CHAPTER XXV.THE BRIDAL.’Twas Mabel’s wedding night, and in one of the upper rooms of Mr. Livingstone’s house she stood awaiting the summons to the parlor. They had arrayed her for the bridal; Mrs. Livingstone, Carrie, ’Lena, Anna, and the seamstress, all had had something to do with her toilet, and now they had left her for a time with him who was so soon to be her husband. She knew—for they had told her—she was looking uncommonly well. Her dress, of pure white satin, was singularly becoming; pearls were interwoven in the heavy braids of her raven hair; the fleecy folds of the rich veil, which fell like a cloud around her, swept the floor. In her eye there was an unusual sparkle and on her cheek an unwonted bloom.Still Mabel was not happy. There was a heavy pain at her heart—a foreboding of coming evil—and many an anxious glance she cast toward the stern, silent man, who, with careless tread, walked up and down the room, utterly regardless of her presence, and apparently absorbed in bitter reflections. Once only had she ventured to speak, and then, in childlike simplicity, she had asked him “how she looked.”“Well enough,” was his answer, as, without raising his eyes, he continued his walk.The tears gathered in Mabel’s eyes—she could not help it; drop after drop they came, falling upon the marble table, until John Jr., who saw more than he pretended, came to her side, asking “why she wept.”Mabel was beginning to be terribly afraid of him, and for a moment she hesitated, but at length, summoning all her courage, she wound her arms about his neck, and in low, earnest tones said, “Tell me truly, do you wish to marry me?”“And suppose I do not?” he asked, with the same stony composure.Stepping backward, Mabel stood proudly erect before him, and answered, “Then would I die rather than wed you!”There was something in her appearance and attitude peculiarly attractive to John Jr. Never in his life had he felt so much interested in her, and drawing her toward him and placing his arm around her, he said, gently, “Be calm, little Meb, you are nervous to-night. Of course I wish you to be my wife, else I had not asked you. Are you satisfied?”The joyous glance of the dark eyes lifted so confidingly to his, was a sufficient answer, and as if conscious of the injustice he was about to do her, John Jr. bent for an instant over her slight figure, mentally resolving, that so far as in him lay he would be true to his trust. There was a knock at the door, and Mrs. Livingstone herself looked in, pale, anxious, and expectant. Mr. Douglass, who was among the invited guests, had arrived, andmusthave an interview with John Jr. ere the ceremony. ’Twas in vain she attempted politely to waive his request. Hewouldsee him, and distracted with fear, she had at last conducted him into the upper hall, and out upon an open veranda, where in the moonlight he awaited the coming of the bridegroom, who, with some curiosity, approached him, asking what he wanted.“It may seem strange to you,” said Mr. Douglass, “that I insist upon seeing you now, when another time might do as well, but I believe in having a fair understanding all round.”“Meddling old rascal!” exclaimed Mrs. Livingstone, who, of course, was within hearing, bending her ears so as not to lose a word.But in this she was thwarted, for drawing nearer to John Jr., Mr. Douglass said, so low as to prevent her catching anything further, save the sound of his voice:“I do not accuse you of being at all mercenary, but such things have been, and there has something come to my knowledge to-day, which I deem it my duty to tell you, so that hereafter you can neither blame me nor Mabel.”“What is it?” asked John Jr., and Mr. Douglass replied, “To be brief, then, Mabel’s large fortune is, with the exception of a few thousands, of which I have charge, all swept away by the recent failure of the Planters’ Bank, in which it was invested. I heard of it this morning, and determined on telling you, knowing that if you loved her for herself, it would make no difference, while if you loved her for her money, it were far better to stop here.”Nothing could have been further from John’s thoughts than a desire for Mabel’s wealth, which, precious as it seemed in his mother’s eyes, was valueless to him, and after a moment’s silence, in which he was thinking what a rich disappointment it would be to his mother, who, he knew, prized Mabel only for her money, he exclaimed, “Good, I’m glad of it. I never sought Mabel’s hand for what there was in it, and I’m more ready to