I have now arrived at a period in my life, at which the novelist would
pause,--believing the history of woman ceases to interest as soon as an
accepted lover and consenting friends appear ready to usher the heroine
into the temple of Hymen. But there is a _life within life_, which is
never revealed till it is intertwined with another's. In the depth of
the heart there is a lower deep, which is never sounded save by the hand
that wears the _wedding-ring_. There is a talisman in its golden circle,
more powerful than those worn by the genii of the East.
I love to linger among the beautiful shades of Grandison Place, to
wander over its velvet lawn, its gravel walks, its winding avenues, to
gaze on the lovely valley its height commanded whether in the intense
lights and strong shadows of downward day, or the paler splendor and
deeper shadows of moonlit night. I love those girdling mountains,--grand
winding stairs of heaven--on which my spirit has so often climbed, then
stepping to the clouds, looked through their "golden vistas" into the
mysteries of the upper world.
O thou charming home of my youth what associations cluster round thee!
Thy noble trees rustle their green leaves in the breezes of memory. Thy
moonlight walks are trodden by invisible footsteps. Would I had never
left thee, Paradise of my heart! Would I had never tasted the fruit of
the tree of knowledge, which, though golden to the eye, turns to ashes
on the lips!
* * * * *
When Ernest urged me to appoint a period for our marriage, I was
startled--alarmed. I thought not of hastening to my destiny quite so
soon. I was too young. I must wait at least two years before assuming
the responsibilities of a wife.
"Two years!--two centuries!" he exclaimed. "Why should we wait? I have
wealth, which woos you to enjoy it. I have arrived at the fulness of
manhood, and you are in the rosetime of your life. Why should we wait?
For circumstances to divide,--for time to chill,--or death to destroy?
No, no; when you gave me your heart, you gave me yourself; and I claim
you as my own, without formal scruples or unnecessary delay."
Mrs. Linwood exerted all her eloquence with her son to induce him to
defer the union at least one year, till I had seen something of the
world,--till I was better acquainted with my own heart.
"Yes! wait till she loses the freshness and simplicity that won me,--the
sweetness and ingenuousness that enchained me!" he cried impetuously.
"Wait till she has been flattered and spoiled by a vain and deceiving
world; till she learns to prize the admiration of many better than the
true love of one; till she becomes that tinsel thing my soul abhors, a
false and worldly woman. No! give her to me now," he added, clasping me
to his heart with irresistible tenderness and passion. "Give her to me
now, in the bloom of her innocence, the flower of her youth, and I will
enshrine her in my heart as in a crystal vase, which they must break to
harm her."
The strong love and the strong will united were not to be opposed. Mrs.
Linwood was forced to yield; and when once her consent was given, mine
was supposed to be granted. She wished the wedding to be consummated in
the city, in a style consistent with his splendid fortune, and then our
rank in society; and therefore proposed the first month in winter, when
they usually took possession of their habitation in town.
He objected to this with all the earnestness of which he was master. It
was sacrilege, he said, to call in a gazing world, to make a mockery of
the holiest feelings of the heart, and to crush under an icy mountain of
ceremony the spontaneous flowers of nature and of love. He detested
fashionable crowds on any occasion, and most of all on this. Let it be
at Grandison Place, the cradle of his love, in the glorious time of the
harvest-moon, that mellow, golden season, when the earth wraps herself
as the
"Sacred bride of heaven,
Worthy the passion of a God."
So entirely did I harmonize with him in his preference for Grandison
Place, that I was willing the time should be anticipated, for the sake
of the retirement and tranquillity secured.
Madge Wildfire had returned to the city, declaring that lovers were the
most selfish and insipid people in the world,--that she was tired of
flirting with Ursa Major, as she called Mr. Regulus,--tired of teazing
Dr. Harlowe,--tired of the country and of herself.
The night before she left, she came to me in quite a subdued mood.
"I am really sorry you are going to be married," she cried. "If I were
you, I would not put on chains before I had tasted the sweets of
liberty. Only think, you have not come out yet, as the protégée of the
rich, the aristocratic Mrs. Linwood. What a sensation you would make in
Boston next winter if you had sense enough to preserve your freedom.
Ernest Linwood knows well enough what he is about, when he hastens the
wedding so vehemently. He knows, if you once go into the world, you will
be surrounded by admirers who may eclipse and supplant him. But I tell
thee one thing, my dear creature, you will have no chance to shine as a
belle, as the wife of Ernest. If he does not prove a second Bluebeard,
my name is not Meg the Dauntless."
"I detest a married belle," I answered with warmth. "The woman who aims
at such a distinction is false, heartless, and unprincipled. I would
bless the watching love that shielded me from a name so odious."
"It is a mighty fine thing to be loved, I suppose," said Meg with a
resounding laugh, "but I know nothing about it and never shall. Mamma
and Mrs. Linwood are great friends, you know, or have been; and mamma
thought it would be wondrous fine for young Miss Hopeful to captivate
Mr. Splendidus. But he did not _take_. I did not suit his delicate
nerves. Well, I wish you joy, my precious soul. He loves you, there is
no doubt of that. He never sees, never looks at any one else. If you
speak, he is all ear; if you move, all eye. I wonder how it will be a
year hence,--ha, ha!"
