MARRIAGE.
Take her, and be faithful still,
And may the marriage vow
Be sacred kept in after years,
And fondly breathed as now.
_—Old Song._
The next morning, after General Garnet had left the house—for the whole
day—Alice arose, still dizzy and weak, not only from the effects of the
blow, but from fasting and anxiety. She was scarcely seated in her chair
when a letter was brought to her that had come in the mail-bag from the
post office. It was superscribed in the handwriting of Dr. Hardcastle.
Alice tore it open, and read a much longer epistle than I can find space
to transcribe here, reader, but the sum total of it was this: Magnus
informed his friend Alice of what she already knew—General Garnet’s
expressed determination to break the engagement existing between himself
and Elsie, for mere mercenary motives; of his own and Elsie’s fixed
resolution to abide by their betrothal, and his hopes that their
decision would meet her—Alice’s—approval. He told her of his wish that
their marriage should take place on Thursday, as had been first
proposed; and of his intention to depart on the following Monday for his
home, among the new settlements in the backwoods of Maryland. He told
her, farther, that he had called the day before to see her and Elsie,
but that he had been refused admittance at the very threshold, the
servants adducing their master’s commands as their warrant. He had
heard, he said, that Elsie was immured, but hoped and believed that this
was not so. He concluded by entreating Alice to write and inform him of
her own and Elsie’s state of health and spirits, and advise him how to
proceed.
Alice folded the letter, clasped her hands, and closed her eyes a moment
in intense thought and prayer. Then, bidding Milly wheel her writing
table before her, she took pen and paper, and wrote the following short
but important note:
“DEAR MAGNUS:
“As soon as you see this, go to a locksmith and send him instantly to
me. Then get a carriage, procure your license, call at Fig’s to take
up the young Methodist minister who boards there, and come at once to
Mount Calm. When you return, Elsie shall accompany you.
“Your friend,
“ALICE GARNET.”
She sealed this note, dispatched it, and then dropped her head into her
hands, holding it tightly, as though to chain thought to its object.
Then once more she drew her writing-desk nearer to her, took her pen,
and wrote these hurried lines to Elsie:
“Within a very few hours from this, my own dear Elsie, you will be
released and married. And now let me tell you, my own dear child, my
reasons for advising and aiding you in this step. It is not only, my
Elsie, that your heart has long been given to Magnus; that your hand
has long been pledged to him with the approbation of both your
parents; that your happiness is concerned in being united to him; that
your honor is implicated in keeping faith with him; it is not, either,
that it would be a heinous wickedness to forsake your betrothed at the
very moment that fortune forsakes him, and in the hour of his greatest
adversity; it is not that this very desertion of yours would shake his
faith in all that is good and true in heaven or on earth, palsy his
energy and enterprise, and thus do him a serious mortal and social
injury. And, on the other hand, it is not that you do not love Lionel.
No, Elsie, it is simply because Magnus is entirely the better man of
the two,—better, incomparably better,—physically, mentally, morally,
religiously. Magnus is healthful, strong, handsome, energetic, highly
intellectual, purely moral, profoundly religious; and he loves you
completely. Lionel is broken in constitution, evidently by excess;
indolent, selfish, voluptuous, yet irritable and often violent. His
interest in you is a low compound of vanity, cupidity, and sense—it
would be false and profane to call it by the sacred name of love.
Magnus would make you better and happier, in loving you greatly, in
elevating your moral and religious nature, while Lionel would draw you
down to the misery and degradation of his own low nature. My child, my
one lone child, it is for this consideration that I bar you from
wealth, luxury, ease, adulation, and give you to the stern but kindly
discipline of poverty, toil, and privation—with love by your side, to
lighten all your labors and God above you to reward them. May God love
you, my only child! my little Elsie!”
No tear-drop blotted this paper, though her tears had fallen thick, and
fast, and blindingly, while she wrote it. She had turned her head away;
for no sign of sorrow should wound and weaken Elsie in the letter
written to comfort and sustain her. She had turned her head away, and
the tears had rained upon her lap. Many times she had arisen from her
writing desk and fallen, overcome with grief, upon the bed. But it was
done. She had succeeded. And there was nothing upon the paper or in the
letter to betray the anguish of mind in which it was written.