marry her now than ever. But,” he added, as a sudden impulse of good came over him, “She need not know it; it would trouble her uselessly, and for the present we’ll keep it from her.”John Jr. had always been a puzzle to Mr. Douglass, who by turns censured and admired him, but now there was but one feeling in his bosom toward him, and that was one of unbounded respect. With a warm pressure of the hand he turned away, thinking, perchance, of his fair young daughter, who, far away o’er the Atlantic waves, little dreamed of the scene on which that summer moon was shining. As the conference ended; Mrs. Livingstone, who had learned nothing, glided, from her hiding-place, eagerly scanning her son’s face to see if there was aught to justify her fears. But there was nothing, and with her heart beating at its accustomed pace, she descended the stairs in time to meet Durward, who, having reached Woodlawn that day, had not heard of ’Lena’s decision.“This way, Marster Bellmont—upstars is the gentleman’s room,” said the servant in attendance, and ascending the stairs, Durward met with Anna, asking her for her cousin.“In there—go in,” said Anna, pointing to a half-open door, and then hurrying away to meet Malcolm, whose coming she had seen from the window.Hesitatingly, Durward approached the chamber indicated, and as his knock met with no response, he ventured at last to enter unannounced into the presence of ’Lena, whom he had not met since that well-remembered night. Tastefully attired for the wedding in a simple white muslin, she sat upon a little stool with her face buried in the cushions of the sofa. She had heard his voice in the lower hall, and knowing she must soon meet him, she had for a moment abandoned herself to the tumult of bitter thoughts, which came sweeping over her in that trying hour. She was weeping—he knew that by the trembling of her body—and for an instant everything was forgotten.Advancing softly toward her, he was about to lay his hand upon those clustering curls which fell unheeded around her, when the thought that from among them had been cut the hated tress which his mother had cast into the flames, arrested his hand, and he was himself again. Forcing down his emotion, he said, calmly, “Miss Rivers,” and starting quickly to her feet, ’Lena demanded proudly what he would have, and why he was there.“Pardon me,” said he, as he marked her haughty bearing and glanced at her dress, which was hardly in accordance with that of a bridesmaid; “I supposed I was to be groomsman—am I mistaken?”“So far as I am concerned you are, sir. I knew nothing of Mabel’s writing to you, or I should have prevented it, for after what has occurred, you cannot deem me weak enough to lend myself to such an arrangement.”And ’Lena walked out of the room, while Durward looked after her in amazement, one moment admiring her spirit, and the next blaming Mabel for not informing him how matters stood. “But there’s no help for it now,” thought he, as he descended the stairs and made his way into the parlor, whither ’Lena had preceded him.And thus ended an interview of which ’Lena had thought so much, hoping and praying that it might result in a reconciliation. But it was all over now—the breach was wider than ever—with half-benumbed faculties she leaned on the window, unconscious of the earnest desire he felt to approach her, for there was about her a strange fascination which it required all his power to resist.When at last all was in readiness, a messenger was dispatched to John Jr., who, without a word, offered his arm to Mabel, and descending the broad staircase, they stood within the parlor in the spot which had been assigned them. Once during the ceremony he raised his eyes, encountering those of ’Lena, fixed upon him so reproachfully that with a scowl he turned away. Mechanically he went through with his part of the service, betraying no emotion whatever, until the solemn words which made them one were uttered. Then, when it was over—when he was bound to her forever—he seemed suddenly to awake from his apathy and think of what he had done. Crowding around him, they came with words of congratulation—all but ’Lena, who tarried behind, for she had none to give. Wretched as she was herself, she pitied the frail young bride, whose half-joyous, half-timid glances toward the frigid bridegroom, showed that already was she sipping from the bitter cup whose very dregs she was destined to drain.In the recess of a window near to John Jr., Mr. Douglass and Durward stood, speaking together of Nellie, and though John shrank from the sound of her name, his hearing faculties seemed unusually sharpened, and he lost not a word of what they were saying.