THE BRIDEGROOM COMES
About the last week of February my joy came home. I remember that it was
exquisite weather, the blackbird singing his passionate song in the bare
boughs fit to break your heart with its beauty. There were high, white,
shining clouds on the blue, and the mountains were grey-lavender. The
wall-flower clumps were in bloom in the courtyard of the Abbey, and
there were many primroses and delicate primulas in the garden; and all
the hyacinths were out withindoors, making a delicious smell.
I went to meet my joy with a heart in which there was no sorrow. Richard
Dawson was out of danger, and little Robin Ardaragh's case had proved to
be merely chicken-pox. I met them out driving, and Robin was on his
mother's knee, and his father was looking at the pair as though the
world contained nothing else. They pulled up when they saw me; and Lady
Ardaragh cried out to me--
"Bawn, Bawn, I am the happiest woman alive."
"And I the happiest man," said Sir Arthur, seriously. "Would you believe
it, Miss Devereux, that she thought I cared more for my books than for
her? As though anything could give me consolation without her!"
Then Lady Ardaragh cried out that they were a pair of egotists and
pulled me down to kiss her, saying that she wished me joy, for every one
knew by this time that Anthony Cardew was my lover and was coming home
to me.
We were very quiet at the Abbey. A fortnight earlier Uncle Luke and my
godmother had been married, and were now spending a quiet honeymoon at
Killarney. They were going to live at Castle Clody when they returned;
and there was a great ado making preparations for them, and every day I
was over there, sometimes with my grandmother, to see that things were
going on as they should.
By this time, long before this indeed, my grandparents knew all about
Anthony, and were reconciled to the idea of my marrying a Cardew.
Indeed, there had never been anything against my Anthony, for he was one
of those whom everybody loved and admired. But the shadowy barrier was
down, and they had rejoiced that I was to marry the man who had been
instrumental in bringing Luke home after all those years. My grandmother
said even that she was glad there had been no attachment of the sort
between me and Theobald, since she had no liking for a marriage of first
cousins.
By this time also we had Miss Travers' portrait, and she and Theobald
were engaged. She was a very sweet-looking girl, and so much prettier
than I, having delicate little features and beautiful brown eyes and red
lips, that I was not surprised Theobald had forgotten his old fancy for
me.
She was coming home in the summer and was to stay at Aghadoe, and
Theobald was to follow her in the autumn and they were to be married. My
grandmother was rather nervous about the prospect of receiving her
alone.
"For, of course, you will be on your travels, Bawn," she said; "and
although Luke and Mary will be at Castle Clody, it will not be the same
thing as if they were here. But I must love her, seeing that she will be
Theobald's wife, and, please God, the mother of the heir--that is, after
Luke and Theobald, of course."
I was glad my godmother was not there to hear, lest it should hurt her,
for she loved children and ought to have been the mother of a houseful
of them.
Now that my expectation was to be fulfilled within a few days I became
oddly frightened of it. Supposing he found that he did not love me after
all, that he had been misled by a fancied resemblance in me to the
miniature! Supposing, supposing ... I put away thoughts of calamity from
me with both hands. God was too good to let anything happen to him now.
I was so fidgety and restless that I felt I worried the old couple. I
could settle to nothing. I could not read, although I had always been a
greedy reader. I was living my own love-story too keenly to be put off
with imaginary ones. Music held me for a little while; but through it I
was listening--listening for his coming, or for the telegram that should
announce the arrival of his boat at Southampton. I used to look across
at the lighted table by the fire where my grandparents played cribbage
night after night, and wonder at the quiet old faces. Would Anthony and
I come to be like that? So interested in the chance of a card, so
content to sit quietly in a chimney-corner? I could not believe it of
Anthony. He would be always like a sword, like a flame.
I went and came now to Brosna as one who had a right. I would come in
upon Terence Murphy scrubbing a floor or polishing silver or some such
thing, and he would look up as my shadow fell on him.
