THE BRIDAL DAY.
“It was the veriest farce in all the world, the marriage of Frederic
Raymond with a child of fifteen;” at least so said Agnes Gibson of
twenty-five, and so said sundry other guests who at the appointed hour
assembled in the parlor of Redstone Hall, to witness the sacrifice—not
of Frederic as they vainly imagined, but of the unsuspecting Marian.
He knew what he did, and why he did it, while she, blindfolded as it
were, was about to leap into the uncertain future. No such gloomy
thoughts as these, however, intruded themselves upon her mind as she
stood before her mirror and with trembling fingers made her simple
bridal toilet. When first the idea of marrying Frederic was suggested to
her nearly as much pride as love had mingled in her thoughts, for Marian
was not without her ambition, and the honor of being the mistress of
Redstone Hall had influenced her decision. But during the two weeks
since her engagement, her heart had gone out toward him with a deep
absorbing love, and had he now been the poorest man in all the world and
she a royal princess, she would have spurned the wealth that kept her
from him, or gladly have laid it at his feet for the sake of staying
with him and knowing that he wished it. And this was the girl whom
Frederic Raymond was about to wrong by making her his wife when he knew
he did not love her. But she should never know it, he said—should never
suspect that nothing but his hand and name went with the words he was so
soon to utter, and he determined to be true to her and faithful to his
marriage vow.
Some doubt he had as to the effect his father’s letter might have upon
her, and once he resolved that she should never see it; but this was an
idle thought, not to be harbored for a moment. He had told her when she
asked him for it the last time that she should have it on her bridal
day; for so his father willed it, and he would keep his word. He had
written to Isabel at the very last, for though he was not bound to her
by a promise he knew an explanation of his conduct was due to her, and
he forced himself to write it. Not a word did he say against Marian, but
he gave her to understand that but for his father the match would never
have been made—that circumstances over which he had no control compelled
him to do what he was doing. He should never forget the pleasant hours
spent in her society, he said, and he closed by asking her to visit the
future Mrs. Raymond at Redstone Hall. It cost him a bitter struggle to
write thus indifferently to one he loved so well, but it was right, he
said, and when the letter was finished he felt that the last tie which
bound him to Isabel was sundered, and there was nothing for him now but
to make the best of Marian. So when on their bridal morning she came to
him and asked his wishes concerning her dress, he answered her very
kindly, “As you are in mourning you had better make no change, besides I
think black very becoming to your fair complexion.”
This was the first compliment he had ever paid her, and her heart
thrilled with delight, but when, as she was leaving the room he called
her back and said, still gently, kindly, “Would you as soon wear your
hair plain? I do not quite fancy ringlets,” her eyes filled with tears,
for she remembered the cork-screw curls, and glancing in the mirror at
her wavy hair, she wished it were possible to remedy the defect.
“I will do the best I can,” she said, and returning to her room, she
commenced her operations, but it was a long, tedious process, the
combing out of those curls, for her hair was tenacious of its rights,
and even when she thought it subdued and let go of the end, it rolled up
about her forehead in tight round rings, as if spurning alike both water
and brush.
“I’d like to see the man what could make me yank out my wool like that,”
muttered Dinah, who was watching the straightening process with a
lowering brow, inasmuch as it reflected dishonor upon her own crisped
locks. “If the Lord made yer har to curl, war it so, and not mind every
freak of his’n. Fust you know, he’ll be a-wantin’ you to war yer face on
t’other side of yer head, but ’taint no way to do. You must begin as you
can hold out. In a few hours you’ll have as much right here as he has,
and I’d show it, too, by pitchin’ inter us niggers and jawin’ to kill. I
shall know you don’t mean nothin’ and shan’t keer. Come to think on’t,
though, I reckon you’d better let me and the Smitherses be and begin
with them Higginses. I’d give it to old Hetty good—she ’sarves to be
took down a button hole lower, if ever a nigger did, for she said a heap
o’ stuff about you.”
