THE BRIDAL.
The week went by as all weeks will, whether laden with happiness
or pain, and the rosy light of the 15th morning broke over the New
England hills and over Collingwood, where the servants, headed by
Grace Atherton, were all astir, and busy with their preparations
for the festive scene of the coming night. Edith had made
strenuous efforts to have the party given up, sending message
after message to Richard, who, without any good reason for it, was
determined upon this one point, and always answered "No."
He had adhered to his resolution of staying in his room, and Edith
had not seen him since the eventful day when he had made the great
sacrifice. Arthur, however, was admitted daily to his presence,
always coming from those interviews with a sad look upon his face,
as if his happiness were not unmixed with pain. And still Richard
tried to be cheerful, talking but little of Edith, and appearing
so calm when he did mention her, that a casual observer would have
said he did not care.
In the village nothing was talked about save the change of
bridegrooms and the approaching wedding, and when the morning
came, others than the inmates of Collingwood were busy and
excited.
It was a glorious day, for leafy June had donned her gala robes
for the occasion, and every heart, save one, beat with joy, as the
sun rose higher and higher in the heavens, nearer and nearer the
appointed hour. Richard could not be glad, and that bridal day was
the saddest he had ever known. Not even Arthur was permitted to be
with him, and none save Victor saw the white, still anguish
creeping over his face as hour after hour went by, and from the
sounds without he knew that they had come whose business it was to
array his Edith in her bridal robes of costly satin and fleecy
lace. Then two more hours dragged heavily on, and going to his
window he felt that the sun was setting. It was time his own
toilet was commenced, and like a little child he submitted himself
to Victor, groaning occasionally as he heard the merry laugh of
the bridesmaids on the stairs, and remembered a time when he, too,
felt as light, as joyous as they, aye, and almost as young. He was
strangely altered now, and looked far older than his years, when,
with his wedding garments on, he sat in his arm-chair waiting for
the bride. He had sent Victor for her, knowing it would be better
to meet her once before the trying moment at the altar. Edith
obeyed the summons, and in all her wondrous beauty, which this
night shone forth resplendently, she came and stood before him,
saying softly,
"Richard, I am here."
There was no need to tell him that. He knew she was there, and
drawing her to his side, he said,
"I am glad that I am blind for once, for should I behold you as
you are, I could not give you up. Kneel down here, darling, and
let me feel how beautiful you are."
She knelt before him, and her tears fell fast as she felt his hand
moving slowly over her dress, pressing her round arms, pausing for
a moment upon her white neck, tarrying still longer upon her
glowing cheeks, and finally resting in mute blessing upon her
braids of hair, where the orange blossoms were.
"I must have a lock of my Birdie's hair, he said. "Let Arthur cut
it off to-night. It will be dearer to me than if 'tis later
severed, Leave it on the table, where Victor can find it, for,
Edith, when you return from your bridal tour, I shall be gone, and
I have sent for you because I would talk with you again ere we
part--it may be for years, and it may be forever."
"No, Richard, no," Edith sobbed. "You must not go away, I want you
here with us."
"It is best that I go for a while," he replied, "I am almost as
much at home in Europe as I am here, and Victor is anxious to see
Paris again. I have talked with Arthur about it, asking him to
live here while I am gone at least and take charge of my affairs.
He had thought to rebuild Grassy Spring, but finally consented to
defer it for a time and do as I desired. The negroes will be
pleased with this arrangement, and as Grace must wish to be rid of
them, they will come up here at once. I shall be happier knowing
that you are here; and when I feel that I can, I will come back
again, but do not let thoughts of the wanderer mar your bliss. I
have been thinking it over, Edith, and I see more and more that it
was right for me to release you. I do not censure you for aught
except that you did not tell me in the beginning. For this I did
blame you somewhat, but have forgiven you now."
"Oh. Richard, Richard," Edith burst out impetuously, "I never
loved you one half so much as since you gave me to Arthur, and I
have wanted to come and tell you so, but you would not let me."
He knew what kind of love she meant, and his heart beat just the
same as she continued,
"I wanted to tell you how sorry I am that I was ever cross to you,
and I have been many times since that night I promised to be
yours. I don't know what made me. I do not feel so now."
"I know what made you," Richard replied. "You did not love the
blind old man well enough to be his wife, and the feeling that you
must be, soured your disposition. Forgive me, darling, but I don't
believe I should have been happy with you after a time--not as
happy as Arthur, and it is this which helps me to bear it."
This was not very complimentary to Edith, but it comforted her
just as Richard meant it should, and made the future look
brighter. Richard was dearer to her now than he had over been, and
the tender, loving caress she gave him, when at last Arthur's
voice was heard without asking for admission was not feigned, for
she felt that he was the noblest, the best of men, and she told
him so, kissing again and again his face, and sighing to think how
white and wan it had grown within the last few weeks.
