A MAY-DAY MARRIAGE.
Be not amazed at life. ’Tis still
The mode of God with His elect:
Their hopes exactly to fulfil,
In times and ways they least expect.
Who marry as they choose, and choose
Not as they ought, they mock the priest,
And leaving out obedience, lose
The finest flavor of the feast.—ALFORD.
The wedding-day of Dick and Anna was fixed for the fifteenth of May.
Then came consultations about the details of the festival.
Should it _be_ a festival?
Anna thought not. Her marriage had been so often appointed and so often
arrested that she said it would be best taste now to get it over as
quietly as possible. She and her betrothed, attended only by General
Lyon and Drusilla, would go to church and be married in their
traveling-dresses, and start immediately on the wedding tour. Such was
Anna’s plan.
But General Lyon would not hear of such a thing. What! marry off his
granddaughter and heiress to his nephew in such a semi-clandestine
manner, as if he were half-ashamed of the proceeding? What, disappoint
all the young people in the neighborhood, who had every right to expect
a festival on the marriage of Miss Lyon, of Old Lyon Hall? Not while
_he_ was head of the family! Anna should be married at home. And there
should be such a celebration of the nuptials as the lads and lasses
around the hall should remember to the latest day of their lives.
Anna urged that in the middle of May the weather would be too warm for a
ball.
General Lyon agreed that it would; but added that the weather would be
delightful for a festival in the open air on the beautiful grounds of
the manor; it would be neither too warm nor too cold, but exactly right
for dancing on the lawn. The marriage ceremony he said should be
performed in the great drawing-room, the wedding breakfast should be
laid in the long dining-room; but the music and dancing should be
enjoyed in the open air.
Anna laughingly appealed to Dick and to Drusilla to take her part
against this decision of the General.
But Drusilla and Dick declined to interfere and remained conscientiously
neutral.
So the will of the General carried the day.
This obstinacy of the old gentleman made it necessary that a great deal
of business should be done, and done at once, as the time was so short
to the wedding-day. Wedding cards must be printed and circulated. A new
trousseau must be prepared. A sumptuous breakfast must be devised.
Certain deeds must be executed.
In furtherance of these works, Dick first went up to Richmond to deal
with lawyers and engravers.
And soon after his departure General Lyon and Anna went to Washington to
negotiate with milliners and pastry cooks.
And Drusilla and her attendants remained in charge of Old Lyon Hall. She
had been affectionately invited to accompany Anna and the General, but,
though her baby was now nearly six months old, she declined either to
leave him at home or to take him on so long and rough a journey. She
thought that her boy and herself were both better in the country. The
General agreed with her, and so she was left in charge of the premises.
But though she sadly missed her friendly Anna, and fatherly old General,
and gay Dick, yet her life when left at Old Lyon Hall was very different
from what it had been when she was alone at Cedarwood.
Here in the old hall she was no longer lonesome and dreary. She had a
plenty of company and of interesting employment. She had her darling boy
and her attentive servants; and she had visitors from the neighborhood
almost every day; for young Mrs. Alexander Lyon was growing in favor
with the whole neighborhood.
Here she was not obliged to live a secret life. She would drive out in
her carriage, with her baby and nurse, whenever she pleased. She could
ride out on horseback attended by her young groom Leo, whenever she
liked. She could return the calls of her country neighbors; she could
accept their invitations to dinner or to tea, and she could receive and
entertain them at home.
Here she enjoyed the largest liberty. General Lyon and Anna had both
assured her that she would only make them happier by behaving in all
respects as a daughter of the house, and using it as if it were her own.
And Drusilla, convinced of their perfect sincerity, took them at their
word.
Her sweet heart and social spirit took pleasure in this frequent
intercourse with the country ladies and their little children. She liked
to have a whole family, mother, children and nurses, to spend a long day
with her at home; and almost as well she liked to take her boy and nurse
and go and pass a whole day at the country house of some friend.
It was gratifying to her also, when her nearest neighbors, the Seymours,
came over and spent an evening with her. There were but three persons in
this family—old Colonel and Mrs. Seymour, and their youngest daughter
Annie, or Nanny, as they called her.
Old Colonel Seymour was a passionate lover of music, and it was the one
grievance of his life that his daughter Nanny had no voice, and no ear,
and never could learn to sing or play on the piano. He could never
understand it, he said, how a girl born with the usual allowance of
senses, with a quick pair of ears, and a nimble tongue, and who could
hear as fast and talk much faster than anybody he ever saw, should
pretend that she did not know one tune from another! She that was
neither deaf, nor dumb, nor an idiot! It was an incomprehensible fact,
but it was no less a great personal injury to himself.
