The marriage of Delia Floyd was an event in our quiet town. It was
celebrated at the house of her father, in the presence of a large
company, who were invited to witness the ceremony, and take part in
the attendant festivities. The match was regarded generally as a most
desirable one for the young lady; and there was more than one mother
present who envied the good fortune which had given such a son-in-law to
Mrs. Floyd. I heard many snatches of conversation, half aside, in which
marvelous things were related, or suggested, touching the bridegroom's
fortune and the splendid home he had prepared for his bride. He was
looked upon as a prospective millionaire, and imagination pictured Delia
as the jeweled mistress of a palace home. Few seemed to think of any
thing beyond the promised worldly advantage.
“I am glad that your daughter has married so well.”
“Let me congratulate you, Squire Floyd, on this splendid match.”
“It is not often, Mrs. Floyd, that a mother sees her daughter go forth
into the world with such brilliant prospects.”
“You have all that your heart can desire, so far as Delia is concerned,
Mrs. Floyd.”
“You are the envy of mothers.”
And so I heard the changes rung on all sides of me, and from the lips of
people who might have looked deeper if they had taken the trouble to use
their eyes.
To me, the wedding was full of sad suggestions. It was one of those
social self-sacrifices, as common now as then, in which the victim
goes self-impelled to the altar, and lays upon its consuming fires the
richest dower of womanhood.
I listened to the vows that were made on this occasion, and felt a low
thrill of repulsion as words of such solemn import trembled on the air,
for too well I knew that a union of souls in a true marriage, such as
Delia Floyd might consummate, was impossible here. Could she be happy
in this marriage? I gave to my own question an emphatic “No!” She might
have a gay, brilliant, exciting life; but to that deep peace which is
given to loving hearts, and which, in hours of isolation and loneliness,
she would desire with an irrepressible longing, she must forever be a
stranger.
I looked into her beautiful young face as she stood receiving the
congratulations of friends, and felt as I had never felt before on such
an occasion. Instinctively my thought ran questioning along the future.
But no hopeful answer was returned. How was she to advance in that
inner-life development through which the true woman is perfected? I
pushed the question aside. It was too painful. Had she been one of
the great company of almost soulless women--if I may use such strong
language--who pass, yearly, through legal forms into the mere semblance
of a marriage, I might have looked on with indifference, for then, the
realization would, in all probability, be equal to the promise. But
Delia Floyd was of a different spiritual organization. She had higher
capabilities and nobler aspirations; and if the one found no true sphere
of development, while the other was doomed to beat its wings vainly
amid the lower atmospheres of life, was happiness in the case even a
possibility?
Among the guests was Wallingford. It was six months, almost to a day,
since the dearest hope in life he had ever cherished went suddenly out,
and left him, for a season, in the darkness of despair. I did not expect
to see him on this occasion; and there was another, I think, who as
little anticipated his presence--I mean the bride. But he had shared in
the invitations, and came up to witness the sacrifice. To see, what a
few months before was to him the most precious thing in life, pass into
the full possession of another. Had not the fine gold grown dim in his
eyes? It had--dim with the tarnish that better natures receive when they
consent to dwell with inferior spirits, and breathe in an atmosphere
loaded with earthly exhalations. It would have been the highest delight
of his life to have ascended with her into the pure regions, where
thought builds tabernacles and establishes its dwelling-places. To have
walked onward, side by side, in a dear life companionship, towards the
goal of eternal spiritual oneness. But she had willed it otherwise; and
now he had come, resolutely, to bear the pain of a final sundering of
all bonds, that his soul might free itself from her soul completely and
forever.
I first noticed him as the bridal party entered the room, and took their
places in front of the clergyman who was to officiate on the occasion.
