THE BRIDAL WREATH.
The wreath of white jasmines is torn from her brow,
The bride is alone, and, oh, desolate now.
Julia Warren mounted the stairs in wild haste, as the caged bird springs
from perch to perch when terrified by strange faces. Then she paused in
her fright, doubtful where to turn or what room to enter. As she stood
thus irresolute, a door was softly pushed open, and a fair young face
looked out. The eyes were bent downward; the cheek and temples shaded
with masses of loose ringlets, that admitted snowy glimpses of a
graceful neck and shoulders, uncovered save by these bright tresses and
a muslin dressing-down, half falling off, and huddled to the bosom with
a fair little hand.
Imperceptibly the door swung more and more open, till Julia caught the
outline of a figure, slender, flexible, and so fragile in its beauty,
that to her excited imagination it seemed almost ethereal. Like a spirit
that listens for some kindred sympathy, the young creature bent in the
half-open door. The faint murmur of voices from below rose and fell upon
her ear. No words could be distinguished; nothing but the low, deep
tones of a voice, familiar and dear as the pulsations of her own heart,
blended with the strangely passionate accents of another. The gentle
listener could hardly convince herself that some strange woman had not
entered the house, so thrilling and full of pathos was that voice,
usually so calm and frigid.
Julia stood motionless, holding her breath. She saw nothing but the
outline of a slender person, the shadowy gleam of features through
masses of wavy hair, but it seemed as if she had met that graceful
vision before--it might be in a dream--it might be--stay, the young girl
lifted her head, and swept back the ringlets with her hand. A pair of
dark, liquid eyes fell upon the flower girl, and she knew the glance.
The eyes were larger, brighter, more densely circled with shadows than
they had been, but the tender expression, the soft loveliness, nothing
could change that.
The hand dropped from among the ringlets it held, away from that pale
cheek, and a glow, as of freshly-gathered roses, broke through them as
Florence drew her form gently up, and stood with her eyes fixed upon the
intruder.
Julia came forward, changing color with every step.
"A gentleman--the lady, I mean--I--I was sent up here. If they want the
flowers for you, I would not mind, though the other lady has spoken for
them!"
Florence cast her eyes on the basket of flowers; a bright smile kindled
over her face, and drawing the girl into the chamber, she took the heavy
basket in her arms, and, overpowered by its weight, sunk softly down to
the carpet, resting it in her lap. Thus, with the blossoms half buried
in the white waves of her dressing-gown, she literally buried her face
in them, while her very heart seemed to drink in the perfume that
exhaled again in broken and exquisite sighs.
"And he sent them?--how good, how thoughtful! Oh! I am too--too happy!"
She gathered up a double handful of the blossoms, and rained them back
into the basket. Their perfume floated around her; some of the buds fell
in the folds of her snowy muslin, that drooped like waves of foam over
her limbs. She was happy and beautiful as an angel gathering blossoms in
some chosen nook of Paradise.
There was something contagious in all this--something that sent the dew
to Julia's eyes, and a glow of love to her heart.
"I am glad--I am almost glad that he made me come in," she said,
dropping on her knees, that she might gather up some buds that had
fallen over the basket. "How I wish you could have them all! He offered
a large gold piece, but you know I could not take it. If we--that is, if
grandpa and grandma were rich, I never would take a cent for flowers; it
seems as if God made them on purpose to give away."
"So they are not mine, after all?" said Florence, with a look and tone
of disappointment.
"Yes--oh, yes, a few. That glass thing on the toilet, I will crowd it
quite full, the prettiest too--just take out those you like best."
"Still he ordered them--he tried to purchase the whole, in that lies
happiness enough." The sweet, joyous look stole back to her face again;
that thought was more precious than all the fragrance and bloom she had
coveted.
The door-bell rang. Florence heard persons coming from the parlor, she
started up leaving the basket at her feet.
"Oh, I shall delay him--I shall be too late; will no one come to help
me?" she exclaimed. "I dare not ask her, but you, surely you could stay
for half an hour?"
"I must stay if you wish it; he will not let me go; but indeed, indeed,
I am in haste. It will be quite dark."
"I do not wish to keep you by force," said Florence, gently; "but you
seem kind, and I have no one to help me dress. Besides, she, his mother,
will not stay in the room, and the thought of being quite alone, with no
bridesmaid--no woman even for a witness--it frightens me!"
"What--what is it that you wish of me?" questioned Julia while a sudden
and strange thrill ran through her frame.
