THE NIGHT BEFORE THE WEDDING.
Never had a summer passed so slowly to Dora Freeman as had the last, and
yet now that it was gone, it seemed to her scarcely more than a week
since the night she had said words from which resulted all the busy
preparations going on around her: the bridal dresses packed away in
heavy travelling trunks, for they were going to Europe too,—the perfect
happiness of Johnnie, who, twenty times each day, kissed her tenderly,
whispering, “I am so glad that you are to be my mother”—the noisy
demonstrations of the younger ones, and the great joy which beamed all
over the Squire’s honest face each time he looked at his bride-elect and
thought how soon she would be his. Gradually the pressure about Dora’s
heart and brain had loosened, and she did not feel just as she had done
when she first promised to be Squire Russell’s wife. She had accustomed
herself to the idea, until each thought did not bring a throb of pain,
while the excitement of getting ready, and the anticipated tour to
places she had never expected to see, had afforded her some little
satisfaction. She knew that the world generally looked at her in wonder,
while Bell and Mattie totally disapproved, both framing some excuse for
not being present at the wedding. But as is usually the case opposition
only helped the matter by making her more determined to do what she
really believed to be her duty. Besides this she was strengthened and
upheld by Johnnie, who was to be the companion of her travels, and who
always came between her and every sharp, rough point, smoothing the
latter down and making all so bright and easy that she blessed him as
her good angel. Owing to his constant vigilance, his father was not
often very demonstrative of his affection, except by looks and deeds
done for her gratification, but still there were times when, Johnnie
being off guard, the father acted the fond lover to the pale, shrinking
girl, who, shutting her teeth firmly together, suffered his caresses
because she must, but gave him back no answering token of affection.
Sometimes this quiet coldness troubled him, particularly as Letitia and
Jimmie both asked him at different times why Auntie cried so much,—“did
everybody just before they were married? Did mother?”
After Jessie came, Dora felt a great deal better, for Jessie made the
future anything but gloomy. Jessie was like a brilliant diamond,
flashing and sparkling, and singing and dancing and whistling until the
house seemed like a different place, and even Squire Russell wished he
could keep her there forever.
And now it was the day before the bridal. Every trunk was packed, and
everything was ready for the ceremony, which was to occur at an early
hour in the morning, as the bridal pair were to take the first train for
New York. Jessie upon the grassy lawn was romping with the children, and
occasionally addressing some saucy, teasing remark to the
bridegroom-elect, who was smoking his cigar demurely beneath the trees,
and wishing Dora would join them. But Dora was differently employed.
With the quiet which had suddenly fallen upon the household, a terrible
reaction had come to her, and as if waking from some horrid nightmare,
she began to realize her position, to feel that only a few hours lay
between herself and a living death. Vaguely, too, she began to see how,
with every morning mail, there had come a shadowy hope that something
might be received from Dr. West, that in some way he would yet save her
from Squire Russell. But for months no news had been received of him by
any one, and now the last lingering hope had died, leaving only a
feeling of despair. She could not even write a line in her journal, and
once she thought to burn it, but something stayed the act, and ’mid a
rain of tears, she laid it away, resolving never to open its lids again
until her heart ached less than it was aching now.
“I shall get over it, I know,” she moaned, as she seated herself by the
window. “If I thought I should not, I would go to Squire Russell before
the whole world, and on my knees would beg to be released; but I am
tired now, and excited, and everything looks so dark,—even my pleasant
chamber is so close that I can scarcely breathe. I wonder if the breeze
from the lake would not revive me. I’ll try it,—I’ll go there. I’ll sit
where Richard and I once sat. I’ll listen to the music of the waves just
as I listened then, and if this does not quiet me, if the horror is
still with me,—perhaps—”
There was a hard, terrible look in Dora’s eyes as the evil thought first
flashed upon her, a look which grew more and more desperate as she began
to wonder how deep the waters were near the shore, and if the verdict
would be “accidental drowning,” and if Dr. West would care.
Alas for Dora! the tempter was whispering horrible things to her, and
she, poor, half-crazed girl, was listening to him as she stole from the
back door, and took her way across the fields to where the waters of the
lake lay sparkling in the September sun now low in the western horizon.