Trying to steer as blamelessly as she could through her labyrinth of
duties, Alice would not call one of the servants, all of whom had been
expressly forbidden to approach the attic, but took the paper herself,
went feebly up the stairs, and supporting herself by the balustrades,
she reached the topmost landing, and went to the door of Elsie’s room.
“You are there, dear mother. I know your footstep so well, though it is
weaker than usual. And if I did not know your footsteps, I should know
your sigh. Dear mother, do not grieve for me. I am happy—reverently be
it spoken—as Peter was in prison.”
“My darling Elsie, here is something I have written for you. I will push
it under the bottom of the door. Take it, darling, read it. Try to
compose your mind, and be ready for me very soon. I must go now, dear,
for when you begin to read that you will find I have a great deal to
prepare. Good-by, for an hour, my dear.”
Alice then went down, entered her chamber, and rang for Milly; then she
went to her drawers and caskets, and got together all the jewelry that
she possessed, to the amount of several thousand dollars, and all
Elsie’s, that amounted to several thousand more, and placed them in one
strong casket. Then she searched her purse and pocketbook, and took out
all the money she had in possession, a few hundred dollars, and put it
in a strong packet. Then she sent Milly into Elsie’s vacant chamber, and
had all her clothing collected and packed into two large, strong
traveling trunks. Next, she sent for a man-servant to come and lock and
strap them down before her face. Lastly, she received the keys from him,
and told him to procure assistance, take the trunks down, put them into
a cart, carry them over to Huttontown, and leave them at Mr. Fig’s, with
a request from her that he would keep them until they were called for.
When Alice had done this she was told that a man wished to see her in
the hall.
She went out, and found the locksmith with his tools. She bade him to
follow her, and led the way up into the attic, and to the door of
Elsie’s prison. She stopped there, and turning to the locksmith, said:
“Pick this lock.”
No sooner said than done. The man put in his instrument and unlocked it
with as much ease as though he had used a key.
“There, thank you, sir! you need not open the door. Please to retire
now. Milly, my girl, will settle with you downstairs,” said Alice, who
did not by any means wish to “reveal the secrets of that prison-house.”
The man bowed, gathered his tools, and went downstairs.
Alice opened the door, and was instantly locked in the arms of her
daughter. Fearing to lose her courage and presence of mind, perhaps
trembling for the strength of her purpose, too, Alice did not venture to
indulge these enervating endearments, but hastened to say:
“You read and understood my note, my dear Elsie?”
“Yes, mother.”
“You know, then, what is about to take place?”
“Yes, dear mother.”
“Come, then, my child, we must be quick. I expect Magnus here with the
license and the minister every minute. Your trunks are already packed
and sent off to Huttontown. Where are your diamonds, Elsie? I did not
see them among your jewelry. They are the greatest portion of your dower
now, my child. Where are they? I wish to put them into a casket that I
have packed for you.”
“Here they are, mother, with the ball dress in which I came to prison.”
“Ah, that ball dress, put that on, it will do as well as another; or,
no, you will perhaps have no time to change it afterward. Come down into
my room, and put on your traveling dress at once. I have left it out
with your bonnet; come, Elsie.”
“If you please, ma’am, Dr. Hardcastle and Parson Wilson are downstairs,
inquiring for you,” said a servant from the foot of the interdicted
stairs.
“Invite them into the back parlor, and say that I will be with them in a
few minutes,” said Alice. “Come, Elsie, hasten, dear, and let me dress
you.” She drew Elsie down.
She felt no weakness or dizziness now. She was upheld by a strange
excitement. Her cheeks and lips seemed burning, and her eyes blazing as
with a hectic fever.
Arrived in her own chamber, she quickly assisted Elsie to put on her
traveling dress, smoothing her beautiful auburn ringlets, pressed her
again fondly to her bosom, tied on her little beaver bonnet, and led her
downstairs into the back parlor, where Dr. Hardcastle and the minister
sat.
Both forward, bowed, and shook hands.
“Oh! for God’s sake have it over quickly, Magnus, lest my strength
fail!” said Alice, trembling violently.
The minister drew the prayer-book from his pocket and opened it.
Elsie suddenly lost every vestige of color, and threw herself again into
her mother’s arms. Alice pressed her passionately to her heart a moment,
and then gave her up to Magnus, who took her hand, passed his arm around
her waist to support her, and stood before the minister.
In ten more minutes Magnus Hardcastle had the joy of clasping his wife
to his bosom.
