RICHMOND HOUSE GETS A MISTRESS.
"Bride, upon thy wedding day
Did the fluttering of thy breath
Speak of joy or woe beneath?
And the hue that went and came
On thy cheek, like lines of flame,
Flowed its crimson from the unrest
Or the gladness of thy breast?"
Breakfast was over. Georgia, blushing and smiling beneath Miss Jerusha's
curious scrutiny, had gone back to her room, and Miss Jerusha, sitting
in her low rocking-chair, was left alone with the bright morning
sunshine that lay in broad patches on the floor to the special
delectation of Mrs. and Miss Betsey Periwinkle.
Miss Jerusha was thinking of a good many things in general, but
Georgia's unaccountable freaks in particular, when a well-known step
sounded on the threshold, and the tall, stately form of Richmond Wildair
stood before her.
Miss Jerusha was always pleased to have the rich young squire visit her,
because it added to her importance in the eyes of the villagers; so she
got up with a brisk, delighted "how d'ye do," and placed a chair for her
visitor.
"All alone, Miss Jerusha?" said Mr. Wildair, taking up Betsey Periwinkle
the second, who came purring politely around him, and stroking her
mottled coat.
"Wall, not exactly," said Miss Jerusha. "Georgia's up stairs, for a
wonder. I'll call her down, if you like."
"No--never mind," said Mr. Wildair. "Miss Georgia doesn't always seem so
glad to see me that she should be disturbed now on my account."
"Wall, Mr. Wildair, Georgey's _queer_; there's never no tellin' what
she'll do; if you 'spect her to do one thing you may be pretty certain
she'll do 'xactly t'other. Now, yesterday afternoon she went out as glum
as a porkypine"--Miss Jerusha's ideas of porcupines were rather
vague--"and, bless my stars! if she didn't come in a smilin' like a
basket of chips. My 'pinion is," said Miss Jerusha, firmly, "that
something's come to her; you needn't believe it if you don't like too,
but _I_ do."
A smile full of curious meaning broke over Mr. Wildair's face.
"On the contrary, my dear madam, I _do_ believe it most firmly. Not only
do I _think_ something came to her yesterday, but I _know_ it from
positive observation."
"Hey?" said Miss Jerusha, looking up sharply.
Mr. Wildair put down little Betsey Periwinkle, got up, and leaning his
arm on the mantel, with that same strange smile on his face, stood
looking down on Miss Jerusha.
"What is it?" asked the old lady, with a puzzled look answering that
smile, as if he had spoken.
"My dear Miss Jerusha, I have a favor to ask of you this morning, a
_great_ favor, a _very_ great favor, indeed," he said, with a light she
had never seen before in his handsome eyes.
"Wall," said Miss Jerusha, looking most delightfully perplexed, "what is
it?"
"I want you to give me something."
"You do! Why, my gracious! I ain't got nothing to give you."
"Yes, you have; a treasure beyond all price."
"Good gracious! where?" said Miss Jerusha, gazing round with a
bewildered look.
"I mean--_Georgia_."
"Hey!"
Richmond laughed. Miss Jerusha had jumped as if she had suddenly sat
down on an upturned tack.
"Miss Jerusha, Richmond House wants a mistress, and _I_ want Miss
Georgia Darrell to be that mistress."
"Oh, my gracious!" cried the overwhelmed Miss Jerusha, sinking back in
her chair.
"You have no objections, I hope, my dear madam."
"Oh, my gracious! _did_ you ever?" exclaimed Miss Jerusha, appealing to
society at large. "Marry my Georgey! My-y-y conscience alive!"
Richmond stood smilingly before her, running his fingers through his
glossy dark hair, waiting for her astonishment to evaporate.
"You ain't in airnest, now," said Miss Jerusba, resting her chin on her
hand and peering up in his face with a look of mingled incredulity and
delight, as the faded vision of the brown silk, and the new straw bonnet
began again to loom up in the distance.
"Never was so much so in my life. Come, Miss Jerusha, say I may have
her."
"Why, my stars and garters! 'tain't _me_ you ought for to ask, it's
Georgey. Why didn't you ask _her_?"
