, he had never thought of a different solution of the
difficulty with regard to Eustace in his helpless and lonely condition.
He had been grieving over the situation in silence many long days, but
the thing that Bride suggested so quietly and persuasively had never
entered his head.
Yet even as she spoke there came upon him a conviction of the truth
of her words. None knew better than he the comfort and support that
a man can receive from a loving and tender wife. He was beginning to
recognise in his daughter those very traits of character which had been
so strongly developed in her mother. Well could he understand what it
would be to Eustace to be nursed and tended, consoled and strengthened,
by such a wife. Doubtless it would be an enormously powerful factor in
his recovery, and the father had long wished with a great desire to see
the future of his child settled before many more months should pass. It
had been a sad blow to him to hear that Eustace’s recovery must be so
slow, for he felt very sure he should not live to see him on his feet
again; and what would become of Bride, left so utterly alone in the
world?
Now he drew her gently towards him, and she knelt beside him at his
feet, looking up into his face with a soft and lovely colour in her
cheeks.
“Has Eustace spoken of this to you, my dear?” he said.
“Ah no!” she answered quickly. “Is it likely he would? He calls himself
a helpless log; and I know that the worst trouble of all is, that he
thinks his helplessness divides him from me. Papa, I want you to go to
him. I want you to tell him that we will be married very soon--as soon
as it can be arranged--and that I will nurse him back to health. Tell
him that we will stay happily together here, and have only one home,
here at Penarvon. I know you do not want to lose me, yet I know (for
you have told me) that you would like to see me Eustace’s wife. Well,
it is all so easy. Do you not see it so yourself? Dearest father, I
love him, and he loves me. What can anything else matter? Does not his
weakness and his helplessness make me love him all the more? I want to
have the right to be with him always, to lighten the load which will
weigh on him, however brave and patient he is, heavily sometimes. I
shall never love anybody else; and I think he will not either. Why
should we wait? Why should we not have the happiness of belonging to
one another before he is strong again as well as after? Why should
those years be wasted for us both?”
The Duke looked into her soft, unfathomable eyes, and he ceased to
oppose her.
“It shall be as you wish, my dear,” he said. “I believe had it been
with me as it is with Eustace, your mother would have done just what
you propose to do. God has His angels here below amongst us still. I
will go and speak of this to Eustace, if you wish it. You are right, my
child, in saying that I would fain see you married to Eustace, since
you love each other. I had not thought of this way, but perhaps it is
the best.”
“You will come and tell me what he says,” answered Bride, with a lovely
blush upon her face; and the Duke went slowly upstairs to the sick-room.
Eustace was gaining vital power rapidly and most satisfactorily, and
was not paralysed in the ordinary acceptation of the term; but he had
received such violent blows in the spine, either from the force of
the waves whilst he was tossed to and fro at their mercy, or by being
dashed upon rocks--though there were few outward bruises or cuts--that
the whole nervous power had been most seriously impaired, and he could
neither raise himself in bed nor move any of his limbs, although
sensation was not materially affected. It was a case likely to be
tedious and trying rather than dangerous or hopeless. There was every
prospect of an ultimate recovery; but great patience would be needed,
and any premature attempts at exertion might lead to bad results.
Eustace had heard his fate with resolute courage, and had breathed no
word of repining since; but a gravity had settled down upon him which
deepened rather than lessened day by day; and Bride had been quick to
note this, and trace it to its source.
With the Duke, the relations of the young man were now of a most
cordial character. His kinsman had played a father’s part to him during
these past days, and his visits were always welcome in the monotony of
sick-room life.
“I have been talking to Bride,” said the elder man, as he took his
accustomed seat; “we have been talking about your marriage, Eustace,
and neither she nor I see why it should be indefinitely postponed.