But his one great delight was to come over to Old Lyon Hall in the
evening, and hear Drusilla sing and play. Now, we know that her greatest
gift was music. She sang with a passion and power equalled by no one in
private circles, and excelled by but few in professional life. Honest
Colonel Seymour had never in all his earthly experience had the
privilege of hearing a great public singer. Therefore the performances
of Drusilla affected, I might even say, overwhelmed him or transported
him, with equal wonder and delight.
And Drusilla exerted herself hour after hour, and evening after evening,
to please him, and took as much pleasure herself in the intense
appreciation of her one single old adorer, as ever a great prima donna
did in the applause of a whole world.
And the honest old gentleman’s head was fairly turned with admiration
and gratitude.
“To think,” he said, as he walked home with his wife and daughter, one
moonlight night, after spending an evening at Old Lyon Hall, “to think
of having such a voice as that in the neighborhood! to think of being
able to hear it several times a week, for the asking! Oh! it ought,
indeed it ought, to raise the price of real estate in this locality! And
it would do it, too, if people really could feel what good music is!”
“Papa,” laughed the old wife, “you are an old gander. And if you were
not gray and bald, and very good, I should be jealous.”
“Oh, but mother, such strains! Oh, my Heavens, such divine strains!” he
exclaimed, catching his breath in ecstasy.
“What will you do when your St. Cecilia leaves the neighborhood?”
inquired his daughter.
“Leave the neighborhood! is she going to do that?” gasped the
music-maniac.
“They are all going to Washington, next winter, she says.”
“Then we’ll—go too. I say, mother, _one_ season in town, would not be
amiss for Nanny; and so we can take her there next winter; and then I
may swim and soar in celestial sounds every evening!”
“Papa, now you are too provoking, and _I_ am jealous,” said Nanny. “For
my part, I don’t like music any more than I do any other sort of racket.
And I do think if there is one nuisance worse than another, it is a
singing and playing lunatic, filling the whole room full of shrieks and
crashes, just as if a thousand housemaids were smashing a million of
dishes, and squalling together over the catastrophe!”
“Oh, child, child, what a misfortune for you to have been born deaf, as
to your divine ears!” answered the old gentleman in tones of deep and
sincere pity and regret.
“I’m sure, papa, I often wish I had been born deaf as to my bodily ears!
I mean, when your divinity is shrieking and thrashing, and raising such
a hullabaloo that I can’t hear myself speak!” said Nanny.
“Ah! ‘_that_ accounts for the milk in the cocoanut!’ You can’t hear
yourself speak, and you prefer the sound of your own sweet voice to the
music of the spheres!”
“If the music of the spheres is _that_ sort of noise, I certainly do,
papa.”
“Thank Goodness, here we are at our own gate! And now we will drop the
subject of music for the rest of the evening—Kitty, was the missing
turkey-gobbler found?” inquired Mrs. Seymour of the girl who came to
open the door.
“Yes’m.”
“And did the maids finish their task of carding?”
“Yes’m.”
“And did you keep the fire up in my room?”
“Yes’m.”
“That is right. The evenings are real chilly and damp for the time of
year. Come in.”
And the careful wife and mother led the way into the house.
Richard Hammond was the first of the absentees to return to Old Lyon
Hall. He came one afternoon, bringing with him a large packet of
handsomely engraved wedding cards and a bundle of documents, all of
which he placed in Drusilla’s charge to be delivered to General Lyon on
the General’s arrival. Then he took leave of Drusilla, and went over to
Hammond House to wait there until the return of his uncle and his
betrothed.
Two days afterwards, General Lyon and Anna came home.
Anna was attended by a pair of dressmakers, and enriched with no end of
finery.
General Lyon was followed by a French cook and his apprentices.
Richard Hammond came over to meet them, and consult over the latest
improvements of the bridal programme.
And now the business of preparation was accelerated.
First, the wedding cards were sent out far and near. And the
neighborhood, which was not prepared for the surprise, was electrified.
Next the dressmakers, with every skilful needle-woman among the
housemaids to help them, were set to work on the trousseau. Of the many
dresses that had been made up for Anna’s marriage, the last November,
most had never been worn and were now in their newest gloss; but they
were not trimmed in the newest fashion, nor were they all suitable for
summer wear; so those first dresses, had to be altered and newly
trimmed, and many new dresses suitable for the season had to be made up.
This kept all the feminine hands in the house very busy for a week.
Drusilla’s skill, and taste, and willingness to help made her an
invaluable assistant.