"I wish you to stay a little while to help to put on my dress, and then
go down with me. You look very young, but no one else will come near me,
and it seems unnatural to be married without a single female standing
by."
Florence grew pale as she spoke; there was indeed something lonely and
desolate in her position, which all at once came over her with
overwhelming force. Julia, too, from surprise or some deeper feeling,
seemed struck with a sudden chill; her lips were slightly parted, the
color fled from her cheek.
"Married! married!" she repeated, in a voice that fell upon the heart of
Florence like an omen.
"To-night, in an hour, I shall be his wife!" How pale the poor bride was
as these words fell from her lips! How coldly lay the heart in her
bosom! She bent her head as if waiting for the guardian angel who should
have kept better watch over a being so full of trust and gentleness.
"His wife! _his!_" said Julia, recoiling a step, "oh! how can you--how
can you!"
A crimson flush shot over that pale forehead, and Florence drew up her
form to its full height.
"Will you help me--will you stay?"
"I dare not say no!" answered the child; "I would not, if I dare."
Again the door-bell rang. "Hush!" said Florence, breathlessly; "it is
the clergyman; that is a strange voice, and he--Leicester--admits him.
How happy I thought to be at this hour; but I am chilly, chilly as
death; oh, help me, child!"
She had been making an effort to arrange her hair, but her hands
trembled, and at length fell helplessly down. She really seemed
shivering with cold.
"Sit down, sit down in this easy-chair, and let _me_ try," said Julia,
shaking off the chill that had settled on her spirits, and wheeling a
large chair, draped with white dimity, toward the toilet. Lights were
burning in tall candlesticks on each side of a swing mirror, whose frame
of filagreed and frosted silver gleamed ghastly and cold on the pale
face of the bride.
"How white I am; will nothing give me a color?" cried the young
creature, starting up from the chair. "Warmth--that is what I want! My
dress--let us put on that first; then I can muffle myself in something
while you curl my hair."
She took up a robe of costly Brussels lace. "Isn't it beautiful?" she
said, with a smile, shaking out the soft folds. "He sent it." She then
threw off her dressing-gown, and arrayed herself in the bridal robe; the
exertion seemed to animate her; a bright bloom rose to her cheek, and
her motions became nervous with excitement.
"Some orange blossoms to loop up the skirt in front," she said, after
Julia had fastened the dress; "here, just here!" and she gathered up
some folds of the soft lace in her hand, watching the child as she fell
upon one knee to perform the task. Florence was trembling from head to
foot with the wild, eager excitement that had succeeded the chill of
which she had complained, and could do nothing for herself. When the
buds were all in place, she sunk into the easy-chair, huddling her snowy
arms and bosom in a rose-colored opera cloak; for, though her cheeks
were burning, cold shivers now and then seemed to ripple through her
veins. The soft trimming of swan's down, which she pressed to her bosom
with both hands, seemed devoid of all warmth one moment, and the next
she flung it aside glowing with over-heat. There was something more than
agitation in all this, but it gave unearthly splendor to her beauty.
"Now--now," said Julia, laying the last ringlet softly down upon the
neck of the bride; "look at yourself, sweet lady, see how beautiful you
are."
Florence stood up, and smiled as she saw herself in the mirror; an angel
from heaven could not have looked more delicately radiant. Masses of
raven curls fell upon the snowy neck and the bridal dress. Circling her
head, and bending with a soft curve to the forehead, was a light wreath
of starry jessamine flowers, woven with the deep, feathery green of some
delicate spray, that Julia selected from her basket because it was so
tremulous and fairy-like. All at once the smile fled from the lips of
Florence Craft; a look of mournful affright came to her eyes, and she
raised both hands to tear away the wreath.
"Did you know it? Was this done on purpose?" she said, turning upon the
child.
"What--what have I done?"
"This wreath--these jessamines--you have woven them with cypress
leaves." Florence sunk into the chair shuddering; she had no strength to
unweave the ominous wreath from her head.
"I--I did not know it," said the child greatly distressed; "they were
beautiful--I only thought of that. Shall I take them off, and put roses
in the place?"
"Yes! yes--roses, roses--these make me feel like death!"
That instant there was a gentle knock at the chamber door; Julia opened
it, and there stood Mr. Leicester. The child drew back: he saw Florence
standing before the toilet.
"Florence, love, we are waiting!"
He advanced into the chamber and drew her arm through his. She looked
back into the mirror, and shuddered till the cypress leaves trembled
visibly in her curls.