"I have already done so. I asked her last evening."
"Oh-h-h!" said Miss Jerusha, drawing in her breath, and sending out the
ejaculation in a perfect whistle of astonishment at the new light that
dawned upon her. "I see now. That's what did it! Well, I never! And
what did she say?"
"She said what I want you to say--yes."
"But, look here," said Miss Jerusha, to whom the news seemed a great
deal too good to be true, "how about that there heiress, you know--hey?"
"What heiress?" said Richmond, with a smile.
"Why, you know--that one everybody said you were a-goin' to be married
to--that one from the city."
"Don't know the lady at all--never had the pleasure of seeing her in my
life, Miss Jerusha."
"Well, now, it seems to me there's suthin' wrong somewhere," said Miss
Jerusha, doubtfully; "why, you told me yourself, Mr. Wildair, you were
going to marry a heiress--'mensely rich, you said. I recommember your
very words."
"And so I am; but Georgia was the heiress I meant--immensely rich in
beauty, and a noble, generous heart."
"Humph! poor sort o' riches to get along in the world with," said Miss
Jerusha, rather cynically. "If you meant Georgey all along, what made
you let folks think it was to somebody else--that there young woman from
the city?"
Richmond laughed, and shook back his dark clustering hair.
"From a rather unworthy motive, I must own, Miss Jerusha. I wanted to
make Georgia jealous, and so be sure she liked me."
"Wal, I never! that tells the whole story. She _was_ jealous, and that
is what made her as cross as two sticks. Well, to be sure! if it ain't
funny! he! he! he!"
And Miss Jerusha indulged in a regular cachinnation for the first time
that Richmond ever remembered to hear her.
"I am glad it seems to please you. Then we have your consent?"
"Why, my gracious, _yes_! I hain't the least objection. I guess not.
What do _your_ folks say about it?"
"My 'folks' will not object. I am my own master, Miss Jerusha. I have
written to tell my mother, and I know she will not disapprove of any
step I see fit to take," said Richmond, composedly.
"Well, railly! And when is it a-goin' to come off?"
"What?"
"Why, the weddin', to be sure."
"Oh, there is no use for unnecessary delay. I spoke to Georgia on the
subject, and proposed Tuesday fortnight; but she seems to think that too
soon--in fact, was preposterous enough to propose waiting until next
year. Of course, I wouldn't listen a moment to any such proposition."
"Of course not," said Miss Jerusha, decidedly, thinking of her brown
silk, which she had no notion of waiting for so long.
"Do _you_ think Tuesday fortnight too soon?"
"Gracious, no! I can get the two dressmakers, and have everything ready
before that, quite easy."
"Thank you, Miss Jerusha," said Richmond, gratefully; "and as suitable
things cannot be obtained here, one of the dressmakers you mention will
go with Mrs. Hamm to the city and procure a bridal outfit for my
peerless Georgia. Neither shall you, my dear, kind friend, be forgotten;
and, believe me, I shall endeavor to reward you for all your kindness to
my future bride. And now for my plans. Immediately after we are married
we depart for New York, and remain for some time with my mother there.
We will return here and remain until the fall, when we will depart for
Washington, and there spend the winter. Next year we will probably
travel on the Continent, and after that--sufficient unto the day is the
evil thereof," he said, breaking off into a smile. "And now, if you
like, you may call Georgia; we must reason her out of this absurd notion
of postponing our marriage. I count upon your help, Miss Jerusha."
So Georgia was called, and came down, looking a great deal more lovely,
if less brilliant, in her girlish blushes, and smiles, and shy timidity
than she had ever been when arrayed in her haughty pride. And Miss
Jerusha attacked and overwhelmed her with a perfect storm of
contemptuous speeches at the notion of putting off her marriage, quite
sneering at the idea of such a thing, and Richmond looked so pleading
that Georgia, half laughing, and half crying, and wholly against her
will, was forced, in self-defense, to strike her colors, and surrender.
She was so happy now, so deeply, intensely happy, that she shrank from
the idea of disturbing it by the bustle and fuss that must come, and she
looked forward shrinkingly, almost in terror, to the time when she would
be a wife, even though it were _his_. But the promise was given, and
Georgia's promises were never retracted, and so the matter was settled.