"Any news, Miss Bawn?"
"None, Terence, not yet."
"Ah, well; sure, it's on its way. There's nothing like being ready in
time."
Day after day now he lit the fires in Anthony's rooms. Day after day I
went across and gathered the little lavender primulas, the faint, garden
primroses, the crocuses and violets and wall-flowers, and filled bowls
and vases with them. I believe Terence Murphy used to wait up till the
small hours, lest by chance his master should come unannounced. Always
the house stood ready for him, like our hearts. I knew Anthony's
faithful servant loved him like a dog, and it endeared him to me.
Through February our waiting prolonged itself.
The 28th of February was a day of balmy airs. There was a light mist on
the grass, and as you walked it was through a silver web of gossamers.
Gossamers hung on every briarbush and floated about the fields. The
raindrops of last night jewelled them in the rays of the sun. Dido and I
broke whole silver forests on our morning walk to Brosna.
I remember that the blackbird was singing deliciously, yet less
poignantly sweet than he should sing at dusk. There was a mysterious
stir and flutter of spring in all the coppices. A quiet south wind
marshalled the pearly clouds before it as though it were a shepherd
driving a flock to the fold.
As I entered Brosna by the garden-way I noticed that Terence had run up
the Irish flag on the flagstaff which he had placed on the little lawn
outside Anthony's rooms, and I remembered that it was the anniversary of
a battle in which my Anthony had covered himself with glory.
In the sheltered garden it was very warm. The sun drew out the aromatic
odours from the hedges and borders of box. Terence had been polishing up
the dial. It winked in the sun, and as I passed I stopped to read the
inscription--
"I count only the golden hours."
There was no stir of Terence about. Usually one heard him singing or
whistling or shouting half a mile away. I saw to my vases. I looked into
the room which Anthony used as a dining-room when he was at home, and
saw the table set, the old damask table-cloth, patched and darned by
Terence himself, warmly white, the silver and glass shining. I smiled as
I noticed that two places had been set. It was as though Terence
anticipated the wonderful days to come.
Anthony's chair was drawn in front of the fire, which had been lately
attended to, for the hearth was clean, and a log of cherry-wood burning
on the coals sent out a delicious fragrance. Presently Terence would
come bustling in to ask, "What news, Miss Bawn?" Sitting in the chair in
front of the warm fire, full of beatific dreams, I somehow fell asleep.
I had been dreaming the most wonderful things, and when I started out of
my sleep I thought I was still dreaming. Anthony was kneeling by me. His
arms were about me.
"I've been watching you for the last half-hour," he said; "and, faith, I
couldn't wait any longer for a kiss. Did I frighten you, darling? You
looked so much like an angel that you half-frightened me. What have you
been doing to yourself? You were round and soft the last time I held
you. There is some change."
"You should have seen me two months ago," I said, "when I was going to
die of marrying any man but you."
"Ah, Bawn, darling, is it only that you are taking pity on my white
head? What is it that you see in me? I am twice your age, child."
"And the finest gentleman in the three kingdoms," I said, stroking his
hair. "So fine a gentleman that you are out of date. The commonplace
world doesn't grow fine gentlemen like you nowadays."
Afterwards we had our first meal together. They would not expect me back
yet to lunch, and Anthony had arrived hungry as a hunter, while he
protested that a man as much in love as he had no right to be hungry.
He had walked in unexpectedly, but Terence had not been taken by
surprise. Terence had things ready as though he had known the day and
hour of his coming. He served us as excellent a meal, according to my
Anthony, as had ever been eaten. As for me, I did not know what it
consisted of, but only that Anthony and I sat opposite to each other and
that Anthony's eyes upon me made me sometimes fain to cover my own with
my hands, and that when Terence Murphy went out of the room Anthony
would come round the table to kiss me. He said that the meal together
was a stolen joy; something he had no right to till after we were
married. He said a great many happy, foolish things. As for me, it was a
meal in Elysium.