"My beautiful--my wife!" whispered Leicester, pressing her hand to his
lips.
What woman could withstand that voice--those words? The color came
rushing to her cheek again, the light to her eyes; she trembled, but not
with the ominous fear that possessed her a moment before. Those
words--sweeter than hope--shed warmth, and light, and joy where terror
had been.
"Follow us!" said Leicester addressing the child.
Julia moved forward: a thought seemed to strike the bridegroom; he
paused--
"You can write--at least well enough to sign your name?" he said.
"Yes, I can write," she answered, timidly.
"Very well--come!"
The parlor was brilliantly illuminated, every shutter was closed, and
over the long window, hitherto shaded only with lace, fell curtains of
amber damask, making the seclusion more perfect.
A clergyman was in the room, and Leicester had brought his servant as a
witness. This man stood near the window, leaning heavily against the
wall, his features immovable, his eyes bent upon the door. Julia started
as she saw him, for she remembered the time they had met before upon the
wharf, on that most eventful day of her life. His glance fell on her as
she came timidly in behind the bridegroom and the bride; there was a
slight change in his countenance, then a gleam of recognition, which
made the child feel less completely among strangers.
It was a brief ceremony; the clergyman's voice was monotonous; the
silence chilling. Julia wept; to her it seemed like a funeral.
The certificate was made out. Jacob signed his name, but so bunglingly
that no one could have told what it was. Mr. Leicester did not make the
effort. Julia took the pen, her little hand trembled violently, but the
name was written quite well enough for a girl of her years.
"Now, sir--now, please, may I go?" she said, addressing Leicester.
"Yes, yes--here is the piece of gold. I trust your employer will find no
fault--but first tell me where you live?"
Julia told him where to find her humble abode, and hurried from the
room. Her basket of flowers had been left in the chamber above; she ran
up to get it, eager to be gone. In her haste she opened the nearest
door; it was a bed-room, dimly lighted, and by a low couch knelt the old
lady she had seen in the hall. Her hands were clasped, her white face
uplifted; there was anguish in her look, but that tearless anguish that
can only be felt after the passions are quenched. Julia drew softly
back. She found her basket in the next room, and came forth again,
bearing it on her arm. She heard Leicester's voice while passing through
the hall, and hurried out, dreading that he might attempt to detain her.
Scarcely had the child passed out when Leicester came forth, leading
Florence by the hand. He spoke a few words to her in a low voice: "Try
and reconcile her, Florence. She never loved me, I know that, but who
could resist you? To-morrow, if she proves stubborn, I will take you
hence, or, at the worst, in a few days we will be ready for our voyage
to Europe."
Florence listened with downcast eyes. "My father, my kind old father! he
will not be angry; he must have known how it would end when he gave me
to your charge. Still it may offend him to hear that I am married, when
he thinks me at school."
"He will not be angry, love," said Leicester, and he thought of the
letter announcing old Mr. Craft's death. "But the good lady up stairs;
you must win her into a better mood before we meet again; till then,
sweet wife, adieu!"
He kissed her hand two or three times--cast a hurried glance up stairs,
as if afraid of being seen, and then pressed her, for one instant, to
his bosom.
"Sweet wife!" the name rang through and through her young heart like a
chime of music. She held her breath, and listened to his footsteps as he
left the house, then stole softly up the stairs.
The clergyman went out while Julia was up stairs in search of her
flowers. Jacob Strong left the parlor at the same time, but instead of
returning, he let the clergyman out, and, moving back into the darkened
extremity of the hall, stood there, concealed and motionless. He
witnessed the interview between Leicester and Florence, and, so still
was everything around, heard a little of the conversation.
Before Florence was half way up the stairs he came out of the darkness
and spoke to her.
"Only a little while, dear lady, pray come back; I will not keep you
long."
Florence, thinking that Leicester had left some message with his
servant, descended the stairs and entered the parlor. Jacob followed her
and closed the door; a few minutes elapsed--possibly ten, and there came
from the closed room a wild, passionate cry of anguish. The door was
flung open--the bride staggered forth, and supported herself against the
frame-work.
"Mother! mother! oh, madam!" Her voice broke, and ended in gasping sobs.
A door overhead opened, and the old lady whom Julia had seen upon her
knees came gliding like a black shadow down the stairs.
"I thought that he had gone," she said, and her usually calm accent was
a little hurried. "Would he kill you under my roof? William Leicester!"
