MARRIAGE.
The larks were soaring high in air above the tender green of the
fields, and the blossoming cherry-trees looked like white bridal
bouquets in the midst of the sunny landscape, as the villagers of
Schoenthal, in their gayest holiday dresses, streamed towards their
little church.
While the bells rang out their merriest peal, the brilliant
marriage-train left the lordly mansion-house and walked down the broad
avenue of chestnut-trees, the drooping buds of which had not yet begun
to 'spread into the perfect fan.' No equipage of any kind hid either
bridal pair or guests from the delighted gaze of the peasants who lined
the wayside. Little girls dressed in white, their fair hair braided and
tied with white ribbons, scattered violets and May flowers upon the
broad carpet stretched, as a protection for satin-slippered feet, from
the hall door to the gateway of the neighbouring church, and
immediately behind them came the bridal pair.
An admiring "Ah!" from the spectators among whom they had grown up
accompanied them as they walked slowly on; and certainly they were a
fair sight to look upon. Bernhard, in his brilliant uniform, beaming
with pride and happiness, could scarcely turn his eyes from Thea,
hanging blushing upon his arm. Thus they trod beneath their feet the
spring flowers scattered in their path on their road--to what? To
happiness? Are these flowers of spring to be followed by the roses of
summer and the golden fruits of autumn, or is a premature winter with
its ice and snow to wither them all too soon? Who can tell? And who
would ask such a question? Not Alma and Adela, the two bridesmaids, who
follow Bernhard and Thea, conducted by Lothar and Walter Eichhof, and
certainly not Count Eichhof, who, as he looks at the three couples with
a smile of pride, reflects that flowers must always strew the pathway
of the heir of Eichhof, and that there will be enough left to provide
handsomely for the two other sons. He certainly seems right to-day at
least, for Lothar and Walter look extremely happy. Lothar's debts have
just been paid again 'for the last time,' and Walter had returned the
previous night from a journey which seemed to have delighted and
refreshed him.
The train vanishes beneath the church-portals; the solemn rite is
performed, the mystic rings are exchanged, and two mortals plight faith
and affection to each other until death shall separate them.
It is all over. The gay procession returns through the chestnut avenue,
and the old mansion of Schoenthal once more opens its portals to receive
the maiden flower that has blossomed beneath its roof, to leave it
to-day for another home.
Gradually the solemnity of mood which very naturally possessed every
one during the ceremony vanishes. Congratulations have been showered
upon the pair. There have been tender embraces, cordial hand-shakes;
the due amount of 'my dear old friends' and 'precious darlings' has
been uttered, and the evidences of unusual emotion disappear from all
countenances, save those of the bride and her mother, who cannot quite
regain their wonted composure. Gay laughter and lively conversation
resound from all sides of the table, where justice is done to the
wedding breakfast. Speeches are made, toasts proposed, and healths
drunk amid much clinking of glasses. The wit of the gentlemen and the
smiles of the ladies grow brighter with every toast. There are many new
titles of relationship exchanged between the young people of the two
allied houses, and blushes and smiles are frequent when Count Eichhof
arises, glass in hand, and, repeating the old proverb,--
"Never a marriage here below
From which a second did not grow,"
proposes the health of the "next bride and bridegroom." Alma Rosen's
hand trembles slightly as it touches Lothar Eichhof's when they clink
their glasses; and when later in the day, before he left her, he
declared that a kiss was his right in pledge of their new relationship,
and calmly availed himself of this right, he had no idea of how fast
and loud her heart beat the while.
"She is a perfect child," he said, after they had risen from table, to
Hugo Hohenstein, who had taken Frau von Wronsky to breakfast. "A
perfect child, but a pretty little puss, and _faute de mieux_----" And
he snapped his fingers, and then paused as his glance lighted upon his
new sister-in-law, standing talking with Adela Hohenstein by one of the
windows, her girlish figure draped in white satin and shrouded in her
lace veil.
"_A propos_, Thea is quite dazzling," he said. "I never should have
given her credit for so much dignity and self-possession."
Hohenstein put up his eye-glass, and bestowed a critical glance upon
the bride.
"Yes, she has a good figure and rather fine features," he said, with
the oracular air of a connoisseur. "Her face is an unwritten page as
yet; but time will change all that, even although it may never show
such a startling romance as may be read in the Wronsky's eyes."