Her laugh grated on my nerves, but I concealed the irritation it caused,
for it was useless to be angry with Meg. She must have had a heart, for
she was a woman, but the avenue to it was impervious. It was still an
untravelled wilderness, and bold must be the explorer who dared to
penetrate its luxuriant depths.
Circumstances connected with the property bequeathed by his uncle, made
it indispensable that Ernest should be in New York the coming winter;
and he made arrangements to pass our first bridal season in the great
empire city. He wrote to a friend resident there, to engage a house and
have it furnished for our reception.
"For never," said he, "will I carry bride of mine, to make her home in a
fashionable hotel. I would as soon plunge her in the roaring vortex on
Norway's coast."
"And must we be separated from your mother and Edith?" I asked,
trembling at the thought of being removed from Mrs. Linwood's maternal
counsels and cares; "will they not share our bridal home?"
"I would have the early days of our married life sacred even from their
participation," he answered, with that eloquence of the eye which no
woman's heart could resist. "I would have my wife learn to rely on me
alone for happiness;--to find in my boundless devotion, my unutterable
love, an equivalent for all she is called upon to resign. If she cannot
consent to this, no spark from heaven has kindled the flame of the
altar; the sacrifice is cold, and unworthy of acceptance."
"For myself, I ask nothing, wish for nothing but your companionship," I
answered, with the fervor of truth and youth, "but I was thinking of
them, whom I shall rob of a son and brother so inexpressibly dear."
"We shall meet next summer in these lovely shades. We shall all be happy
together once more. In the mean time, all the elegancies and luxuries
that love can imagine and wealth supply shall be yours,--
"Nay, dearest, nay, if thou wouldst have me paint
The home to which, if love fulfils its prayers,
This hand would lead thee, listen,"--
And taking me by the hand, he led me out into the beautiful avenue in
which we had so often wandered, and continued, in the words of that
charming play which he had read aloud in the early days of our
acquaintance, with a thrilling expression which none but himself could
give--
"We'll have no friends
That are not lovers; no ambition, save
To excel them all in love; we'll read no books
That are not tales of love; that we may smile
To think how poorly eloquence of words
Translates the poetry of hearts like ours!
And when night comes, amidst the breathless heavens,
We'll guess what star shall be our home when love
Becomes immortal; while the perfumed light
Steals through the mists of alabaster lamps,
And every air be heavy with the sighs
Of orange groves, and music from sweet lutes,
And murmurs of low fountains, that gush forth
I' the midst of roses!"
"Dost thou like the picture?"
How could I help answering, in the words of the impassioned Pauline,--
"Was ever young imaginative girl wooed in strains of sweeter romance?"
Was there ever a fairer prospect of felicity, if love, pure, intense
love, constitutes the happiness of wedded life?
I will not swell these pages by describing the village wonder and
gossip, when it was known that the orphan girl of the old gray cottage
was exalted to so splendid a destiny; nor the congratulations of
friends; the delight and exultation of Dr. Harlowe, who said he had
discovered it all by my pulse long before; nor the deeply interesting
and characteristic scene with Mr. Regulus; nor the parting interview
with Mrs. Linwood and Edith.
Yes, I will give a brief sketch of the last hour spent with Edith, the
night before the wedding. We were to be married in the morning, and
immediately commence our bridal journey.
Edith had never alluded to her own feelings respecting her brother's
marriage, since the evening of the only misunderstanding we ever had in
our sisterly intercourse; and it was a subject I could not introduce.
The delicate, gauzy reserve in which she enfolded herself was as
impenetrable to me as an ancient warrior's armor.
Now, when the whole household was wrapped in silence, and the lamps
extinguished, and I sat in my night robe in the recess of the window,
she came and sat down beside me. We could see each other's faces by the
silver starlight It glittered on the tear drops in the eyes of both. I
put my arms around her, and, laying my head on her bosom, poured out all
the love, gratitude, and affection with which my full heart was
burdened.
"Forgive me, my beloved Gabriella," she cried, "my apparent coldness and
estrangement. On my knees I have asked forgiveness of my heavenly
Father. With my arms round your neck, and your heart next mine, I ask
forgiveness of you. Try not to think less of me for the indulgence of a
too selfish and exacting spirit, but remember me as the poor little
cripple, who for years found her brother's arm her strength and her
stay, and learned to look up to him as the representative of Providence,
as the protecting angel of her life. Only make him happy, my own dear
sister, and I will yield him, not to your stronger, but your equal love.
His only fault is loving you too well, in depreciating too much his own
transcendent powers. You cannot help being happy with _him_, with a
being so noble and refined. If he ever wounds you by suspicion and
jealousy, bear all, and forgive all, for the sake of his exceeding
love,--for my sake, Gabriella, and for the sake of the dear Redeemer who
died for love of you."
Dear, lovely, angelic Edith! noble, inestimable Mrs. Linwood!--dearly
beloved home of my orphan years,--grave of my mother, farewell!
Farewell!--the bride of Ernest must not, cannot weep.