"He is not here--he is gone," sobbed Florence, "but that man----" She
pointed with her finger toward Jacob Strong, who stood a little within
the door. He came forward, revealing a face from which all the stolid
indifference was swept away. It was not only troubled, but wet with
tears.
"It is cruel--I have been awfully cruel," he said, addressing the old
lady--"but she must be told. I could not put it off. She thought herself
his wife."
"I am his wife!--I am his wife!--_his wife_, do you hear?" almost
shrieked the wretched girl. "He called me so himself. _You_ saw us
married, and yet dare to slander him!"
"Lady, she is not his wife!" said Jacob, sinking his voice, but speaking
earnestly, as if the task he had undertaken were very painful. "He is
married already!"
"He told me--and gave me letters from abroad to prove that Ada, his
wife, was dead." The old lady spoke in her usual calm way, but her face
was paler than it had been, and her eyes were full of mournful
commiseration as she bent them upon the wretched bride.
"Then he _was_ married--he has been married before!" murmured Florence,
and her poor, pale hands, fell helplessly down. The old lady drew close
to her, as if to offer some comfort, but she had so long held all
affectionate impulses in abeyance, that even this action was constrained
and chilling, though her heart yearned toward the poor girl.
"Madam, did you believe him when he said his wife was no more?"
questioned Jacob Strong.
The old lady shook her head, and a mournful smile stole across her thin
lips; pain is fearfully impressive when wrung from the heart in a smile
like that. Florence shuddered.
"And you--you also, his mother!" burst from her quivering lips.
"God forgive me! I am," answered the old lady.
"Then," said Jacob Strong, turning his face resolutely from the poor,
young creature, whose heart his words were crushing: "Then, madam, you
have seen his wife--you would know her again?"
"Yes, I should know her."
"This night, this very night, you shall see her then. Come with me; this
poor young lady will not believe what I have said. Come and be a witness
that Mrs. Ada Leicester is alive--alive with his knowledge. Two hours
from this you shall see them together--Leicester and his wife, the
mother of his child. Will you come? there seems no other way by which
this poor girl can be saved."
"I--I will go! let me witness this meeting," cried Florence, suddenly
arousing herself, and standing upright. "I will not take his word nor
yours; you slander him, you slander him! If he has a wife, let me look
upon her with my own eyes."
The old lady and Jacob looked at each other. Florence stood before
them, her soft eyes flashing, her cheeks fired with the blood grief had
driven from her heart.
"You dare not--I know it, you dare not!"
Still her auditors looked at each other in painful doubt.
"I knew that it was false!" cried Florence, with a laugh of wild
exultation. "You hesitate, this proves it. To-morrow, madam, I will
leave this roof--I will go to my husband. The very presence of those who
slander him is hateful to me. To-night; yes, this instant, I will go."
"Let her be convinced," said the old lady.
The strong nerves of Jacob gave way. He looked at that young face, so
beautiful in its wild anguish, and shrunk from the consequences of the
conviction that awaited her.
"It would be her death," he said. "I cannot do it!"
"Better death than that which might follow this unbelief."
The old lady placed her hand upon Jacob's arm, and drew him aside. They
conversed together in low voices, and Florence regarded them with her
large, wild eyes, as a wounded gazelle might gaze upon its pursuers.
"Come!" said Leicester's mother, attempting to lay her hand upon the
shrinking arm of the bride; "it needs some preparation, but you shall
go. God help us both, this is a fearful task!"
Florence was strong with excitement. She turned, and almost ran up the
stairs. Jacob went out, and during the next two hours, save a slight
sound in the upper rooms, from time to time, the cottage seemed
abandoned.
At length a carriage stopped at the gate. Jacob entered, and seating
himself in the parlor, waited. They came down at last, but so changed,
that no human penetration could have detected their identity. The old
lady was still in black, but so completely enveloped in a veil of glossy
silk, that nothing but her eyes could be seen. A diamond crescent upon
the forehead, a few silver stars scattered among the sombre folds that
flowed over her person, gave sufficient character to a dress that was
only chosen as a disguise.
Florence was in a similar dress, save that everything about her was
snowy white. A veil of flowing silk had been cast over her bridal array,
glossy and wave-like, but thick enough to conceal her features. Gleams
of violet and rosy tulle floated over this, like the first tints of
sunrise and the morning star, sparkling with diamonds, gathered up the
veil on her left temple, leaving it to flow, like the billows of a
cloud, over her form, and downward till it swept her feet. Without a
word the three went forth and entered the carriage.