WED
’Tis sure some dream, some vision vain,
What I, the child of rank and wealth,
Am I the wretch that wears this chain?
G. M. L.
The sky was gray, the wind high, and the sea rough, yet David and Gloria
remained on deck. He had led her to a bench behind the wheel-house, and
there they sat, partly sheltered from the blast.
As the old flagman had truly said, there were not many travelers by the
steamboat at this inclement season of the year—only a few country
tradesmen, picked up at different points along the shores of the bay,
who were taking time by the forelock and going to the Northern cities to
purchase their spring goods.
All these were total strangers to Gloria and David; and as they lounged
or sauntered, talking politics or smoking pipes, to and fro from stem to
stern, on the deck, they scarcely bestowed a glance upon the young pair,
seated behind the wheel-house, who, indeed, kept themselves aloof from
all their fellow-passengers, until the ringing of the tea-bell brought
them all down together into the ill-lighted saloon.
Here Gloria found herself the only lady at the table, with a dozen or
more men, officers and passengers all counted; but as the motion of the
steamboat was now very rough, she took it for granted that all the other
ladies who might be on board were confined to their berths by
sea-sickness.
After tea the young couple returned to the deck, but found the weather
too blustering for the girl; so they went again to the saloon, but found
that the table had been cleared of the tea-service and the men had
gathered about it in parties of four to play cards, smoke and drink; so
finally they went to the companion-way leading below, and there David
Lindsay bid Gloria good-night, for there was no admittance for him in
the Ladies’ Cabin.
When she reached this sanctuary she found that she was the only woman on
board the steamer, with the exception of the stewardess.
This latter came to proffer her services to the young lady. She was a
wonderfully tall, black and spare specimen of the negro race. A striped
gown and a high turban added to her unusual altitude.
“’Ebenin, Miss. Well, as yer’s de only lady here, yer kin hab fus’
choice of dese here staterooms on each side de cabin,” she said.
“Is there any difference?” inquired the girl with a smile.
“Some is double and some is single, and dem in de middle is straight,
and next to de stairs is crooked.”
“Well, you shall choose for me.”
“Den I ’vise you to take a double one in de middle.”
“Thanks,” said Gloria. She did not then go into the selected state-room,
but she sat down in the rocking-chair and put her feet to the fire in
the stove.
“Reckon yer’s gwine back to school in de city arter the Christmas
holidays?” ventured the stewardess.
“No,” replied the young lady.
“Den yer’s gwine long your pappy to buy goods maybe?”
“No.”
“To visit yer ’lations, den?”
“No.”
“Well, what on de face ob de yeth is yer gwine for?” bluntly inquired
the stewardess.
“On business,” good-humoredly replied the girl.
“Oh!” said the woman.
There was silence for a few minutes, and then the woman began to murmur,
partly to herself:
“Now, I wonder what business can call a young gal to town at this
unlawful season ob de wintry wedder in a cold steamboat?”
As the young lady did not reply to this, the woman felt driven to say,
more decidedly:
“You looks moughty youngish for de like ob sich, and I’d eben fink as
yer ma or aunt would be goin’ wid you; but is yer gwine to buy yer
weddin’ close?”
“Perhaps,” said Gloria.
“Dere! I did guess it, arter all!” triumphantly exclaimed the woman.
Then, to stop further examination, Gloria determined to turn the tables
by questioning the questioner.
“What is your name, auntie?” she hastened to inquire.
“Laweeny Long, dough dey do mostly call me Long Laweeny, ’cause, yer
see, honey, I is ober six feet tall, which can’t be said for all the
men, let alone wimmin. Lay-wee-ny Long, honey! One ob de La Compte
colored ladies, honey, and been runnin’ stewardess long o’ Cappin Bright
ebber since my mist’ess died.”
“You are Lavinia, one of the La Compte colored people?” questioned
Gloria, in surprise.
“Hi, what I tell yer? Yes, honey, one ob de La Compte colored ladies, I
is. My mist’ess was Miss Eleano La Compte, what married a speckled
foreigner, which he was a great man in his own country, too, I b’liebe!
Howseber, he’s dead, and so is she, and lef’ one only darter an’
heiress, my present young mist’ess, dough I hab nebber seed her—Miss
Delia Werry.”
“Miss de la Vera, do you mean?”
“Yes, honey, dat’s zactly what I said. Miss Delia Werry. Does yer know
her, honey?”
“Not very well,” replied Gloria, with a smile. “At least, I may say with
truth that I don’t know much good of her.”
“Now, look here, young gal!” wrathfully exclaimed Long Laweeny, “don’t
you go a back-bitin’ my young mist’ess behind her back! Now, I tell yer
good, don’t you! She’s my young mist’ess, she is, and what harm does you
know of her, pray? Dere, now, what harm does you know of her?”
