BRIDAL PREPARATIONS.
“Oh, yet we know that somehow good
Will be the final goal of ill,
To pangs of nature, sins of will,
Defects of doubt, and taints of blood:
“That nothing walks with aimless feet;
That not one life shall be destroyed,
Or cast as rubbish to the void,
When God hath made the pile complete:
“That not a worm is cloven in vain!
That not a worm, with vain desire,
Is shrivelled in a fruitless fire,
Or but subserves another’s gain.”—_Tennyson._
For the next several days, various notes of preparation as for some
joyful coming event, were sounded through the old hall. Servants, within
and without the house, pursued their avocations with unusual alacrity.
Waggons, with new furniture, arrived from a neighbouring town. In the
drawing-room and parlours, Mrs. Vivian directed the operations of the
upholsterers, in putting down new carpets, and hanging new curtains,
mirrors, &c. On the lawn, and in the garden, Rosalie’s taste presided at
the trimming and dressing of vines, shrubs, and flowers; while from one
to the other Colonel Ashley flew with a gay, busy interest. They were
all evidently playing the prelude to some great family festival. Mark
Sutherland remained unenlightened upon the subject, until, one morning,
as he walked out upon the piazza, to enjoy the early freshness of the
air, he was joined by the two lads, Henry and Richard, who, seizing each
a hand, eagerly inquired—
“Are you going to walk out this morning, before breakfast, Mr.
Sutherland?”
A nod and smile was his answer. He was depressed, despondent; he felt
that he had no part in all that was going on in that house—he felt
himself a stranger and an alien. Yet, too generous and benevolent to
damp the spirits of the lads by his own gloom, he smiled upon them
kindly, and when they asked permission to accompany him, he inquired,
gaily, how it happened that, while all were so very busy, in the house
and on the grounds, they alone should be idle.
“Oh, Mrs. Vivian drives us out of the way—even Rose won’t let us help
her, and father threatens to lock us up if we don’t keep quiet. We’re
driven about from post to pillar; and so we came out to walk with _you_.
Father and the rest of them making such a fuss! just as if nobody ever
got married before St. Gerald!” said Richard, contemptuously.
Another might have rebuked the boy for speaking so disrespectfully; but
Mark had little of the tutor spirit in him, after all. Rosalie was right
in that.
They left the piazza, crossed the lawn, and took the narrow path leading
along the course of the stream-the boys sometimes affectionately holding
his hands, and sometimes one or the other suddenly breaking away to
pluck and bring him an early violet, or eglantine rose, or to throw a
pebble in the stream, where some small fish had started up. At last—
“Making such a fuss!” again complained Richard; “making such a fuss, and
driving us about so that we boys can’t have a bit of peace of our lives!
Just as if _she_ were so much better than everybody else in the world,
that so much trouble must be taken for _her_.”
“Whom are you talking of?” inquired Mr. Sutherland, carelessly.
“Why the young lady St. Gerald is going to marry, to be sure!”
“Ah, then, Mr. Ashley is going to bring home a wife, is he?”
“Why, _of course_ he is!” said Henry, warming up. “He is going to be
married to a beautiful young lady, very rich, who was the belle of the
city last winter, they say!”
“Oh, she is as rich and as beautiful as a princess in a fairy book; and
that’s what all the fuss is about,” sneered Richard.
“Don’t you mind Rich, Mr. Sutherland; he can’t bear to have a word said
about anybody but himself!”
“As if I wanted anybody to bother themselves about me—I’m not so much
like _you_ as _that_,” retorted Richard. And thereupon arose the usual
squabble between the lads, until their tutor interfered and restored
order, if not good feeling.
They continued their walk for about a mile along the mountain stream,
and then returning by the back hills, got home at the breakfast hour.
Colonel Ashley, Mrs. Vivian, and Rose, were already seated at the
breakfast table, and engaged in eager conversation concerning the
approaching marriage of the heir of the house, when Mr. Sutherland and
the lads entered.
“Good morning, Mr. Sutherland. I hope you have had a pleasant
walk—though I would not be bothered with those troublesome boys, if I
were you; their company is quite enough in school hours, I should
think!” said the old gentleman, banteringly, as they took their places
at the board.