Marian smiled a kind of quiet happy smile and went on with her task,
which was finished at last, and her luxuriant hair was bound at the back
of her head in a large flat knot. The effect was not becoming and she
knew it, but if Frederic liked it she was satisfied, even if Dinah did
demur, telling her she looked like “a cat whose ears had been boxed.”
Frederic did not like it, but after the pains she had taken he would not
tell her so, and when she said to him, “I am ready,” he offered her his
arm and went silently down the stairs to the parlor, where guests and
clergymen were waiting.
The day was bright and beautiful, for the light of the glorious Indian
Summer sun was resting on the Kentucky hills, and through the open
window the murmuring ripple of the Elkhorn came, while the balmy breath
of the south wind swept over the white face of the bride, and lifted
from her neck the few stray locks which, escaping from their
confinement, curled naturally in their accustomed place. But to the
assembled guests there seemed in all a note of sadness, a warning voice
which said the time for this bridal was not yet; and years after, when
the beautiful mistress of Redstone Hall rode by in her handsome
carriage, Agnes Gibson told to her little sister how on that November
day the cheeks of both bride and bridegroom paled as if with mortal fear
when the words were spoken which made them one.
Whether it were the newness of her position, or a presentiment of coming
evil Marian could not tell, but into her heart there crept a chill as
she glanced timidly at the man who stood so silently beside her, and
thought, “He is my husband.” It was, indeed, a sombre wedding—“more like
a funeral,” the guests declared, as immediately after dinner they took
their leave and commented upon the affair as people always will. Oh, how
Frederic longed yet dreaded to have them go. He could not endure their
congratulations, which to him were meaningless, and he had no wish to be
alone. He was recovering from his apathy, and could yesterday have been
his again, he believed he would have broken his promise. But yesterday
had gone and to-morrow had come—it was to-day, now, with him, and Marian
was his wife. Turn which way he would, the reality was the same, and
with an intense loathing of himself and a deep pity for her, he feigned
some trivial excuse and went away to his room, where, with the gathering
darkness and his own wretched thoughts, he would be alone.
With strange unrest Marian wandered from room to room, wondering if
Frederic had so soon grown weary of her presence, and sometimes half
wishing that she were Marian Lindsey again, and that the new name by
which they called her belonged to some one else. At last, when it was
really dark—when the lamps were lighted in the parlor and Alice had wept
a bitter, passionate good night in her arms and gone to sleep, she
bethought her of the letter. She could read it now. She had complied
with all the stipulations, and there was no longer a reason why it
should be withheld. She went to Frederic’s door; but he was not there,
and a servant passing in the hall said he had returned to the parlor
while she was busy with Alice. So to the parlor Marian went, finding him
sitting unemployed and wrapped in gloomy thought. He heard her step upon
the carpet, but standing in the shadow as she did, she could not see the
look of pain which flitted over his face at her approach.
“Frederic,” she said, “I may read the letter now—will you give me the
key?”
Mechanically he did as she desired, and then with a slightly uneasy
feeling as to the effect the letter might have upon her, he went back to
his reflections, while she started to leave the room. When she reached
the door she paused a moment and looked back. In giving her the key he
had changed his position, and she could see the suffering expression of
his white face. Quickly returning to his side, she said anxiously, “Are
you sick?”
“Nothing but a headache. You know I am accustomed to that,” he replied.
Marian hesitated a moment—then parting the damp brown hair from off his
forehead she kissed him timidly and left the room. Involuntarily
Frederic raised his hand to wipe the spot away, but something stayed the
act and whispered to him that a wife’s first kiss was a holy thing and
could never be repeated!
Through the hall the nimble feet of Marian sped until she stood within
her late guardian’s room, and there she stopped, for the atmosphere
seemed oppressive and laden with terror.
“’Tis because it’s so dark,” she said, and going out into the hall, she
took a lamp from the table and then returned.
But the olden feeling was with her still—a feeling as if she were
treading some fearful gulf, and she was half tempted to turn back even
now, and ask Frederic to come with her while she read the letter.
“I will not be so foolish, though,” she said, and opening the library
door she walked boldly in; but the same Marian who entered there never
came out again!