“Thank Heaven that it is over! Oh-h-h! Ugh-gh-h! I felt my flesh
creeping all the time, as if father were peeping over my shoulder,”
exclaimed Elsie, shuddering, and burying her head under the arm of
Magnus.
“Yes, thank Heaven, it is over! It was short. A few solemn words of
exhortation, a brief prayer, a briefer benediction, and now I possess
you, without a doubt, or dispute—entirely. The laws of God and man give
you to me alike, and no power under heaven can tear you from me, my own
Elsie! my own wife!” said Magnus fervently, and almost crushing her in
his arms.
“Yes, thank Heaven it is over! The doubt, the struggle, and the fear is
over. You are safe, Elsie. Your happiness, as far as human foresight can
secure it, is insured,” said Alice, as she received Elsie once more from
the arms of Magnus, and folded her in her own.
“But you! Oh, my dear mother! you will be left without your child!”
“Never regret me, my own darling. You go without your mother, but you go
with your husband, and you are happy. Are you not, my Elsie?”
“Oh, yes, yes, mamma.”
“Well, I am left without my daughter, but I remain with my husband.
Think that I am happy also,” said Alice, feeling thankful to Providence
from the bottom of her heart, that Elsie was “innocent of the knowledge”
of General Garnet’s tyranny over herself.
Yet Elsie half suspected, she knew not what. She looked deeply,
searchingly, for an instant into her
mother’s dark blue eyes, as if to read the secret of the deep sorrow in
them.
But Alice dropped her long lashes, and averted her head.
Then Elsie took her hand, and bending round to look into her troubled
face, said, slowly, earnestly, tearfully:
“You love my father dearly, very dearly; don’t you, mamma? Say, don’t
you, mamma? Oh! don’t you, mamma?”
“Yes, Elsie, I love him,” said Alice, in a very low voice, turning again
to her daughter.
“Oh, mamma, you love him as well as I love Magnus! Don’t you, mamma?
Don’t you? You love him better than you love me, and you will be very
happy with him even when I am gone? Say, mamma! Oh, tell me before I
go.”
For an answer Alice stooped and kissed her daughter on the forehead.
“But oh! tell me before I go! Tell me that you love my father better
than you love me, and that you will be very happy with him when I am
gone,” said Elsie, growing more anxious for an answer every instant.
Alice turned very pale.
And Magnus, who saw that she was fast losing her self-control, came to
her relief, by saying, as he approached, took her hand, and drew her
off:
“I have a word to say to you, if you please, Mrs. Garnet.”
They went to a window, leaving Elsie near the parson.
“Mrs. Garnet! Cousin Alice! Dearest friend! I have a proposal to make to
you that must surprise and may shock and offend you. But nevertheless, I
make it. Listen to me, Alice. I know too well what you have risked for
us, and what you have incurred at the hands of your husband this day!
Alice! I fear—I tremble at the thought of leaving you here alone, and
exposed to his terrible wrath. You——”
But Alice raised her hand and gently arrested his speech.
“Magnus, forgive me for reminding you that you should not talk to me in
that way. General Garnet’s displeasure, as far as I am implicated, will
perhaps be just. You and Elsie were right. Your faith was pledged with
his consent. You were right in redeeming your mutual pledge. But I,
perhaps, was wrong in assisting you in it. I do not clearly know. Oh,
Magnus, for many years my ideas of right and wrong have been very much
confused. For many years I have lost sight of the exact line that
divides good and evil. Oh, Magnus, when the eyes are dimmed with tears,
the sight is not very clear—and when the soul is drowned in grief,
Magnus, the moral vision may be very much obscured. But this I know—that
General Garnet’s anger, just or unjust, moderate or violent, I must
meet, and meet alone. By all means alone! The dignity of both is
concerned in that.”
“Alice, you must not! Hear me! Listen to me! Do not turn away with that
air of gentle self-respect, and wave me off! Don’t I know that your
heart is breaking this moment—this moment, that your child is leaving
you, and you are left desolate and exposed to danger! Desolate,
wretched, in peril, though you would have her to believe otherwise? Oh,
Alice, you may deceive the child of your bosom, but you will not deceive
the boy who sat at your feet and loved you, and studied the mystery of
the sorrow on your brow when you came home a bride, and everybody called
you happy. I was not deceived then; I have not been deceived since. Oh,
Alice, my love for Elsie, my love for you, my relation toward both, give
me the right to feel, the right to speak and advise. Hear me: You must
not remain here to meet the anger of your husband. Your life—your life
will be endangered. Nay! do not lift your hand to stop my speech; hear
my plan; hear me out—I will be very brief. Listen! You love Elsie and
me. Go with us when we leave here. Go with us to our backwoods home. Our
home will be humble, but full of peace and love, and the repose you so
much need. We shall be poor, but you shall not feel it. Respectful and
loving hands will wait on you all day long. You will be happy with us.