Mrs. Vivian and Rosalie smiled a salutation. And then the thread of the
conversation was taken up again, as if it had never been broken, and as
if Mark Sutherland was already familiar with the premises.
“Yes; St. Gerald writes me that the marriage will come off at an early
hour of the day, and that immediately after the ceremony they will set
out from Washington for this place. It will take them two days to reach
here, so that we may expect the party on Thursday evening. Rosalie, my
dear, bear that in mind, if you please, and be ready. Mrs. Vivian, my
dear lady, I do not want _two_ cups of chocolate at once—this, I think,
is intended for Mr. Sutherland!” said the old gentleman, passing the cup
to Mark.
Mrs. Vivian’s mind was certainly absent and distracted, as her manner
was disconcerted, and her beautiful countenance troubled.
After breakfast, the family party separated as usual. Colonel Ashley
went to his study, to write letters; Mrs. Vivian and Rosalie to their
work-table, in the parlour; and Mark to his school-room, with the boys.
The ladies had scarcely seated themselves, before a servant entered to
say that Mr. Robert Bloomfield had come with the ponies, and wished to
know if Miss Rosalie would ride.
“Don’t go, Rose; send an excuse. Cut this companionship firmly and
kindly off, at once and forever,” said Mrs. Vivian, in a low voice.
“Tell him, William, that I am very much obliged for his kindness, but I
cannot ride to-day,” said Rosalie, and, as the servant left the room,
she added, “That was a very unkind, ungrateful message, mamma.”
“Nonsense! What kindness or gratitude do you owe to Robert?” answered
the lady, with an apparent harshness of sentiment that her heart did not
by any means justify.
But, before Rosalie could reply again, Robert Bloomfield entered the
room, flushed and in haste; and, without even seeing Mrs. Vivian,
hurried up to the young girl, exclaiming—“Rose! Rose! how _is_ this?
Three times I have called here, as usual—as a matter of course—to ride
with you, and each time I have been met by your servant, and told—I
don’t know what, except that I could not see you, Rose. Dear Rosalie,
have I offended you in any way? Dear Rosalie, speak to me! Say! Say, are
you angry with me?” he persisted, seeing that she did not answer.
“Now, what on earth should I be angry with you about, Robert? Of course,
I am not angry.”
“You are offended with me. You are, I feel you are—I know you are; I see
it in your face, Rosalie,” he persisted, gazing on her troubled
countenance, and reading, but not aright, its sorrowful expression.
“Indeed, I am not displeased with you, dear Bob. How could I possibly
be, when you never in your life gave me cause for any other feeling
towards you than esteem and thankfulness?”
“‘Esteem and thankfulness!’ I told you before, Rosalie, if you persisted
in talking that way you’d drive me out of my senses!”
Here Mrs. Vivian hemmed, to give notice of her presence; and Robert
Bloomfield turned, and perceived her for the first time. If he had not
observed the lady before, he did not care about her now. He bowed; and
then, forgetting her, turned, and resumed his conversation with Rosalie,
in the same impatient, impassioned tone.
Mrs. Vivian, with a cold, offended air, arose and left the room. But as
soon as the door closed behind the lady, and Robert found himself alone
with Rosalie, he certainly betrayed a great sense of relief, for his
manner became more earnest and vehement, and he pleaded anew the
hopeless suit so often and so decidedly rejected. His tongue was
loosened, and words flowed, without let or hindrance, in that impetuous
torrent of eloquence inspired only by passion; and Rosalie listened with
emotion scarcely less than his own, for every word he uttered gave
expression to the vague, deep, unspoken yearning of her own heart.
She heard him out patiently; yes, she let him begin again, and go over
the whole matter a second and a third time, before she could find
courage to destroy his hopes. At last she said—
“I have deeply wronged you, Robert. I did not mean it, Heaven knows; but
I _have_ wronged you. Robert, I am very sorry. I shall never forgive
myself.”
“I don’t understand you, Rosalie—I—_do_ tell me what you mean!”
“I mean that I have not been frank enough with you, Robert. I have not
had the courage,” said Rosalie, in a faltering voice, for she still
deeply pitied him.
