THE BRIDAL.
’Twas Mabel’s wedding night, and in one of the upper rooms of Mr.
Livingstone’s house she stood awaiting the summons to the parlor. They
had arrayed her for the bridal; Mrs. Livingstone, Carrie, ’Lena, Anna,
and the seamstress, all had had something to do with her toilet, and
now they had left her for a time with him who was so soon to be her
husband. She knew—for they had told her—she was looking uncommonly
well. Her dress, of pure white satin, was singularly becoming; pearls
were interwoven in the heavy braids of her raven hair; the fleecy folds
of the rich veil, which fell like a cloud around her, swept the floor.
In her eye there was an unusual sparkle and on her cheek an unwonted
bloom.
Still Mabel was not happy. There was a heavy pain at her heart—a
foreboding of coming evil—and many an anxious glance she cast toward
the stern, silent man, who, with careless tread, walked up and down the
room, utterly regardless of her presence, and apparently absorbed in
bitter reflections. Once only had she ventured to speak, and then, in
childlike simplicity, she had asked him “how she looked.”
“Well enough,” was his answer, as, without raising his eyes, he
continued his walk.
The tears gathered in Mabel’s eyes—she could not help it; drop after
drop they came, falling upon the marble table, until John Jr., who saw
more than he pretended, came to her side, asking “why she wept.”
Mabel was beginning to be terribly afraid of him, and for a moment she
hesitated, but at length, summoning all her courage, she wound her arms
about his neck, and in low, earnest tones said, “Tell me truly, do you
wish to marry me?”
“And suppose I do not?” he asked, with the same stony composure.
Stepping backward, Mabel stood proudly erect before him, and answered,
“Then would I die rather than wed you!”
There was something in her appearance and attitude peculiarly
attractive to John Jr. Never in his life had he felt so much interested
in her, and drawing her toward him and placing his arm around her, he
said, gently, “Be calm, little Meb, you are nervous to-night. Of course
I wish you to be my wife, else I had not asked you. Are you satisfied?”
The joyous glance of the dark eyes lifted so confidingly to his, was a
sufficient answer, and as if conscious of the injustice he was about to
do her, John Jr. bent for an instant over her slight figure, mentally
resolving, that so far as in him lay he would be true to his trust.
There was a knock at the door, and Mrs. Livingstone herself looked in,
pale, anxious, and expectant. Mr. Douglass, who was among the invited
guests, had arrived, and _must_ have an interview with John Jr. ere the
ceremony. ’Twas in vain she attempted politely to waive his request. He
_would_ see him, and distracted with fear, she had at last conducted
him into the upper hall, and out upon an open veranda, where in the
moonlight he awaited the coming of the bridegroom, who, with some
curiosity, approached him, asking what he wanted.
“It may seem strange to you,” said Mr. Douglass, “that I insist upon
seeing you now, when another time might do as well, but I believe in
having a fair understanding all round.”
“Meddling old rascal!” exclaimed Mrs. Livingstone, who, of course, was
within hearing, bending her ears so as not to lose a word.
But in this she was thwarted, for drawing nearer to John Jr., Mr.
Douglass said, so low as to prevent her catching anything further, save
the sound of his voice:
“I do not accuse you of being at all mercenary, but such things have
been, and there has something come to my knowledge to-day, which I deem
it my duty to tell you, so that hereafter you can neither blame me nor
Mabel.”
“What is it?” asked John Jr., and Mr. Douglass replied, “To be brief,
then, Mabel’s large fortune is, with the exception of a few thousands,
of which I have charge, all swept away by the recent failure of the
Planters’ Bank, in which it was invested. I heard of it this morning,
and determined on telling you, knowing that if you loved her for
herself, it would make no difference, while if you loved her for her
money, it were far better to stop here.”
Nothing could have been further from John’s thoughts than a desire for
Mabel’s wealth, which, precious as it seemed in his mother’s eyes, was
valueless to him, and after a moment’s silence, in which he was
thinking what a rich disappointment it would be to his mother, who, he
knew, prized Mabel only for her money, he exclaimed, “Good, I’m glad of
it. I never sought Mabel’s hand for what there was in it, and I’m more
ready to marry her now than ever. But,” he added, as a sudden impulse
of good came over him, “She need not know it; it would trouble her
uselessly, and for the present we’ll keep it from her.”
John Jr. had always been a puzzle to Mr. Douglass, who by turns
censured and admired him, but now there was but one feeling in his
bosom toward him, and that was one of unbounded respect. With a warm
pressure of the hand he turned away, thinking, perchance, of his fair
young daughter, who, far away o’er the Atlantic waves, little dreamed
of the scene on which that summer moon was shining. As the conference
ended; Mrs. Livingstone, who had learned nothing, glided, from her
hiding-place, eagerly scanning her son’s face to see if there was aught
to justify her fears. But there was nothing, and with her heart beating
at its accustomed pace, she descended the stairs in time to meet
Durward, who, having reached Woodlawn that day, had not heard of
’Lena’s decision.
“This way, Marster Bellmont—upstars is the gentleman’s room,” said the
servant in attendance, and ascending the stairs, Durward met with Anna,
asking her for her cousin.