Only a few days before the one set for the wedding was the new trousseau
finished and packed up, and the new wedding dress and traveling dress
completed and laid out.
And now carpenters and upholsterers were brought down from town, and the
house and grounds were fitted up and decorated for the happy occasion.
The French cook and his assistants had the kitchen, the pantry, the
cellar, the plate-closet, and the long dining-room, to themselves, and
were up to their linen caps in business.
“Well, it is a notable blessing that one cannot be bothered with this
sort of thing very often, as one is not likely to be married more than
half a dozen times in one’s life,” said Anna, who was, or affected to
be, very much bored by all this bustle.
“Oh, I hope to Heaven, Anna, we may neither of us ever be married but
once! I trust in the Lord, Anna, that we may live together to keep our
golden wedding-day half a century hence,” answered Dick, very devoutly.
For honest Dick was what the Widow Bedot would have called very much
“solemnized” by the impending crisis in his fate.
“Blessed is the bride that the sun shines on.” The day of days came at
last—the auspicious fifteenth of May—clear, bright, warm, genial, with a
light breeze playing a lively tune, to which all the green leaves danced
in glee. All the flowers bloomed to decorate the scene—all the birds
turned out to sing their congratulations! Never was seen such a rosery
on the lawn; never was heard such a concert in the groves.
The brass band that arrived upon the scene as early as ten o’clock in
the morning, was quite a superfluity. Anna sent out and ordered the men
not to play until the birds should be silent. So they sat under the
shade of the great oak trees, and had ale served out to them, in which
they drank the health of the bridegroom and the bride, while they
watched the train of carriages that were constantly coming up, bringing
guests to the wedding feast. Such was the scene on the shaded, flowery
lawn.
Even more festive was the scene within the house.
All the windows of the great drawing-room were thrown open, letting in
all the sunshine and the cool breeze of this bright May day. The walls
were hung with festoons of fragrant flowers, and the large table in the
centre was loaded with the splendid wedding presents to the bride.
It would take up too much time to tell of all these presents. You will
find them fully described in the “_Valley Courier_” of that date. They
consisted of the usual sort of offerings for these occasions—“sets” of
diamonds, emeralds, rubies, pearls and other gems; “sets” of silver
plate; “sets” of fine lace, et cetera.
But we must not omit to mention Drusilla’s munificent offering to the
bride. It was also a “set,” a tea set of pure gold, whose exquisite
workmanship was even of more value than its costly material.
The appearance of the long dining-room, with the table laid for the
wedding breakfast, should have immortalized the French cook if he had
not been immortalized before. Here, also, all the windows were thrown
open to the light and air. It would never do, said “Monsieur le Chef,”
for people to be too warm while eating and drinking. Here, however, were
no natural flowers. Their powerful odors, said “Monsieur,” affected too
much the delicious aromas of the viands. But the walls were decorated
with artificial flowers, with paintings and gildings, and with mirrors
that multiplied the splendors of the scene a thousandfold, and opened
imaginary vistas into unending suites of splendid saloons on every side.
The breakfast table reached nearly the whole length of the long
dining-room, and was multiplied by the mirrored walls into innumerable
other tables on every hand. It was beautifully decorated and sumptuously
loaded; every variety of flesh, fish, and fowl that was in season,
dressed in the most delicate manner; every sort of rare and rich fruit
and vegetable; wonderful pastries, creams, and ices; crystallized
sweetmeats, cordials, wines, liquors, black and green teas, and coffee,
such as only a Frenchman can make, were among the good things displayed
to delight the palates of the guests.
On the second floor, the bed-chambers and dressing-rooms wore a gay and
festive aspect. There also the windows were thrown open to the light and
air, and shaded only by the beautiful green trees and flowering vines
without. The beds and dressing-tables were freshly covered with
snow-white drapery; and on each toilet-table were laid new ivory-handled
brushes and combs, silver flagons of rare perfumery, porcelain pots of
pomade; and about each room were every convenience, comfort and luxury
that a guest could possibly require,—all provided by a thoughtful
hospitality that was careful and considerate in its minutest details.
Early in the day these light, fragrant, and delightful chambers were
filled with bevies of fair girls, who were giving the last effective
touches to their own and to each other’s gay festal dresses, and whose
soft talk and silvery laughter made music all around.
They had need to hurry, too; for the hour fixed for the ceremony was
high noon, and they must all be ready and in their places to see it.
The bride’s chamber was the scene of the most interesting passages.
There sat the bride, surrounded by her bride’s-maids, and lovingly
attended by Drusilla.