“So Nellie is coming home in the autumn, I am told,” said Durward, “and I am glad of it, for I miss her much. But what is it about Mr. Wilbur’s marriage. Wasn’t it rather unexpected?”“No, not very. Nellie knew before she went that he was engaged to Miss Allen, but at his sister’s request she kept it still. He found her at a boarding-school in Montreal, several years ago.”“Will they remain in Europe?”“For a time, at least, until Mary is better—but Nellie comes home with some friends from New Haven, whom she met in Paris;” then in a low tone Mr. Douglass added, “I almost dread the effect of this marriage upon her, for I am positive she liked him better than anyone else.”The little white, blue-veined hand which rested on that of John Jr., was suddenly pressed so spasmodically, that Mabel looked up inquiringly in the face which had no thought for her, for Mr. Douglass’s words had fallen upon him like a thunderbolt, crushing him to the earth, and for a moment rendering him powerless. Instantly he comprehended it all. He had deceived himself, and by his impetuous haste lost all that he held most dear on earth. There was a cry of faintness, a grasping at empty space to keep from falling, and then forth into the open air they led the half-fainting man, followed by his frightened bride, who tenderly bathed his damp, cold brow, unmindful how he shrank from her, shuddering as he felt the touch of her soft hand, and motioning her aside when she stooped to part from his forehead the heavy locks of his hair.That night, the pale starlight of another hemisphere kept watch over a gentle girl, who ’neath the blue skies of sunny France, dreamed of her distant home across the ocean wave; of the gray-haired man, who, with every morning light and evening shade, blessed her as his child; of another, whose image was ever present with her, whom from her childhood she had loved, and whom neither time nor distance could efface from her memory.Later, and the silvery moon looked mournfully down upon the white, haggard face and heavy bloodshot eye of him who counted each long, dreary hour as it passed by, cursing the fate which had made him what he was, and unjustly hardening his heart against his innocent unsuspecting wife.
’Twas Mabel’s wedding night, and in one of the upper rooms of Mr. Livingstone’s house she stood awaiting the summons to the parlor. They had arrayed her for the bridal; Mrs. Livingstone, Carrie, ’Lena, Anna, and the seamstress, all had had something to do with her toilet, and now they had left her for a time with him who was so soon to be her husband. She knew—for they had told her—she was looking uncommonly well. Her dress, of pure white satin, was singularly becoming; pearls were interwoven in the heavy braids of her raven hair; the fleecy folds of the rich veil, which fell like a cloud around her, swept the floor. In her eye there was an unusual sparkle and on her cheek an unwonted bloom.
Still Mabel was not happy. There was a heavy pain at her heart—a foreboding of coming evil—and many an anxious glance she cast toward the stern, silent man, who, with careless tread, walked up and down the room, utterly regardless of her presence, and apparently absorbed in bitter reflections. Once only had she ventured to speak, and then, in childlike simplicity, she had asked him “how she looked.”
“Well enough,” was his answer, as, without raising his eyes, he continued his walk.
The tears gathered in Mabel’s eyes—she could not help it; drop after drop they came, falling upon the marble table, until John Jr., who saw more than he pretended, came to her side, asking “why she wept.”
Mabel was beginning to be terribly afraid of him, and for a moment she hesitated, but at length, summoning all her courage, she wound her arms about his neck, and in low, earnest tones said, “Tell me truly, do you wish to marry me?”
“And suppose I do not?” he asked, with the same stony composure.
Stepping backward, Mabel stood proudly erect before him, and answered, “Then would I die rather than wed you!”
There was something in her appearance and attitude peculiarly attractive to John Jr. Never in his life had he felt so much interested in her, and drawing her toward him and placing his arm around her, he said, gently, “Be calm, little Meb, you are nervous to-night. Of course I wish you to be my wife, else I had not asked you. Are you satisfied?”