Indeed, there seems good reason for hastening it on, since she can then
be your companion and nurse, as is not possible now, greatly as she
wishes it. We cannot think of parting with you till you are well and
strong once more, and that will not be for some time even at best. Have
I your authority to arrange with Mr. St. Aubyn for a marriage here
as quickly as it can be arranged? Since your minds are both made up,
there appears no reason why Bride should not have the comfort of caring
for you and making you her charge. Perhaps you hardly estimate the joy
which such a charge is to a woman of her loving nature. But you know
her well enough to believe that she never speaks a word that is not
literal truth; and as she wishes to have that privilege, I confess I
see no legitimate objection.”
Eustace had been silent, much as the Duke had been silent when the
girl laid her proposal before him. Sheer astonishment and an unbounded
sense of his own unworthiness and her almost divine devotion and
love held him spellbound for a moment; and when his words came they
were tempestuous and contradictory, declaring one moment the thing
impossible--Bride’s youth must not be so sacrificed--the next declaring
that it was too much happiness, that he dared not accept it, because it
was altogether too much joy to contemplate. The Duke let him have his
fling, and then took up his word again, imposing silence by a gentle
motion of the hand.
“I respect your doubts and your scruples, Eustace; but I think you
need not let them weigh too heavily in the balance against your own
wishes and ours. I will take you into my confidence, and I think you
will then see that even for Bride’s sake this thing is a good one. She
does not know it, but I have a mortal illness upon me, which may carry
me off at any moment, though I may perhaps be spared some few years
longer. I myself consulted the physician whom we summoned for you, and
he admitted that my life was a bad one, and that with my family history
I must not look to be spared much longer. You know how lonely Bride
would be were I taken from her. You can imagine how greatly I desire
to see her settled in life with a husband to love and cherish her.
Were I to die whilst you were thus laid aside, you must of necessity
be separated, and where would Bride go? What would she do? Money is
not everything. A home--a husband’s care--that is what a woman wants.
Eustace, if you are made man and wife now, all this anxiety will be
done away, and the happiness of all will be secured. Will you not
consent? It all rests with you, for I desire it, and Bride desires
it--I think you desire it----”
“Only too much!” cried Eustace, with such a light in his eyes as had
not been seen there for weeks, “only too much. I am afraid of my own
intensity of desire.”
“If that is all, we may dismiss the objection as frivolous,” said
the Duke with a slight smile. “Then I have your consent to make the
arrangements? I will go and tell Bride, and send her to you.”
She came within half-an-hour, calm, tranquil, serene as ever, a
lovely colour in her face, but no other outward sign of excitement or
confusion. Her eyes sought his with one of those glances he had learned
to look for and treasure; and when she came to his side she bent and
kissed him, which hitherto she had not made a habit of doing.
“Bride,” he said softly, getting possession of her hand, “is this true?”
“Yes, Eustace,” she answered softly; “I do not think we can love each
other more than we do; but we can belong to each other more when we
have been joined together by God. That is what I want, to be one with
you in His sight, so that nothing can part us more.”
He looked earnestly at her, the love in his eyes as eloquent as it was
in hers, and scarcely as much under control.
“You are not afraid, my darling? You were afraid of trusting yourself
to me once?”
“Yes,” she answered gently; “I had not learned to love you then, and
you had not learned love either. You have only learned that slowly, as
I have learned it slowly myself.”
“How do you know I have learned it--the love which you mean?”
She looked at him with a smile that brought an answering smile to his
face.
“Do you think I have been with you all these weeks, in and out, by day
and night, and have not known that? Do you forget how you showed it in
those days when you seemed to be slipping away from life, and only the
eternal promises of everlasting love and help could reach you to help
and strengthen you? You did not talk, but you made us talk to you, and
your eyes gave their answer. You found then that it was not a beautiful
philosophy, but a living Saviour you wanted; not an abstraction
representing an ideal purity, but a Man, the one Incarnate Son of God,
to whom you must cling in the darkness of the night. Ah! Eustace, it
was then that you truly turned back to the Father’s house; and I know
that the Father came out to meet you, and to bring you into His safe
shelter. I knew He would--oh! I think I have known that for a long time
now; but the joy of the certainty is so wonderful and beautiful----”
Her voice broke, and she turned her head away for a moment, but he said
softly--
“The angels of God rejoicing over one sinner that repenteth? Is that
it, Bride? For you are a veritable angel upon earth!”