Lothar was still gazing at his sister-in-law, and only half heard
Hohenstein's words.
"Was the lady very entertaining at table?" he asked, rather absently.
"Why, either she is not in a good humour today, or she is playing a
part; I cannot make out which," Hohenstein replied. "At all events, she
is excessively interesting. Before her marriage there was some very
piquant story about her; she has had experiences. I know nothing
explicit, but that woman has been through an immense deal, you may be
certain."
Thea left the room to put on her travelling-dress, and Bernhard, who
until now had been constantly near her, went into an antechamber,
whence he was instantly about to withdraw upon finding it occupied by
Frau von Wronsky, who was seated in a negligent attitude on a divan,
her head resting on her hand. She called him, however, by name, and
involuntarily, although with an air of constraint, he paused on the
threshold.
"I should like to speak with you for a moment," she said, in a low,
hurried tone. "You ought at least to know that I had resolved not to
inflict my presence upon you to-day; that I have done so is owing
entirely to your father, who paid us a visit the day before yesterday
and was so pertinacious in his request that we should be present to-day
that----"
"There is no need of this apology, madame," Bernhard replied, coldly.
"It would have excited remark if you had absented yourself without
sufficient reason, and it is my especial desire that your conduct
towards us should be such as to invite no observation."
The lady's face was agitated for an instant as if by the suppression of
a passionate outburst, but she only bent her head, and replied, "You
have nothing to fear. However painful the consciousness may be, I know
that you are right in not allowing me any intimacy with your wife.
Believe me, I feel only too intensely and grievously the gulf that
divides us. I know how hardly you judge me, and that you have a right
to do so, even although I am more to be pitied than blamed."
"Madame," Bernhard rejoined, approaching her in some confusion, "I pray
you let the past rest."
"Ah, I wish it would rest, that I could forget! But even when I succeed
in doing so for a moment, as when but now, attracted irresistibly by
the grace and loveliness of your wife, I longed to approach her as any
other woman might do, my past rises as an avenger, and I bow before the
Nemesis; for, hard as it is to endure, I know it is not wholly
undeserved."
Her voice, as she uttered these words, was full of such melancholy
sweetness, her eyes shone so with unshed tears, and she arose and stood
with such touching humility before Bernhard, that he could not help
expressing his regret at having recalled to her an unhappy past. She
cut his phrases short by a forbidding wave of her hand.
"You were quite right," she said. "Forget all this, and may you be
happy, very happy!"
Tone and manner were so full of a heart-felt sincerity that Bernhard
was almost moved to offer her his hand. He bethought himself in time,
however, and, in obedience to a wave of dismissal, left the room.
"Forget all this," she had said, but he never could forget the look or
the tone with which these words were uttered.
Thea returned clad in travelling costume to bid farewell to all.
Bernhard hastily changed his dress, and, when the travelling-carriage
drove up, led his young wife down the steps of the hall, which were
thronged with bridesmaids and their attendant squires. Alma burst into
tears as she threw her arms around her sister's neck. Herr and Frau von
Rosen called out their adieux in faltering tones.
The wedding guests waved their kerchiefs from the open windows, and
servants and peasants crowded about the carriage for one last look at
their "dear young Fraeulein." The swallows stretched out their heads
from their nest under the eaves, and seemed to twitter "Good-by,
good-by," and the hanging wreaths of the wild grapevine in which the
veranda was embowered seemed to wave a mute farewell.
"Farewell, farewell!"
The carriage rolled out of the court-yard, and Thea hid her tearful
face on Bernhard's shoulder. "Oh, Bernhard," she whispered, "you will
always love me dearly, very dearly, will you not?"
He kissed away her tears. "My darling, what a question to ask!" he
replied. "You know that you are my sweetest, loveliest May rosebud."
She smiled at him through her tears, and he vowed inwardly that she
never should shed a tear caused by word or deed of his.
The road here made a turn, and the mansion of Schoenthal, upon the
windows of which the last beams of the setting sun were shining, came
into view once more.
Thea leaned from the carriage window and looked back. Bernhard,
clasping her hand firmly in his own, looked back also. The windows of
the balconied room, the same in which he had spoken with Frau von
Wronsky scarcely an hour before, gleamed brilliantly.
"Is she there still?" he thought, and he seemed to hear again her low,
penetrating tones, "Forget all this,"--her pale face and brilliant
figure were like a shadow dimming the sunshine of his marriage-day.