“I did not say that I knew any harm of her; and, moreover, if it will
give you any satisfaction, auntie, I can tell you that I love Miss de la
Vera very much, very much more than any one else in the world, I am
afraid.”
“Den I’m glad yer does. But what make yer say yer don’t know no good o’
she?” inquired the woman, doubtfully.
“Oh, I was jesting, you see, only jesting; for I have as much respect
for Miss de la Vera as I have for myself.”
“Den yer mus’ know her right well?”
“No, I’m sure I don’t, not half as well as I would like to know her. But
now—you say you belong to the estate. How comes it then that you are
here as stewardess on this steamboat?”
“Hi, honey, ’cause dere ain’t been no use for me at de house since de
’stablishment was broked up, arter old Marse Cappin La Compte died, an’
de young ladies went to Washington to lib long o’ deir gardeen. Dat was
about twenty years ago, honey. And all we young women servants what
belonged to de house was hired out at warious places, and only two or
free old grannies left to look arter it, dough all de men—field hands
and fishermen and blacksmiths and carpenters, yer know, honey—was left
on de ’state, ’cause deir work was to be done, whedder or no, fambily or
no fambily.”
“And have you been twenty years in this service?”
“No, honey, not quite. Only ’bout seben, I reckon. I was hired out at
private service before that.”
“Do you like this life?”
“I used to, honey, but I’s gettin’ tired of it. An’ I’s wishin’ for the
time to come when my young mist’ess, Miss Delia Werry, will come ob age
or get married, so as to come and lib at home, an’ hab her colored
people about her like oder ladies, I do.”
Gloria felt extremely interested in this old family servant of her
ancestors whom she had so unexpectedly met in the cabin of the
steamboat, and so, without revealing her own identity to the woman, she
encouraged her to talk of La Compte’s Landing and the old people who had
lived there in times past. And as “Long Laweeny” had so interested a
listener she became very diffuse in her revelations.
“They do say, Miss, that the first founder ob de family in dese parts
was a brave ole sea-king, what his inimies and back-biters called a
booknear or pirate, and how he buried whole shiploads of gold and silver
about dese here shores an’ islands, which, if dat same treasure would be
foun’, it would make de people what owns de lan’s as rich as Jews. But I
don’t know as to de trufe of it.”
These and many other tales and legends of the old family did Long
Laweeny relate to her attentive listener, and so whiled away the time
until a late hour, when Gloria thanked the woman for the entertainment
and retired to her state-room.
Though the mind of the girl was deeply disturbed by the novelty of her
present position, and the uncertainty of her future fate, she did not
lie long awake, but rocked by the motion of the boat, soon fell sound
asleep and slept profoundly until she was awakened by the movements of
the stewardess bustling about the cabin and setting it in order.
On first opening her eyes she felt surprise and fear on finding herself
in the berth of a state-room on a rocking steamboat; but instantly she
remembered the rash step that had placed her in this position, and her
soul was filled with dismay. For a moment she repented her reckless
flight, and contemplated remaining on the steamer under the protection
of Long Laweeny, and returning with it on its next down voyage to her
home. Only for a moment did she think of such an alternative to going on
and completing her other purpose. The vision of her uncle and his
importunities frightened her from all idea of going back.
“No!” she said to herself, “I cannot trust him. I can trust David
Lindsay.”
In the spirit of this trust she met her old playmate on deck.
He, too, had had his deep sleep of oblivion and his wakening to
astonishment and perplexity. But no instant’s doubt of his future course
disturbed his mind; he was devoted to his lady’s service, and determined
to do her will. In this spirit of loyalty he received her on deck.
The wind had shifted to the northwest and cleared the sky of every
cloud; but it was now blowing dead ahead, and so the boat had both wind
and current against her, and her upward progress was slow.
Gloria and David had spent the day on deck, only leaving it to go to
breakfast, dinner and supper in the saloon.
After supper they separated, as before, at the head of the companion-way
leading down into the ladies’ cabin, where Gloria spent the evening in
drawing out Long Laweeny to talk of the old La Comptes until bed-time,
when she retired to her berth. The same evening David spent in talking
to the officer of the deck until the hour came which relieved the
latter, and drew the former to the saloon state-room, which he shared
with a country storekeeper.
It was sunset when she entered the mouth of the Potomac and near
daylight when she reached Washington.
When Gloria awoke that morning the first thing that struck her was the
stillness of the steamer, and the next a small fleet of oyster-boats, a
crowded wharf, and a row of dingy warehouses—all seen through the window
of her state-room as soon as she slid back the shutter.
Then she dressed quickly, for she knew the boat was at Washington.