“Ah no!” she answered quickly, “do not say that--do not think it. Holy
and blessed as the angels of God are, we have yet a higher vocation--a
higher calling to live up to. It is a human body, not an angelic body,
that our Lord took and sanctified to all eternity. It is for fallen
human creatures, not for the angels, that He came down to die. And it
is glorified human beings, changed into His glorious likeness, who are
called to live and reign with Him in glory unspeakable. I never want
to be an angel. Ours is a more truly blessed and glorious calling. To
be His at His coming. To hear His voice, and be caught up to meet Him
in the air. To be ever with the Lord--kings and priests for ever and
ever! O Eustace! we cannot conceive of such a thing yet; but the day
_will_ come when the kingdoms of this world shall become the Kingdoms
of our God and of His Christ, and He shall reign for ever and ever!”
The face she turned upon him was as it were transfigured already, and
it seemed to Eustace as though for a moment a curtain lifted before
his eyes and showed him a glimpse of some unspeakable glory which lay
beyond the ken of mortal man. For the first time since he had known
her he began to understand that what had seemed to him as the outcome
of a mystic fanaticism might be in reality the development of some
purer spiritual understanding than he had been able to attain to.
Lying for days at the gate of the unseen world as he had done, he had
learned that many things formerly slighted and almost despised were the
very things which brought a man peace at the last, and which glowed
and strengthened beneath the mysterious fire of peril that turned to
dross and nothingness the wisdom in which he had trusted, and the
staff upon which he had tried to lean. Having learned this much, he
could believe there was more to learn; that even when fear was cast
out and faith reigned in its stead, there was still progress to be
made in the heavenly life. He did indeed believe that the Saviour
had died for the sins of the whole world, and that He lived to make
intercession eternally for those who claimed the Atonement of His
blood. But now he began to understand that for those who truly love Him
and walk every step of their lives in the light from above, there is
a vision of unspeakable and unimagined glory always open before them;
and that, leaving those things that are behind, there is a continual
pressing forward to the prize of our high calling in Christ--the one
overmastering desire so to live as to be His at His coming, and be used
for His eternal purpose of establishing His Kingdom on the earth.
“Bride,” he said softly, after a long pause, “you must teach me more of
this Kingdom. I had hoped to do a great work for our fellow-men in this
land, and even now I may live to do something; but I can at least seek
to understand God’s ways of working, which are not always man’s ways;
that if it please Him to raise me up, I may consecrate my life, _first_
to His service, and secondly to the service of man. Abner truly told me
I was beginning at the wrong end when I first spoke to him long ago. I
did not understand him then, but I begin to do so now. I may never see
things clearly, as you do, in the heavenly light; but at least I do see
that our first aim and object must be to do God’s work on earth in His
way; not blinded by our own wishes and ambitions. The fate of poor Saul
Tresithny will always be a warning and a landmark to me. He _might_
have grown as wild and reckless without my teaching--with that I have
nothing to do--but I did teach him dangerous doctrines of all sorts,
and his life and death are a standing memorial to me of what such
teaching may lead to. I trust the lesson has not been learned in vain.”
“And I think his death was a very happy one,” said Bride softly. “I
think I am glad he died with us alone. He loved you, Eustace. And I am
sure if any of us had our choice, we should always choose to be with
the being we love best at the moment of our death. It was so with him.
I think it was rather beautiful and wonderful how he rose and came
to you when the hand of death was upon him. Poor Saul!--but we need
not grieve for him. Abner has ceased to grieve, and is more peaceful
and happy than I have seen him for many years. ‘To depart and be with
Christ’ was so much better for him than anything he had to expect upon
earth. He learned his lesson at the last--I am sure his end was peace.”