That afternoon the stately little housekeeper at Richmond House was told
she was to have a mistress. Mrs. Hamm was altogether too well-bred, and
too much of a lady, to be surprised at anything in this world; yet, when
she heard her young master was going to marry a village girl, a slight,
a very slight, smile of contempt was concealed behind her delicate
lace-bordered handkerchief, but she quietly bowed, and professed her
willingness to start for New York at any moment. And the very next
morning, accompanied by the dressmaker Miss Jerusha had spoken of, she
took her departure, with orders to spare no expense in procuring the
bridal outfit.
Never was there a more restless, eccentric, tormenting bride-elect than
Georgia. From being positively wild, she became superlatively wildest,
and drove Miss Jerusha and Mr. Wildair daily to the verge of desperation
for the next two weeks. She laughed at him, fled from him, refused to
take a walk with him or sing to him, and made herself generally so
provoking, that Richmond vowed she was wearing him to a skeleton, and
threatened awful vengeance at some period fast forthcoming. And Georgia
would laugh the shrill elfish laugh of her childhood, and fly up to her
room, and lock herself in, and be invisible until he had gone.
Georgia wanted Emily to be her bride-maid, but when Emily heard that the
Rev. Mr. Barebones was to officiate on the occasion, she refused.
Georgia, who was not particular who performed the ceremony of "enslaving
her," as she called it, asked Richmond to allow Father Murray to unite
them; but, to her surprise, Richmond's brow darkened, and he positively
refused. Georgia was inclined to resent this at first; but then she
considered it might arise from conscientious scruples, and though she
had none of her own, yet she respected them in others, and so she
yielded, and Miss Becky Barebones, a gaunt damsel, whose looks were
faintly shadowed forth in her name, gladly consented to "stand up" with
her; while a young gentleman from the city, a brother lawyer of
Richmond's, was to perform the same office for him.
And so old Father Time, who jogs on unrestingly and never harries for
weddings or funerals, kept on his old road, and brought the bridal
morning at last. A lovely morning it was--a gorgeous, golden September
day, with hills, and river, and valleys all bathed in a golden haze;
just the sort of a day our tropical, wild-eyed bride liked.
At early morning all Burnfield was astir, and crowding toward the little
sea-side cot, to catch a glimpse of the elegant bridal carriage and
gayly decked horses, and, perhaps, be fortunate enough to obtain a peep
at the happy pair.
Inside the cottage all was bustle and excitement. Out in the kitchen (to
begin at the beginning, like the writer of the "House that Jack Built,")
Fly had been ignominiously deposed, to make way for the accomplished
cook from Richmond House, who for the past week had been concentrating
his stupendous intellect on the bridal breakfast, and had brought that
_dejeuner_ to a state of perfection such as the eye, nor heart, nor
palate of man had ever conceived before. There were also the two
fascinating young footmen, making themselves generally useful with a
sort of lofty condescension and dignified contempt for everything about
them, except when they met the withering eye of Miss Jerusha, and then
they wilted down, and felt themselves dwindling down to about five
inches high. There was Mrs. Hamm, in black velvet, nothing less, and so
stately, and so politely dignified, that the English language is utterly
unable to do justice to her grandeur. There was Miss Jerusha, in
rustling brown satin, her wildest dreams realized, perfectly awful in
its glittering folds, enough to strike terror into the heart of a
Zouave, with a flashing ruby brooch, and a miraculous combination of
lace and ribbons on her head, all broke out in a fiery eruption of
flaring red flowers, which were in violent contrast to her
complexion--that being, as the reader is already aware, decidedly, and
without compromise, yellow. And, lastly, there were our two friends, the
Betsey Periwinkles, looking very much astonished, as well they might, at
the sudden change that had taken place around them; and, evidently
considering themselves just as good as anybody there, they kept poking
themselves in the way, and tripping up the company generally, and the
two fascinating footmen in particular, invoking from those nice
individuals "curses, not loud but deep." There was the Rev. Mr.