But again she was seized with that panic of dread which had temporarily
overcome her on her awakening on the previous morning. Again she felt
the impulse to fly from her purpose and return to her home while there
was yet time. But the vision of her uncle in his madness arose before
her mind’s eye and checked her impulse.
“No, I cannot trust him! I cannot trust myself! but I can trust David
Lindsay!” she said, as she completed her toilet, put her little personal
effects into her traveling-bag, and went up on deck.
David Lindsay received her there and led her at once to the saloon,
where the passengers were already at breakfast. She, being the only
lady, received much attention. Her seat had been kept for her, and
dainties were pressed upon her; but so troubled was her spirit at the
prospect of her fate, that she could only swallow a little coffee and
make a pretence of eating.
When the counterfeit meal was over, she arose from the table, bowed to
her fellow-passengers, and left the saloon, attended by David Lindsay.
“We may go on shore at once. I had already engaged a carriage when you
first came on deck,” said the young man, as he led her across the
gang-plank from the wharf, where the hack was waiting.
He handed her in, saw her comfortably seated, and followed and placed
himself opposite to her.
“Where to, if you please, sir?” inquired the hackman, touching his hat,
as he held the door open in his hand.
“Wait a moment,” replied young Lindsay; and then he bent forward and
whispered to Gloria:
“You have been here before, and know the place. What hotel do you
prefer?”
“Uncle and I stopped at Brown’s. It was good enough, I suppose. I know
nothing about the others, except that some of them looked better on the
outside,” replied Gloria.
“Brown’s Hotel,” was the order the young man gave to the hack-driver,
who remounted to his box and drove off.
David Lindsay had never been in any city in his life, and, therefore, he
was much more pleased with his first sight of Washington than strangers
usually are.
“There is the Capitol!” he exclaimed, looking out of the window on the
east side. “I know it by the picture, which is very faithful,” he added.
“Yes,” replied Gloria, scarcely knowing what she said, so troubled was
her spirit.
The youth looked at her wistfully, doubtfully, sorrowfully. Then he
dropped his eyes and voice to the deepest expression of reverential
tenderness, and said:
“Miss de la Vera, do you repent this trust you are about to repose in
me? If you do, oh, speak! I am yours to do you service. To secure your
happiness in any way I may be permitted to do so! To attend you all
through life, if I may be so blessed—or, if not, to take you safely
wherever you would go, and leave you forever, if this should be your
will,” he added, as his voice broke down with emotion.
She answered him by asking another question:
“David Lindsay, do you really love me—love me as you said you did that
morning after you saved my life, when you did not know I heard you? Say,
do you really love me as much as you said then?” she breathed, in
accents scarcely audible.
“Do I love you? How do I love you? How can I tell you! I have no words
to tell you! But I know that I could live for you, work for you, suffer
for you, yes, Heaven knows, I could give my body to be burned for you,
if that could insure your welfare. And because I love you so much more
than I can tell you, I repeat now that I am yours to do your will,
whatever it may be; yours to attend you through life if I am to be so
happy, or yours to take you to some place of safety wherever you would
go, and leave you there forever, at your command. Dearest lady, you have
only to command.”
She was weeping heartily now.
He gently repeated his words:
“You have only to command.”
“I cannot—command—anybody! Not even myself!” she sobbed.
“What shall I do to console you? Did I not hear that Madame de
Crespigney, the colonel’s old mother, was in Washington? Shall I inquire
for her and take you there, and leave you under her protection?” he
asked, turning pale at the thought of what her answer might be, though
no other sign, not even a falter in his voice, betrayed his inward
agitation.
“No!” exclaimed Gloria. “Take me there? Why, uncle would follow me. He
would not compel me to return with him, but he would persuade me. Uncle
masters my will when he pleads with me, and if I return to his power he
may some time, in some paroxysm of his own distress, in some moment of
my own idiotic pity, induce me to become his wife, and then, when I
should have done so, I should go mad, and kill him or myself. No—no—no!
I must put an eternal barrier between uncle and myself. David Lindsay, I
cannot trust my uncle. I cannot trust myself. I can only trust you. Say
no more about taking me anywhere but before some minister of the gospel.
And”—(“don’t make me do all the courting,” she was about to add, but
some subtile intuition warned her that she must not turn her tragic
situation into jest, even with her trusted and faithful friend.)
The carriage, meanwhile, had rolled on to Pennsylvania Avenue, and now
it drew up before “Brown’s.”
“Tell him to drive to the Ladies’ Entrance,” whispered Gloria, who saw
that she would have to prompt her untraveled escort.
The order was given and obeyed.
David handed his companion down to the pavement, and paid and discharged
the carriage.
“Ask to be shown to the ladies’ parlor. I can remain there until you go
and find some minister, and—yes, it will be necessary for you to get a
license from the register’s office at the City Hall,” she continued, in
a whisper, as they followed an obsequious waiter to an upper front
drawing-room that overlooked the avenue.