After that there was no reserve on any subject between Eustace and his
betrothed wife. Bride was able to speak to him from the very depths
of her heart, and as she elevated and strengthened his spiritual
perceptions, so did he in another fashion impart to her such knowledge
of the things of this world as were beneficial to her in forming her
mind and character, and helping her to obtain a just and accurate
outlook upon the affairs of the nation and the events moving the
hearts of men. They acted as a check one upon the other; helping,
strengthening, teaching, and encouraging--growing every day nearer in
love and in spirit, finding fresh happiness and closer unity of soul
each day as it passed, and always upheld by the thought that a few days
more would see their union hallowed and blessed in the sight of God--a
thought so unspeakably sweet and precious to both that they seldom
spoke of it, though it was never altogether out of their thoughts.
Mr. St. Aubyn was to perform the ceremony, with the cordial consent of
Mr. Tremodart, who was glad to be spared the task himself. The Rector
of St. Erme had been much at the castle when Eustace lay in so critical
a state, and the young man had profited much from his instruction and
counsel. Now he came frequently to see both Bride and her betrothed
husband, for he was one of those who rejoice to see true spirituality
in all its forms, and to be certain before hearing pronounced any
solemn and binding vows that they are spoken from the very heart.
The Duke went about looking very happy in those days, and his manner
to his daughter was more gentle and fatherly than it had ever been
before. The whole castle was in a subdued state of excitement, whilst
a lawyer from London arrived, who was to remain till the completion
of the ceremony and see to all the needful papers. But with these
things Bride felt little concern, and went about with a tranquil face,
thankful to be spared the bustle of preparation which would have been
needful under ordinary circumstances, but which was quite superfluous
now.
A bridal dress and veil were, however, quickly provided, and Bride was
content that it should be so, knowing that her white would be pleasing
to the eye of the sick man. She herself was calmly and tranquilly
happy, spending much time beside the patient, and the rest in earnest
musings and meditation, or in visits to the poor, amongst whom so much
of her life had been passed.
It was a clear, sunny morning toward the end of January when Bride
awoke with the consciousness that it was her wedding-day--though so
quiet and uneventful a wedding as was to be hers perhaps no Duke’s
daughter had yet known. Even her name would not be changed, as
Eustace had playfully told her, nor would she leave the shelter of
her father’s roof. All the change that would take place would be that
she and her husband would take up their quarters in a suite of rooms
specially prepared for them, with Bride’s nurse and Eustace’s man for
their especial attendants. But the young wife would continue to take
her place at her father’s table when he took his meals, waiting upon
her husband and sharing his at different hours, such hours as were
prescribed by his medical man. Although all this sounded strange to
outsiders, who heard with amaze that Lady Bride was going to marry her
father’s heir while he was still crippled and helpless, it did not seem
strange to her. Others said it was an obvious marriage of convenience
and diplomacy, but never had been a marriage of purer and truer
affection. Bride robed herself with a happy heart and a serene face,
and was not surprised to receive a message at the last that Abner would
much like a few words with his young mistress, if she could spare them
for him.
He was in the great conservatory when she went down--the place where
so many talks had taken place between them, and where Bride pictured
Eustace lying in comfort and pleasure before very long, surrounded by
sweet scents and beautiful blossoms. Abner held in his hand a beautiful
bouquet of white flowers, and Bride thanked him with one of her
sweetest smiles as she took it from his hands.
“I did want to see yu my own self, my Ladybird,” he said in a voice
that shook a little, “to wish yu every joy and a blessing on your new
life. I know there will be a blessing on it, for there’s One above as
has yu very near His heart; but yu’ll let an old man as has loved yu
ever since yu were a babe in the nurse’s arms give yu his blessing
to-day.”
Bride held out her slim white hand, which the old man took and carried
very tenderly to his lips; and her voice shook a little as she said,
“Thank you for that blessing, Abner. I feel my heart the warmer for
it. We know that this world’s happiness is but a small thing compared
to the glory that is to be revealed; but yet we must be thankful when
it does come to us, and take it as God’s best gift. I think that your
heart is at peace now, and that your worst trouble is laid at rest.”