Anna’s dress was a rich white honiton lace robe over a white silk skirt,
made with a low bodice and short sleeves, both edged with narrow lace.
On her neck and arms she wore a necklace and bracelets of diamonds; on
her hair the wreath of orange blossoms; over her head and shoulders the
deep bridal veil of lace to match her robe; on her delicate hands kid
gloves as white as snow and soft as down. Her six bride’s-maids were all
dressed in white tulle, with wreaths of white moss-rose buds on their
hair, and veils of white tulle.
On this auspicious day Drusilla, for the first time, entirely laid aside
her mourning. She looked beautiful and blooming, in a dress of
rose-colored moire-antique, made with a low bodice and short sleeves,
trimmed with point lace. On her neck and arms she wore a necklace and
bracelets of pearls; on her young matronly brow a wreath of half-open
blush roses; on her bosom a bouquet of the same flowers.
For this day also her little Leonard was dressed in gala robes, and sent
out upon the lawn in the arms of his nurse where he remained for the
present, gazing with eyes wide open with astonishment and delight on the
wonderful pageantry around him.
The marriage hour struck at length.
The last loitering guests heard it, and hurried down-stairs to the
drawing-room which was already crowded.
The bride and her maidens heard it, and began to smooth out the folds of
their dresses, or touch the edges of their hair, and steal furtive
glances at the mirrors to see that all was right before leaving the
chamber and facing the hundreds of eyes in the drawing-room below.
Punctually as the last stroke of twelve sounded, the bridegroom and his
attendants came to the door.
The procession was formed in the usual manner and passed down-stairs.
Two gentlemen friends who took upon themselves the office of marshals,
opened a way through the crowd for the bridal cortège to enter.
On the rug stood the Rev. Dr. Barber, in his surplice, just as he had
stood some six months before; but all the rest was changed now. That was
a dark and stormy November night. This was a bright and beautiful May
day.
The bridal party, with due decorum, took their places before the
officiating minister. There was no let or hindrance now. The face of the
blooming bride was as clearly seen as that of the happy bridegroom. Both
parties responded clearly and distinctly to the questions of the
clergyman. General Lyon, with smiling lips, but moist eyes, gave the
bride away. And the ceremony proceeded and ended amid the prayers and
blessings of the whole company.
Kisses and congratulations, tears and smiles followed and took up twice
as much time as the preceding solemnity had.
Then, at length the company, headed by the two marshals, marched off to
the breakfast room. The ladies were handed to the table, and the
gentlemen waited in duteous attendance behind them.
And the feast began.
These ladies did not care so much about the fish, flesh, or fowl,
delicately dressed as these edibles might be. So they were left almost
untouched, for the benefit of the gentlemen who might come after. But
the beautiful pyramids of pound cake, the snowy alps of frosted cream,
the glittering glaciers of quivering jelly, the icebergs of frozen
custard, the temples of crystallized sweetmeats and groves of sugared
fruits were quickly demolished.
The bride’s cake was cut up and distributed; the piece containing the
prophetic ring falling to the lot of Nanny Seymour.
At the right moment the first groomsman arose and made a speech, which
was heartily cheered, and proposed the health of—
“The bride and bridegroom,” which was honored with bumpers of “CLIQUOT.”
Then the bridegroom arose and returned thanks in another speech, which
was also cheered; and he proposed the health of—
“Our honored host and relative, the venerable General Lyon,” which was
drank by all standing.
Then the veteran got up and in a few earnest words expressed his
appreciation of the compliment and his esteem for his guests, and then
he gave somebody else’s health.
Colonel Seymour arose and proposed the health of—
“Our beautiful young friend, Mrs. Alexander Lyon.” And it was honored
with enthusiasm.
Then, some unlucky idiot had the mishap to rise and name—
“_Mr._ Alexander Lyon,” tearfully adding—“‘Though lost to sight, to
memory dear.’”
And a panic fell upon all that part of the company who knew or suspected
the state of the case with that interesting absentee.
But old General Lyon quickly dispelled the panic. Would that true
gentleman suffer Drusilla’s feelings to be wounded? No, indeed. He was
the very first to fill his glass and rise to his feet. His example was
followed by all present. And unworthy Alick’s health was drank with the
rest. And while the brave old man honored the toast with his lips, he
prayed in his heart for the prodigal’s reformation and return.
And oh! how Drusilla understood and loved and thanked him!
Other speeches were made and other toasts drank.
Then tea and coffee were handed around.
And one set of feasters gave way to another, like the flies in the fable
of old.