He did not look like an object of pity, just then; all his countenance
suddenly brightened with joy. He seized her hand, exclaiming—“Do I
comprehend? Do I hear you right? Do you mean, after all, that you like
me a little better than you said you did?”
“No. Oh! Robert, what a sanguine nature yours must be, to interpret
every word which is not positive, in your own way. No, Robert! I mean,
that I have thoughtlessly accepted all your kind services, knowing full
well that I never, never can repay the smallest of them. I mean, too,
that I have let you tell me, again and again, of your regard, knowing
all the while that I can never, never return it in the way you wish. I
have wronged you, by not telling you this with sufficient firmness
before!”
“Cruel! cold! hard! heartless!”
“It is my misfortune that I cannot accept you, Robert. My reason is
telling me all the time, just as any prudent old lady could tell me—that
if I _could_ like you, I should have an enviable lot in life; not
because you are wealthy, and all that, of course, Robert, but because I
really do know you are—so good, so disinterested, so true, and because
your dear mother and sisters are just like you, and I could love them as
if they were my own relatives.”
“In mercy, Rosalie, why do you talk to me so, if you never mean to
accept me?”
“Why, indeed? Because I cannot reject this kindness, for which I am
indeed most sincerely grateful, in any other but the humblest manner,
and with every circumstance to assure you, that I feel how much good I
reject in rejecting you, Robert. Dear Robert, there is certainly
destiny, as well as duty, in these matters; and, well as I like you, I
could not love you enough to marry you, if my salvation depended on it;
indeed I could not. I am not destined to so easy a life, Robert. I begin
to have a foreshadowing that my lot will be a very rough one, Robert;
that I shall not be left to bask in the sunshine, but shall have to face
and weather the storm.”
“You—you fragile snow-drop! What do you mean now? _You_ meet the storms
of life! Has the Planters’ Own Bank broken, or have all the slaves on
the plantation run off in a body?”
“Neither one nor the other, Robert. And if I ‘rough it’ in the world, it
will be my own free choice.”
“I confess I do not understand you—except that you make me wretched;
that is plain enough, but as to the rest, I am all in the dark.”
“It is my own secret, Robert.”
“One thing I do know; that is, you are too delicate for a rough life.”
“Robert, there are many delicate natures that have been cherished, and
nursed, and petted to miserable weakness and death. My flower garden has
taught me that lesson.”
“I should like to know how a flower garden could teach you a lesson like
_that_!”
“Oh! should you? I can tell you, then. Last year, when I came here, I
found a new flower growing in the garden. I don’t know botany, and I
don’t know what the flower was, or how it came there; but I suppose the
wind brought the seed. My flower was so feeble and withered, that it had
lost all beauty and comeliness, and every charm, except a delightful
odour. I weeded and worked around it, and watered it regularly, and
nursed and cherished it, but it faded faster and faster, yielding a
dying fragrance. I said it was too exposed and cold, and I took it up
and transplanted it to the conservatory. There it wilted and fell, and I
gave it up for lost. But now mark the sequel. A few days after, I took a
ride up to the mountain top, and left my horse, for a ramble on foot. A
fresh, delicate, delicious odour greeted me. I looked about, and lo!
there, in a cleft of the rock on the mountain top, where it would be
exposed to all the snow, and wind, and hail of winter, and burning rays
of summer, was my strange hothouse plant! There it grew and flourished,
swaying to and fro in the wind, and filling all the air with the
freshness of its fragrance! Now what do you think I did, Robert? You
will laugh at me, of course, for everybody laughed. The very next day I
took my poor flower, that was dying in the conservatory—and that I
pitied as if it had been a sick, caged bird—and I carried it up the
mountain, and planted it in the evening. Thunder gusts and showers the
next day prevented my ride; but the third day I visited my protege. It
was living! It had plucked up a spirit and intended to live. I am like
that plant, Robert! And now, to come back to yourself. We must part,
Robert, as friends—kindly—but not to meet again, except as mere
acquaintances, until you have outgrown the present weakness of your
heart.”
She extended her hand—he pressed it to his lips, seized his cap, and
hastily left the house.