The joyous glance of the dark eyes lifted so confidingly to his, was a sufficient answer, and as if conscious of the injustice he was about to do her, John Jr. bent for an instant over her slight figure, mentally resolving, that so far as in him lay he would be true to his trust. There was a knock at the door, and Mrs. Livingstone herself looked in, pale, anxious, and expectant. Mr. Douglass, who was among the invited guests, had arrived, andmusthave an interview with John Jr. ere the ceremony. ’Twas in vain she attempted politely to waive his request. Hewouldsee him, and distracted with fear, she had at last conducted him into the upper hall, and out upon an open veranda, where in the moonlight he awaited the coming of the bridegroom, who, with some curiosity, approached him, asking what he wanted.
“It may seem strange to you,” said Mr. Douglass, “that I insist upon seeing you now, when another time might do as well, but I believe in having a fair understanding all round.”
“Meddling old rascal!” exclaimed Mrs. Livingstone, who, of course, was within hearing, bending her ears so as not to lose a word.
But in this she was thwarted, for drawing nearer to John Jr., Mr. Douglass said, so low as to prevent her catching anything further, save the sound of his voice:
“I do not accuse you of being at all mercenary, but such things have been, and there has something come to my knowledge to-day, which I deem it my duty to tell you, so that hereafter you can neither blame me nor Mabel.”
“What is it?” asked John Jr., and Mr. Douglass replied, “To be brief, then, Mabel’s large fortune is, with the exception of a few thousands, of which I have charge, all swept away by the recent failure of the Planters’ Bank, in which it was invested. I heard of it this morning, and determined on telling you, knowing that if you loved her for herself, it would make no difference, while if you loved her for her money, it were far better to stop here.”
Nothing could have been further from John’s thoughts than a desire for Mabel’s wealth, which, precious as it seemed in his mother’s eyes, was valueless to him, and after a moment’s silence, in which he was thinking what a rich disappointment it would be to his mother, who, he knew, prized Mabel only for her money, he exclaimed, “Good, I’m glad of it. I never sought Mabel’s hand for what there was in it, and I’m more ready to marry her now than ever. But,” he added, as a sudden impulse of good came over him, “She need not know it; it would trouble her uselessly, and for the present we’ll keep it from her.”
John Jr. had always been a puzzle to Mr. Douglass, who by turns censured and admired him, but now there was but one feeling in his bosom toward him, and that was one of unbounded respect. With a warm pressure of the hand he turned away, thinking, perchance, of his fair young daughter, who, far away o’er the Atlantic waves, little dreamed of the scene on which that summer moon was shining. As the conference ended; Mrs. Livingstone, who had learned nothing, glided, from her hiding-place, eagerly scanning her son’s face to see if there was aught to justify her fears. But there was nothing, and with her heart beating at its accustomed pace, she descended the stairs in time to meet Durward, who, having reached Woodlawn that day, had not heard of ’Lena’s decision.
“This way, Marster Bellmont—upstars is the gentleman’s room,” said the servant in attendance, and ascending the stairs, Durward met with Anna, asking her for her cousin.
“In there—go in,” said Anna, pointing to a half-open door, and then hurrying away to meet Malcolm, whose coming she had seen from the window.
Hesitatingly, Durward approached the chamber indicated, and as his knock met with no response, he ventured at last to enter unannounced into the presence of ’Lena, whom he had not met since that well-remembered night. Tastefully attired for the wedding in a simple white muslin, she sat upon a little stool with her face buried in the cushions of the sofa. She had heard his voice in the lower hall, and knowing she must soon meet him, she had for a moment abandoned herself to the tumult of bitter thoughts, which came sweeping over her in that trying hour. She was weeping—he knew that by the trembling of her body—and for an instant everything was forgotten.
Advancing softly toward her, he was about to lay his hand upon those clustering curls which fell unheeded around her, when the thought that from among them had been cut the hated tress which his mother had cast into the flames, arrested his hand, and he was himself again. Forcing down his emotion, he said, calmly, “Miss Rivers,” and starting quickly to her feet, ’Lena demanded proudly what he would have, and why he was there.