"Come, darling, we are waiting for you," Arthur said, as he
advanced into the room, and Richard put from his lap the beautiful
young girl around whose uncovered shoulders Arthur wrapped the
white merino cloak which was to shield her from the night air;
then bending over Richard, he said, "Heaven will bless you, even
as I do, for the peerless gift I have received from you, and
believe me, there is much of pain mingled with my joy--pain at
leaving you so desolate. I cannot tell you all I feel, but if a
lifetime of devotion can in the smallest degree repay you what I
owe, it shall be freely given. Now bless me once more, me and my--
bride."
Richard had arisen as Arthur was speaking, and at the word bride
he put out his hand as if to keep from falling, then steadying
that on Arthur's head and laying the other on Edith's he
whispered,
"To him who saved my life when he believed I was his rival I give
my singing bird, who for eleven years has been the blind man's
sunshine--give her freely, cheerfully, harboring no malice against
him who takes her. My Arthur and my precious Edith, I bless and
love you both."
The nerveless hands pressed heavily for a moment upon the two
bowed heads, and then Arthur led his bride away to where the
carriage waited.
The ceremony was appointed for half-past eight, but long before
that hour St. Luke's was filled to overflowing, some coming even
as early as six to secure seats most favorable to sight. And there
they waited, until the roll of wheels was heard and the clergyman
appeared in the chancel. Then seven hundred tired heads turned
simultaneously toward the door through which the party came, the
rich robes of the bride trailing upon the carpet and sweeping from
side to side as she moved up the middle aisle. But not upon her
did a single eye in all that vast assemblage linger, nor yet upon
the bridegroom, nor yet upon the bridesmaid, filing in one behind
the other, but upon the stooping figure which moved so slowly,
blind Richard groping his way to the altar, caring nothing for the
staring crowd, nothing for the sudden buzz as he came in, hearing
nothing but Victor's whispered words, "'twill soon be over."
Yes, it would soon be over. It was commencing now, the marriage
ceremony, and Richard listened in a kind of maze, until the
clergyman asked,
"Who giveth this woman to be married to this man?"
As Arthur had supposed this part would, of course, be omitted, no
arrangements had been made for it, and an awkward pause ensued,
while all eyes involuntarily turned upon the dark man now standing
up so tall, so erect, among that group of lighter, airier forms.
Like some frozen statue Richard stood, and the minister, thinking
he did not hear, repeated his demand. Slowly Richard moved
forward, and Grace, who was next to Edith, stepped aside as he
came near. Reverently he laid his hand on Edith's head, and said
aloud,
"I DO!"
Then the hand, sliding from her head rested on her shoulder, where
it lay all through that ceremony, and the weeping speculators
sitting near, heard distinctly the words whispered by the white
lips which dripped with the perspiration of this last dreadful
agony.
"I, Richard, take thee, Birdie, to be my wedded wife, to have and
to hold, from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer
for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish,
till death us do part, according to God's holy ordinance; and
thereto I plight thee my troth."
He said it every word, and when it was Edith's turn, he bent a
little forward, while his hand grasped her bare shoulder so firmly
as to leave a mark when she put Arthur's name where his should
have been, and the quivering lips moaned faintly,
"Don't Birdie, don't."
It was a strange bridal, more sad than joyous, for though in the
hearts of bride and groom there was perfect love for each other,
there were too many bitter memories crowding upon them both to
make it a moment of unmixed bliss--memories of Nina, who seemed to
stand by Arthur, blessing him in tones unheard, and a sadder, a
living memory of the poor blind man whose low wail, when all was
done, smote painfully on Edith's ear.
In a pew near to the altar Victor sat weeping like a child, and
when the last Amen was uttered, he sprang to his master's side and
said,
"Come with me. You cannot wish to go home with the bride."
Instantly the crowd divided right and left as Victor passed
through their midst, leading out into the open air the faint, sick
man, who, when they were alone, leaned his head meekly on his
faithful valet's arm, saying to him,
"You are all there is left to care for me now. Be good to me,
won't you?"
Victor answered with a clasp of his hand and hurried on, reaching
Collingwood before the bridal guests, who ere long came swarming
in like so many buzzing bees, congratulating the newly-wedded
pair, and looking curiously round for Richard. But Richard was not
there. He had borne all he could, and on his bed in his bolted
room he lay, scarcely giving a token of life save when the sounds
from the parlors reached his ear, when he would whisper,
"'Tis done. It is done."
One by one the hours went by, and then up the gravelled walk the
carriages rolled a second time to take the guests away. Hands were
shaken and good nights said. There was cloaking in the ladies'
room and impatient waiting in the gentlemen's; there was hurrying
down the stairs, through the hall, and out upon the piazza. There
was banging to of carriage doors, cracking of drivers' whips, and
racing down the road. There was a hasty gathering up of silver, a
closing of the shutters, a putting out of lamps, until at last
silence reigned over Collingwood, from whose windows only two
lights were gleaming. Arthur was alone with his bride, and Richard
alone with his God.