“In there—go in,” said Anna, pointing to a half-open door, and then
hurrying away to meet Malcolm, whose coming she had seen from the
window.
Hesitatingly, Durward approached the chamber indicated, and as his
knock met with no response, he ventured at last to enter unannounced
into the presence of ’Lena, whom he had not met since that
well-remembered night. Tastefully attired for the wedding in a simple
white muslin, she sat upon a little stool with her face buried in the
cushions of the sofa. She had heard his voice in the lower hall, and
knowing she must soon meet him, she had for a moment abandoned herself
to the tumult of bitter thoughts, which came sweeping over her in that
trying hour. She was weeping—he knew that by the trembling of her
body—and for an instant everything was forgotten.
Advancing softly toward her, he was about to lay his hand upon those
clustering curls which fell unheeded around her, when the thought that
from among them had been cut the hated tress which his mother had cast
into the flames, arrested his hand, and he was himself again. Forcing
down his emotion, he said, calmly, “Miss Rivers,” and starting quickly
to her feet, ’Lena demanded proudly what he would have, and why he was
there.
“Pardon me,” said he, as he marked her haughty bearing and glanced at
her dress, which was hardly in accordance with that of a bridesmaid; “I
supposed I was to be groomsman—am I mistaken?”
“So far as I am concerned you are, sir. I knew nothing of Mabel’s
writing to you, or I should have prevented it, for after what has
occurred, you cannot deem me weak enough to lend myself to such an
arrangement.”
And ’Lena walked out of the room, while Durward looked after her in
amazement, one moment admiring her spirit, and the next blaming Mabel
for not informing him how matters stood. “But there’s no help for it
now,” thought he, as he descended the stairs and made his way into the
parlor, whither ’Lena had preceded him.
And thus ended an interview of which ’Lena had thought so much, hoping
and praying that it might result in a reconciliation. But it was all
over now—the breach was wider than ever—with half-benumbed faculties
she leaned on the window, unconscious of the earnest desire he felt to
approach her, for there was about her a strange fascination which it
required all his power to resist.
When at last all was in readiness, a messenger was dispatched to John
Jr., who, without a word, offered his arm to Mabel, and descending the
broad staircase, they stood within the parlor in the spot which had
been assigned them. Once during the ceremony he raised his eyes,
encountering those of ’Lena, fixed upon him so reproachfully that with
a scowl he turned away. Mechanically he went through with his part of
the service, betraying no emotion whatever, until the solemn words
which made them one were uttered. Then, when it was over—when he was
bound to her forever—he seemed suddenly to awake from his apathy and
think of what he had done. Crowding around him, they came with words of
congratulation—all but ’Lena, who tarried behind, for she had none to
give. Wretched as she was herself, she pitied the frail young bride,
whose half-joyous, half-timid glances toward the frigid bridegroom,
showed that already was she sipping from the bitter cup whose very
dregs she was destined to drain.
In the recess of a window near to John Jr., Mr. Douglass and Durward
stood, speaking together of Nellie, and though John shrank from the
sound of her name, his hearing faculties seemed unusually sharpened,
and he lost not a word of what they were saying.
“So Nellie is coming home in the autumn, I am told,” said Durward, “and
I am glad of it, for I miss her much. But what is it about Mr. Wilbur’s
marriage. Wasn’t it rather unexpected?”
“No, not very. Nellie knew before she went that he was engaged to Miss
Allen, but at his sister’s request she kept it still. He found her at a
boarding-school in Montreal, several years ago.”
“Will they remain in Europe?”
“For a time, at least, until Mary is better—but Nellie comes home with
some friends from New Haven, whom she met in Paris;” then in a low tone
Mr. Douglass added, “I almost dread the effect of this marriage upon
her, for I am positive she liked him better than anyone else.”
The little white, blue-veined hand which rested on that of John Jr.,
was suddenly pressed so spasmodically, that Mabel looked up inquiringly
in the face which had no thought for her, for Mr. Douglass’s words had
fallen upon him like a thunderbolt, crushing him to the earth, and for
a moment rendering him powerless. Instantly he comprehended it all. He
had deceived himself, and by his impetuous haste lost all that he held
most dear on earth. There was a cry of faintness, a grasping at empty
space to keep from falling, and then forth into the open air they led
the half-fainting man, followed by his frightened bride, who tenderly
bathed his damp, cold brow, unmindful how he shrank from her,
shuddering as he felt the touch of her soft hand, and motioning her
aside when she stooped to part from his forehead the heavy locks of his
hair.
That night, the pale starlight of another hemisphere kept watch over a
gentle girl, who ’neath the blue skies of sunny France, dreamed of her
distant home across the ocean wave; of the gray-haired man, who, with
every morning light and evening shade, blessed her as his child; of
another, whose image was ever present with her, whom from her childhood
she had loved, and whom neither time nor distance could efface from her
memory.
Later, and the silvery moon looked mournfully down upon the white,
haggard face and heavy bloodshot eye of him who counted each long,
dreary hour as it passed by, cursing the fate which had made him what
he was, and unjustly hardening his heart against his innocent
unsuspecting wife.