“Pardon me,” said he, as he marked her haughty bearing and glanced at her dress, which was hardly in accordance with that of a bridesmaid; “I supposed I was to be groomsman—am I mistaken?”
“So far as I am concerned you are, sir. I knew nothing of Mabel’s writing to you, or I should have prevented it, for after what has occurred, you cannot deem me weak enough to lend myself to such an arrangement.”
And ’Lena walked out of the room, while Durward looked after her in amazement, one moment admiring her spirit, and the next blaming Mabel for not informing him how matters stood. “But there’s no help for it now,” thought he, as he descended the stairs and made his way into the parlor, whither ’Lena had preceded him.
And thus ended an interview of which ’Lena had thought so much, hoping and praying that it might result in a reconciliation. But it was all over now—the breach was wider than ever—with half-benumbed faculties she leaned on the window, unconscious of the earnest desire he felt to approach her, for there was about her a strange fascination which it required all his power to resist.
When at last all was in readiness, a messenger was dispatched to John Jr., who, without a word, offered his arm to Mabel, and descending the broad staircase, they stood within the parlor in the spot which had been assigned them. Once during the ceremony he raised his eyes, encountering those of ’Lena, fixed upon him so reproachfully that with a scowl he turned away. Mechanically he went through with his part of the service, betraying no emotion whatever, until the solemn words which made them one were uttered. Then, when it was over—when he was bound to her forever—he seemed suddenly to awake from his apathy and think of what he had done. Crowding around him, they came with words of congratulation—all but ’Lena, who tarried behind, for she had none to give. Wretched as she was herself, she pitied the frail young bride, whose half-joyous, half-timid glances toward the frigid bridegroom, showed that already was she sipping from the bitter cup whose very dregs she was destined to drain.
In the recess of a window near to John Jr., Mr. Douglass and Durward stood, speaking together of Nellie, and though John shrank from the sound of her name, his hearing faculties seemed unusually sharpened, and he lost not a word of what they were saying.
“So Nellie is coming home in the autumn, I am told,” said Durward, “and I am glad of it, for I miss her much. But what is it about Mr. Wilbur’s marriage. Wasn’t it rather unexpected?”
“No, not very. Nellie knew before she went that he was engaged to Miss Allen, but at his sister’s request she kept it still. He found her at a boarding-school in Montreal, several years ago.”
“Will they remain in Europe?”
“For a time, at least, until Mary is better—but Nellie comes home with some friends from New Haven, whom she met in Paris;” then in a low tone Mr. Douglass added, “I almost dread the effect of this marriage upon her, for I am positive she liked him better than anyone else.”
The little white, blue-veined hand which rested on that of John Jr., was suddenly pressed so spasmodically, that Mabel looked up inquiringly in the face which had no thought for her, for Mr. Douglass’s words had fallen upon him like a thunderbolt, crushing him to the earth, and for a moment rendering him powerless. Instantly he comprehended it all. He had deceived himself, and by his impetuous haste lost all that he held most dear on earth. There was a cry of faintness, a grasping at empty space to keep from falling, and then forth into the open air they led the half-fainting man, followed by his frightened bride, who tenderly bathed his damp, cold brow, unmindful how he shrank from her, shuddering as he felt the touch of her soft hand, and motioning her aside when she stooped to part from his forehead the heavy locks of his hair.
That night, the pale starlight of another hemisphere kept watch over a gentle girl, who ’neath the blue skies of sunny France, dreamed of her distant home across the ocean wave; of the gray-haired man, who, with every morning light and evening shade, blessed her as his child; of another, whose image was ever present with her, whom from her childhood she had loved, and whom neither time nor distance could efface from her memory.
Later, and the silvery moon looked mournfully down upon the white, haggard face and heavy bloodshot eye of him who counted each long, dreary hour as it passed by, cursing the fate which had made him what he was, and unjustly hardening his heart against his innocent unsuspecting wife.