Barebones, gaunt and grim in his piety; and the Rev. Mrs. Barebones, a
severe female, with a hard jaw and stony eye; and there was Mrs.
Tolduso, whom Miss Jerusha admitted just to dazzle with her brown satin;
and there were ever so many other people, until it became a matter of
doubt whether the bridal party would have room to squeeze through.
In the hall stood Richmond Wildair, looking very handsome and very happy
indeed, while he waited for Georgia to descend. Mr. Curtis, his friend,
resplendent in white vest and kids, lounged against the staircase,
caressing his mustache, and inwardly raging that that flagstaff of a
Becky Barebones was to be his _vis-a-vis_, instead of sweet, blooming
little Emily Murray.
Up stairs in her "maiden bower" was our Georgia, under the hands of
Emily, and Becky, and one of the spruce dressmakers, being "arrayed for
the sacrifice," as she persisted in calling it. And if Georgia Darrell,
in her plain cottage dress, was beautiful, the same Georgia in her white
silk, frosted with seed pearls, enveloped in a mist-like lace vail, and
bearing an orange wreath of flashing jewels on her regal head, was
bewildering, dazzling! There was a wild, glittering light in her
splendid oriental eyes, and a crimson pulse kept beating in and out like
an inward flame on her dark cheek, that bespoke anything but the calm,
perfect peace and joy of a "blessed bride."
Was it a vague, shadowy terror of the new life before her? Was it
distrust of him, distrust of herself, or a nameless fear of the changes
time must bring? She did not know, she could not tell; but there was a
dread, a horror of she knew not what overshadowing her like a cloud. She
tried to shake it off, but in vain; she strove to strangle it at its
birth, but it evaded her grasp, and loomed up a huge misshapen thing
between her mirror and the shining beautiful image in its snowy robes
there revealed.
Little Emily Murray, quite enchanting in a cloud of white muslin, and no
end of blue ribbons, kept fleeting about, hardly knowing whether to
laugh or cry, and alternately doing both. She was so glad Georgia was
going to be a great lady, and so sorry for losing the friend she loved
that it was hard to say whether the laughing or crying had the best of
it. And there, on the other side, stood Miss Barebones, as stiff and
upright as a stove-pipe, in a crisp rattling white dress and
frozen-looking white lilies and petrified rosebuds in her wiry yellow
hair, with all the piety and grimness of many generations of Barebones
concentrated in her.
And now all is ready, and, "with a smile on her lip and a tear in her
eye," Emily puts her arm around Georgia's waist and turns to lead her
down stairs, where her lover so impatiently awaits the rising of his
day-star, and Miss Barebones and the trim little dressmaker follow. And
Georgia involuntarily holds her breath, and lays her hand on her breast
to still her high heart-beating that can almost be heard, and goes down
and finds herself face to face with the future lord of her destiny. And
then Emily kisses and relinquishes her, and she looks up with the old
defiant look he knows so well in his handsome young face, and he smiles
and whispers something, and draws her arm within his and turns to go in.
And then Mr. Curtis swallows a grimace, and offers his arm to Miss
Barebones, and that wise maiden gingerly lays the tips of her white kid
glove on his broadcloth sleeve, and with a face of awful solemnity is
led in, and the ceremony commences. And all through it Georgia stands
with her eyes burning into the floor, and the red spot coming and going
with every breath on her cheek, and hardly realizes that it has
commenced until it is all over, and she hears, "What God hath joined
together let no man put asunder." And then there is crowding around and
a great deal of unnecessary kissing done, and Emily and Miss Jerusha are
crying, and Mr. Curtis and Mr. Barebones, and the rest are shaking hands
and calling her "Mrs. Wildair," and then, with a shock and a thrill,
Georgia realizes she is married.
Georgia Darrell is no more; the free, wild, unfettered Georgia Darrell
has passed away forever, and Georgia Wildair is unfettered no longer;
she has a master, for she has just vowed to obey Richmond Wildair until
"death doth them part." And her heart gives a great bound, and then is
still, as she lifts her eyes in a strange fear to his face, and sees him
standing beside her smiling and happy, and looking down on her so
proudly and fondly. And Georgia draws a long breath, and wonders if
other brides feel as she does, and then she tries to smile, and reply
to their congratulations, and the strange feeling gradually passes
away, and she becomes her own bright, sparkling self once more.