He occupied a position that gave him a clear view of Delia's face, while
he was removed from general observation. Almost from the commencement to
the ending of the ceremony his gaze rested on her countenance. His head
was thrown a little forward, his brows slightly contracted, his lips
firmly set, and his eyes fixed as if the object upon which he was gazing
held him by an irresistible fascination. I was so much interested in him
that I scarcely looked at the bride during the ceremony. At last, the
minister, in conclusion, announced the twain to be husband and wife.
I saw Wallingford give a slight start as if a tensely strung chord of
feeling had been jarred. A moment more and the spell was broken!
Every lineament of his countenance showed this. The stern aspect gave
way--light trembled over the softening features--the body stood more
erect as if a great pressure had been removed.
I noticed that he did not hold back in the excitement of congratulation
that followed the ceremony. I was near him when he took the hand of
Delia, and heard him say--not--“I congratulate you”--but “May your life
be a happy one.” The tone was earnest and feeling, such as a brother
might use to a beloved sister. I held that tone long afterwards in my
memory, studying its signification. It had in it nothing of regret, or
pain, or sadness, as if he were losing something, but simply expressed
the regard and tender interest of a sincere well wisher. And so that
great trial was at an end for him. He had struggled manfully with a
great enemy to his peace, and this was his hour of triumph.
With the bride's state of mind, as read in external signs, I was far
from being satisfied. Marriage, in any case, to one who thinks and
feels, is a thing of serious import; and even the habitually thoughtless
can hardly take its solemn vows upon their lips without falling into a
sober mood. We are, therefore, not surprised to see emotion put on signs
of pain--like April showers that weep away into sunshine. But in Delia's
face I saw something that went deeper than all this.
“There is no one here,” said I, taking her hand, and holding it tightly
in mine, “who wishes you well in the future more sincerely than I do.”
“I know it, Doctor,” she answered, returning the warm grasp I gave her.
Her eyes rested steadily in mine, and saw a shadow in them.
“We are sorry to lose you from S----. Indeed we cannot afford to lose
you.”
“She is wanted,” spoke up her young husband a little proudly, “to grace
a wider and more brilliant sphere of life.”
“It is not the brilliant sphere that is always the happiest,” said I.
“Life's truest pleasures come oftener to quiet home circles even among
the lowly, than to gilded palaces where fortune's favorites reside.”
“It is not to external condition,” the bride remarked, “that we are to
look for happiness.” I thought her voice had in it a pensive tone, as if
she were not wholly satisfied with the brilliant promise that lay before
her. “You know, Doctor, we have talked that over more than once in our
lives.”
“Yes, Delia; and it is a truth which we ought never to forget--one that
I trust you and your husband will lay up in your hearts.”
I turned to the young man desiring my admonition to reach him also.
“Perhaps I might differ something from this sage conclusion,” he
answered a little flippantly. “As far as I can see, the external
condition has a great deal to do with our happiness. I am very sure,
that if I were situated as some people are whom I know, I would be
miserable. So you see, Doctor, I have my doubts touching this theory of
yours and Delia's.”
“Time, I think, will demonstrate its truth,” I said, in a graver tone,
and turned from them to give place to those who could talk in a lighter
strain than was possible for me on the occasion.
During the evening I saw Wallingford more than once in conversation with
the bride; but only when she happened to be a little separated from her
husband, towards whom his manner was coldly polite. The two young men,
after the scene in Judge Bigelow's office, only kept up, for the sake of
others, the shadow of acquaintanceship. Between them there was a strong
mutual repulsion which neither sought to overcome.
As I remarked I saw Wallingford more than once in conversation with the
bride. But nothing in his manner indicated any sentiment beyond that of
friendship. He was polite, cheerful, and at his ease. But it was
different with her. She was not at her ease in his company, and yet,
I could see that his attention was grateful--even pleasant.
The augury was not good. As I read the signs, Delia Floyd, when she
passed from maidenhood to wifehood, departed from the path that led
to happiness in this world. And I said to myself as I pondered her
future--“May the disappointments and sorrows that are almost sure to
come, turn her feet aside into the right way at last!”