The rising set immediately went out upon the lawn, where the brass band
was in full play on their stand, and where quadrilles were performed
upon the greensward.
The feasting in the house and the music and dancing on the lawn was kept
up the whole of that bright May day, even to the going down of the sun.
Never before had the youth of the neighborhood had such a surfeit of
frolicking. They voted that a marriage in May weather, and by daylight,
with unlimited dance music, greensward, sunshine and sweetmeats, was the
most delightful thing in the world.
In the very height of the festivities, at about four o’clock in the
afternoon, the bride, attended by Drusilla, slipped quietly away to her
own chamber and changed her bridal robes and veil, for a traveling habit
of silver gray Irish poplin, and a bonnet of gray drawn silk.
The traveling carriage had been quietly drawn up to the door where
Richard Hammond waited to take away his bride, and General Lyon stood to
bid farewell to his child.
When Anna was ready to go down, she turned and threw her arms around
Drusilla’s neck and burst into tears.
“Oh, Drusa!” she sobbed, “be good to my dear grandfather. Oh! love him,
Drusa, for my sake! I was all he had left, and it must be so hard to
give me up! Oh, Drusa, love him and pet him. He is old and almost
childless. When I am gone, put little Leonard in his arms; it will
comfort him; and stay with him as much as you can. It is so sad to be
left alone in old age. But I know, my dear, you will do all you can to
console him without my asking you.”
“Indeed I will, dear Anna,” said Drusilla, through her falling tears.
“I will not be gone long. I shall be back in three weeks at farthest. I
do not like to leave him at his age. He is past seventy. His time may be
short on earth. How can I tell? That was the reason why I would not go
to Europe for my wedding tour. But oh, Drusilla, I did not know how much
I loved my dear grandfather until this day. And to think that in the
course of nature I _must_ lose him some day, and may lose him soon,”
said Anna, weeping afresh.
“My darling Anna, your grandfather is a very strong and hale old man;
his habits are regular and temperate, and his life quiet and wholesome.
He is likely to live twenty or thirty years longer,” answered Drusilla,
cheerily.
“Heaven grant it,” fervently breathed Anna.
And then she turned and went down-stairs, followed by Drusilla.
“Good-by, my darling. I will kiss you here. I must save the last one for
my dear grandfather,” said Anna, embracing her friend at the foot of the
stairs.
“Good-by, and Heaven bless you!” responded Drusilla, heartily.
Anna went forward to General Lyon, who took her in his arms, and
smiling, kissed and blessed her. And his last words, as he gave her into
the charge of her husband, were cheerful:
“You will have a delightful run by moonlight up the bay, my dear,” he
said.
Anna, striving to keep back her tears, let Dick lead her to the
carriage, and place her in it. He immediately followed, and seated
himself by her side. Old Jacob cracked his whip, and the horses started.
So quickly and quietly had this little scene passed, that the carriage
was bowling along the avenue before the company on the lawn suspected
what was being done.
Then, eager whispers of:
“The bride is going! the bride is going!” ran through the crowd.
And quadrilles were suddenly broken up, and dancers came flocking to the
door, knowing that they were too late to bid her good-by, yet still
exclaiming to each other:
“The bride is going! the bride is going!”
“The bride is _gone_, my dear young friends,” said General Lyon, kindly,
“but she leaves me to make her adieus, and to pray you not to let her
departure interrupt your enjoyment. The bride and bridegroom have to
meet the Washington steamer that passes the Stormy Petrel landing at
about nine o’clock. Now, ‘on with the dance!’”
And the young folks immediately took the old gentleman at his word, and
the music struck up, and the dancing recommenced.
And so Anna and Dick departed for Washington city on their way to New
York.
Much discussion had been held on the subject of that marriage tour. Many
suggestions had been made. Europe had been mentioned. But Anna had
scouted _that_ idea.
“None but a lunatic,” she had said, “would ever think of taking a sea
voyage, and risking sea-sickness in the honeymoon.”
And for her part she positively declined putting Dick’s love to so
severe a test in the earliest days of their married life.
Such had been Anna’s outspoken objection to the trip to Europe. But her
secret objection was that it would take her too far and keep her too
long from her beloved and venerable grandfather. So at last it had been
settled to the satisfaction of all parties that they should make a tour
of the Northern cities. And now they had gone.
But the wedding guests remained. The music and the dancing were kept up
without flagging until the sun set, and the darkness and dampness of the
night had come on.
Then the two self-appointed “marshals of the day” took upon themselves
to pay and discharge the brass band.
The company soon followed the musicians, and old Lyon Hall was once more
left to peace and quietness.