Gloria threw herself into a chair. There happened to be no other
occupants of the parlor, though people, either the inmates of the house
or visitors, might enter at any time.
“Will you want rooms, sir? The office is below,” suggested the waiter.
David Lindsay hesitated and looked at Gloria, who murmured:
“No, do not take rooms yet. You would have to register our names, and
that would be awkward just now. Wait until afterwards.”
“We do not want rooms, but will take luncheon about noon,” said the
young man, turning to the waiter, who then left them and went about his
business.
“How will you occupy yourself while I am gone?” inquired David Lindsay,
uneasily.
“Oh, you needn’t be away half an hour. I shall stand here and look out
of the window,” she answered, taking up her post.
The young man left the room.
She did not stand there long, for again some nameless horror of her
position, and dread of consequences, seized upon her soul, and drove her
to walking rapidly up and down the floor, muttering to herself:
“Was ever a wretched human being driven to such extremity as I am? Is
there any way out of my trouble except through this strange marriage,
and am I, all this time, so insane, as I suspect I am, that I cannot see
it? Even David Lindsay proposed to take me to old Madame de Crespigney,
and David Lindsay worships me, poor boy, that I know! But I cannot go to
Madame de Crespigney! I cannot go anywhere where Marcel could follow me
and subdue me by his pleadings, and draw me to my own destruction and to
his! I cannot trust Marcel! I cannot trust myself! I can only trust
David Lindsay! And he is no clown, if he is a poor fisherman! See how he
has improved himself. He talks as well as uncle does, though he may not
be able to speak on so many different subjects. But, oh, Heaven, what is
all this to the main question? That I should be obliged to marry any one
to save myself from uncle and from my own heart! I don’t want to marry!
I don’t! I don’t! I don’t! I never did wish to marry! I never meant to,
either! But—if I must, I would rather trust David Lindsay than any one I
know.”
So, muttering to herself, she paced rapidly up and down the floor until
the entrance of other ladies into this public parlor arrested her
murmuring complaints, though not her steps, for she continued to walk
about the floor, stopping only once in a while to look out of the
windows.
Several of the occupants of the room noticed the pale, sorrowful, and
restless “child,” for such they took her to be, and formed their own
theories of her distress. She was doubtless on her way to school, after
her Christmas holidays, and was suffering from the separation from home
and friends. But these people had their own affairs on their minds, and
so could bestow but little attention on the troubles of the supposed
homesick school-girl, whom they hoped to see presently taken care of by
her parent, or guardian, or some other responsible person who had come
with her as her escort.
For more than an hour Gloria walked restlessly about, or gazed from the
front windows, while people came and went to and from the room, whose
occupants were thus always changing.
Then at length David Lindsay returned. She drew him to a distant window,
out of the hearing of all others, that he might give an account of
himself.
“I was longer than you thought I should be, because I had to wait some
time in the register’s office before I could get our license. Afterwards
I had to inquire out the residences of clergymen, and I called at
several before I could find any one disengaged. At length I found one at
leisure—the Rev. Mr. O’Halloran, at St. Matthew’s church. He will meet
us there immediately,” whispered David Lindsay.
Gloria began to tremble visibly.
“Are you ready?” inquired the young man.
“Yes,” she answered, in a tone scarcely above her breath.
He gave her his arm and led her forth, down the stairs and out of the
house, to the carriage that stood waiting for them before the door.
In another moment they were bowling rapidly up the avenue and turning
into a cross street. A ten minutes’ drive brought them to old St.
Matthew’s. He helped her from the carriage and led her into the church,
at whose lighted altar stood the priest in his vestments, attended by
one or two sacristans.
In the front pew nearest the altar were three women at their devotions.
As these were not the hours of public worship, there were no other
persons in the church. Gloria wondered to see these present, but was too
much troubled with other thoughts to speak of the circumstance.
David Lindsay, however, voluntarily enlightened her.
“I told the priest, in answer to his questions, that we had no witnesses
to bring with us. He then said that he would have to provide them. I
suppose he has done so, and these are they,” he whispered, as he led his
trembling companion up the aisle to the chancel.
Two hassocks had been placed on the floor before the altar railings.
Upon these they knelt.
The priest opened his book and began the ceremony forthwith.
The women in the front pew left their seats and drew near enough to hear
the low responses of the bridegroom and the bride.
The ceremony must have been relieved from all unnecessary forms, for it
was very short, and very soon over.
“I pronounce you man and wife. Those whom God hath joined together, let
no man put asunder.”
The concluding words of the sacred marriage rites, uttered in the sweet
and solemn tones of the officiating priest, fell upon the ears of the
unhappy girl like the knell of doom.
The benediction was then pronounced, and the young pair arose from their
knees.