And now they are all sitting down to breakfast, and there is a hum of
voices, and rattling of knives and forks, and a clatter of plates, and
peals of laughter, and everybody looks happy and animated, and Miss
Jerusha and Emily dry their tears and laugh too, and the fascinating
footmen perform the impossibility of being in two or three places at
once, and speeches are made, and toasts are drank, and Mr. Wildair gets
up and replies to them, and thanks them for himself and his wife. His
wife! How strange that sounds to Georgia. Then she sees through it all,
and laughs and wonders at herself for laughing; and Mr. Curtis, sitting
between Miss Barebones and Emily Murray, totally neglects the former and
tries to be very irresistible, indeed, with the latter, and Emily laughs
at all his pretty speeches, and doesn't seem the least embarrassed in
the world, and Miss Barebones grows sourer and sourer until her look
would have turned milk to vinegar; but nobody seems to mind her much.
She notices, too, that Mr. Barebones perceptibly thaws out under the
influence of sundry glasses of champagne, to that extent that before
breakfast is over he refers to the time when he first met the "partner
of his buzzum," as he styles Mrs. B., and shed tears over it. And Mrs.
Hamm, in her black velvet and black lace mits, hides a sneer in her
coffee cup at him, or at them all, and Miss Jerusha is looking at her
with so much real tenderness in her eye that Georgia feels a pang of
remorse as she thinks how ungrateful she has been, and how much Miss
Jerusha has done for her. And then she thinks of her mother, and her
brother Warren--her dear brother Warren--of whose fate she knows
nothing, and of Charley Wildair and his unknown crime, and heaves a sigh
to their memory. And then Betsey Periwinkle the second comes purring
round her, and Georgia lifts her up and kisses the beauty spot on her
forehead, and a bright tear is shining there when she lifts her head
again, and Betsey purrs and blinks her round staring eyes
affectionately, and then everybody is standing up, and Mr. Barebones,
hiccoughing very much, is saying grace, and then she is going up to her
room and finds herself alone with Miss Jerusha and Emily, who are taking
off her bridal robes and putting on her traveling-dress.
And there she is all dressed for her journey, and Miss Jerusha holds her
in her arms, and is kissing her, and sobbing as if her heart would
break; and little Emily is sobbing, too, and Georgia feels a dreary,
aching pain at her heart, at the thought of leaving her forever--for
though she is coming back, they can never be the same to one another
again in this world that they are now--but her eyes are dry. And then
Miss Jerusha kisses her for the last time, and blesses her, and lets her
go, and she follows her down stairs, where Richmond awaits her, to lead
her to the carriage. And then there is more shaking of hands, until
Georgia's arm aches, and a great deal of good-bying and some more female
kissing, and then she takes her husband's arm and walks down the
graveled walk to the carriage. And on the way she wonders what kind of a
person Mrs. Wildair, Richmond's mother, may be, and whether she will
like her new daughter, and whether that daughter will like her. And now
she is sitting in the carriage, waving a last adieu, and the carriage
starts off, and she springs forward and looks after the cottage until it
is out of sight. And then she falls back in her seat and covers her
face with her hands, with a vague sense of some great loss. But that
picture she never forgets, of the little vine-wreathed cottage, with its
crowd of faces gazing after her, and Miss Jerusha and little Emily
crying at the gate. How she remembers it in after days--in those dark,
dreadful days, the shadow of whose coming darkness even then was upon
her!
They are whirling away, and away. She takes her hands from her face and
looks up. They are flying through Burnfield now, and she catches a
glimpse of the stately arches and carved gables of Richmond House, her
future home, and then that, too, disappears. They are at the station, in
the cars, with a crowd of others, but she neither sees nor cares for
their curious scrutiny now. The locomotive shrieks, the bell rings, and
away and away they fly. She falls back in her seat, and Georgia has left
the home of her childhood forever.