THE SERVANTS’ FESTIVAL.
Diamond Island was running over with joyous life that day. Tables of
rough boards were arranged in the form of a horse-shoe around that open
space of forest turf just within the shadow of the woods. Around these,
a crowd of servants were busy as ants, spreading delicate damask linen,
forcing masses of gorgeous flowers into Aunt Celia’s broken pitchers and
cracked mugs, rattling plates, jingling glasses, and building up
pyramids of cut tissue paper, in which great sugar ox-eyes, frosted
drop-cakes, and balls of parched corn, tinted red, yellow and green,
were arranged with tempting splendor.
In this way some hours passed, when a distant sound of music came
floating down the river. Directly a convoy of boats and barges, full to
overflowing, appeared, steering for the island, with a burst of music
loud and lively enough to make the heart leap in an anchorite’s bosom.
“Dey’s cumin! Dey’s cumin!” rose in a shout from all sides.
The great flag was run up a bare liberty pole, around whose base it had
till now been lying in masses of rich drapery.
A swivel gun went off, giving a grand military dash to the occasion,
and, at the same moment, warning the men who had charge back in the
woods that it was time to bestir themselves.
The servants crowded down to the shore, and formed double lines of dusky
faces and waving hats, through which the bride and bridegroom walked to
the seats prepared for them.
The festival had reached its sublimest point when that haughty man
landed from the boat, and led his bride, in her sumptuous array of soft
lace and rustling silk, up those double rows of retainers, whose
greeting might have satisfied a queen. From the crown of her blonde head
to the sole of her pretty gaiter boot, the fair creature was perfect.
Thus the party from Willow Bend and some neighboring plantations moved
up the island and formed on the greensward for a dance, while the
servants looked on, or busied themselves at the tables.
From the moment that swivel fired, the excitement down by the woods
became intense.
One table, reserved for the bride, at the curve of the horse-shoe, soon
became a marvel of culinary ingenuity. At each end, two pigs, with
lemons in their mouths, and their heads lifted high, knelt, each upon
his broad china dish, in a marsh of curling parsley, set thick with
water lilies, cut from young turnips, and looking like nature.
Besides all this, vases of flowers, rush baskets of summer fruits, and
an immense cake, surmounted by a temple overran with sugar Cupids,
formed a centre group in honor of the bride.
When she was led to her seat, spread with crimson cushions, and canopied
by a young larch tree, the glory of the occasion was complete. A new
band, that had come down with the white party, swelled the music into a
perfect jubilee, and, for once in his life, the craving vanity of
Russell Waldon was satisfied.
Toasts were offered by some of the guests which embodied this grand
idea. Waldon arose to answer. Never had his heart been so uplifted with
pride—never had his grandly handsome face glowed with such triumph. He
spoke in a voice deep, sonorous and mellow with feeling. The eloquence
of his words carried a wonderful power with them. The faces of his
friends lighted up with enthusiasm. The servants went wild, occasionally
interrupting him with shouts. Even old Sam and Celia joined in lustily,
as if the whole thing had been a camp-meeting, and the bridegroom a
preacher.
Another person seemed to have been drawn by the fascination of that
voice, closer and closer to the bride’s table, until she stood at the
foot of it, with her pale face uplifted, and her great, wild eyes fixed
on the speaker. That person was the girl, Lydia.
Waldon closed his speech amid the wildest enthusiasm. The bride’s face
was one glow of pleasure. She took a half-open moss-rose, blood-red as
it came from the stalk, from her own bosom, and gave it to him. He
kissed the bud, fastened it in his coat, just over the heart, with a
whispered compliment, and standing erect, held up a foaming glass of
champagne, calling out:
“Now, ladies and gentlemen, I offer a toast to the dearest wife and
fairest lady—”
That toast was never finished. The sharp crack of a pistol cut it short
in his throat. The red rose on his bosom was cleft in twain, and through
his heart a bullet tore its way, taking life with it, and sending him
down upon the green sward a dead man!
Amid the shrieks and consternation that followed this awful act, the
girl, Lydia, walked slowly through the crowd, and reached the log
bridge. There, standing conspicuously, she waited a full minute; but, in
the confusion, no one followed her; then, casting one long, wistful look
back on the crowd, she leaped over the bridge, landing in the “Firefly,”
which lay rocking in its shadow, and urged it down the inlet, still
without haste or apparent fear.
Some men saw her as she swept into the open stream, and running down to
the shore, pushed off a boat in pursuit. One of these men held the
pistol she had flung to the earth after it had done its work, and
threatened, in a voice that swept over her like a trumpet, to shoot her
if she did not stop.
The girl flung down her oars, and stood up in the boat, still and white,
like a marble statue, her fearfully brilliant eyes bent on the man that
threatened her, and her lips apart, waiting to be struck.
The man had no heart to murder the young thing who gave herself up with
such quiet heroism. The muzzle of his weapon dropped, and he only urged
the oarsmen to swifter pursuit.
Lydia saw this cruel mercy with a despairing groan; but one thing was
left for her now. She clasped her hands, lifted them high above her
head, and plunged into the stream, where its current was both deep and
swift.
The “Firefly,” half filled with water by the force of that death-leap,
drifted slowly downward. The pursuing boat came up, and waited, ready to
capture the girl when her head should appear above water.
But never, in this world, living or dead, was that poor, faithful girl
seen again!