“Bless the Lord--it is so indeed. My boy died with His name on his
lips. I couldn’t ask more for myself.”
Bride could not linger. Mr. St. Aubyn had already arrived and wished
to speak with her alone. She found him pacing the room with slow and
thoughtful mien, but his eyes were very bright and glad.
“My child,” he said softly, “I wished to speak with you a few moments
before we go upstairs. I have just been seeing him you are to wed. My
dear, I think I need not say all that I feel about the change I find
in him since first I knew him. I can pronounce the benediction of holy
matrimony over you two with a glad and thankful heart. In the sight of
man and of God such a union as yours must be holy indeed.”
Bride’s eyes were softly bright.
“I know we love one another,” she said softly, “but I think that the
love of God comes first--indeed, I trust it is so.”
“I believe so truly,” he answered; “and, my child, I have been talking
to-day to Eustace. He has long been hindered by sickness from the
ordinances of the Church--the most blessed ordinance instituted by our
Lord for His faithful people to follow until His coming again. Before
that, as you know, he was something slack and doubtful, and did not
avail himself of the Christian privileges in their fullest measure;
and it is long since he has partaken of the bread and wine blessed in
the name of the Lord. And he wishes now that he may receive this Holy
Communion with you--his newly wedded wife--so soon as you are made one.
I indeed have thankfully and joyfully assented to this, and even now
the room is being prepared for the simple ceremony which shall make you
his, and then you can together partake of that Body and Blood--the sign
and symbol of the Ineffable Love. I am sure, my child, that your heart
will rejoice, as mine does, over this return of the lost sheep to the
fold. We have known for long that that son has been turning homewards,
and that the Father has gone forth to meet him. Now we shall see him
at the Father’s table, partaking of the mystical feast which it is our
Christian privilege to enjoy. ‘Do this in remembrance of Me.’ It will,
I know, be a joyous thing for you that the following of this gracious
and simple command shall be the first act of your married life.”
Tears were standing in Bride’s soft eyes. She put out her hand and laid
it on Mr. St. Aubyn’s arm.
“I am too happy to talk about it,” she said; “it is the one thing to
make the day complete; but oh! Mr. St. Aubyn, I have so often wanted
to thank you for what you said to me that day long ago about the lost
son and the returning home. It was such a help. It was that which made
me begin to pray in hope for Eustace, instead of naming him only in a
sort of faithless despondency. I was in danger of being like the elder
brother, and looking upon him and many others as altogether beyond the
pale of the Father’s love. After that I could always pray in hope; and
I think--I believe, that my prayers did help him. You know what you
said about that being God’s way of leading to Him some one who would
not yet pray for himself.”
The clergyman smiled tenderly upon the girl.
“God bless you, my child,” he said softly. “I think you will be your
mother over again as the years go by. Such faith as hers I have never
seen in any one else, but I think I shall live to see it in you.”
“I have received so much,” answered Bride softly, “I should not be able
to doubt even if I wished.”
Only a few minutes later, and Bride entered the room where Eustace
lay, leaning on her father’s arm, her face shaded by her veil, but not
so concealed that its serene beauty and composure could not be seen.
Some dozen of the old servants of the castle, and two or three old
friends, were present to witness the simple ceremony; but Bride only
saw Eustace; and none who caught the glance that flashed from one to
the other ever forgot it. The room was decked with flowers, everything
was perfectly simple, yet perfectly appropriate, and Mr. St. Aubyn’s
rendering of the holy words was doubly impressive from the peculiar
circumstances of the case. Bride’s vows were spoken with a steady
sweetness which brought tears to many eyes; all the faltering was on
Eustace’s part, and was made through the depth of his emotion. It was
a strangely simple yet strangely impressive wedding, never forgotten
by those who saw it. When all was spoken that was needed to make them
man and wife, Bride stooped and kissed her husband, without a thought
of any who stood by, and they heard the passionate intensity of love in
the voice that responded--
“My Bride--my wife!”
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