Remain with us till the storm blows over. There need be—there would
be—no exposure, no gossip, no scandal. To the neighbors who knew of our
betrothal, our marriage and departure will seem perfectly natural, only
rather unsocial because we did not give a wedding. And I can answer for
the discretion and fidelity of Wilson. Your accompanying us, for a
visit, will seem nothing unusual. General Garnet, if I mistake not, is
too much a man of the world not to keep his own secret, and too much of
a despot not to enforce silence upon his people, in regard to this
matter. General Garnet will be very anxious to get you back before your
visit is prolonged to a suspicious extent. And then, Alice, while you
are safe with us, you can make your own conditions with him for your
return. You can secure for yourself——”
“Stop! Magnus, I do not wish to mar the harmony of this sad hour by one
dissonant word or thought or feeling. But let me hear no more of this.
Not one breath more, dearest Magnus. What! I leave my home! leave my
husband, and remain away to make conditions with him! I, who
unconditionally pledged myself to him ‘for better or worse’—I, who vowed
love, honor and obedience to him ‘until death’! No Magnus. That marriage
vow, in all its details, is not to be tampered with. It is not a
question of happiness, or of peace, or of expedience, or of repose, or
of affection, but simply of duty. No, Magnus. When I hastened to bestow
my daughter upon you, it was for the reason that I believed you to be
one toward whom it would be a happiness as well as duty to keep sacred,
in all its minutiæ, that marriage vow.”
“Alice, dearest Alice, your heart is very mournful, and, forgive me for
saying it, very morbid.”
“It is? Call Elsie, then. Her feelings are all singularly healthful.
Call her, and in her presence just invite me to go with you, simply to
go with you—that will be the mildest form of your proposal—and see what
Elsie will say. Come, do so.”
Magnus turned with a smile, and beckoned Elsie to approach. Elsie came,
with her bright face beaming with interest and inquiry.
“Elsie, my love,” said Magnus, “I have been trying to persuade your
mother to accompany us to our new home, and remain there for a few
weeks.”
“And leave father so suddenly, when I am leaving him, too! Oh, don’t
press her to do any such a thing, dear Magnus. Oh, don’t think of
leaving father just now, dearest mother,” said Elsie earnestly; then
throwing herself in her mother’s arms, whispered anxiously: “Mother,
don’t you love father? Oh, mother, tell me, before I go, that you love
father.”
“Yes, Elsie, I do love him. No, Magnus, I cannot leave him. I have
helped to bereave him of his child for a season—I cannot leave him.”
“But, oh, Alice!” said Magnus, drawing her apart, “think again! think
what you will meet. How can you brave his anger?”
“I shall not brave it, Magnus. It may be just, coming from him. At least
I must bear it—patiently, too.”
Just then the door was burst open by a servant, who exclaimed, in
affright:
“Madam!—mistress!—doctor!—Miss Elsie! Marster is a riding down the road,
post-haste, to the house!”
“Oh, my God! there is not a moment to spare. Good-by, my beloved child.
God bless you!” said Alice, straining her daughter to her bosom.
“Oh, mother, don’t you love father dearly? Tell me once more.”
“Yes, yes, Elsie.”
“Oh, mother, if you love him so dearly, get my pardon from him. Tell him
how I grieve to be under the necessity of offending him. Get my pardon
for me, beloved mother.”
“I will do my very best. God bless you, my darling child! Good-by! Oh,
Magnus, be good to her, be merciful, be loving, be tender. Oh, Magnus, I
have torn the heart from my bosom and given it to you. Be good to her.”
“May God deal by my soul as I deal by her heart!” said Magnus, folding
his mother-in-law in a fervent embrace.
Then they hurried out, hastened into the carriage, the blinds were let
down, the doors closed, the whip cracked, and the vehicle rolled away.