VII.—THE BRIDAL EVE.
One summer night, the blaze of many lights streaming from the windows
of an old mansion, perched yonder among the rocks and woods, flashed far
over the dark waters of Lake Champlain.
In a quiet and comfortable chamber of that mansion, a party of British
officers, sitting around a table spread with wines and viands, discussed a
topic of some interest, if it was not the most important in the world, while
the tread of the dancers shook the floor of the adjoining room.
Yes, while all gaiety and dance and music in the largest hall of the old
mansion, whose hundred lights glanced far over the waters of Champlain—
here in this quiet room, with the cool evening breeze blowing in their faces
thro' the opened windows, here this party of British officers had assembled
to discuss their wines and their favorite topic.
That topic was—the comparative beauty of the women of the world.
“As for me,” said a handsome young Ensign, “I will match the voluptuous
forms and dark eyes of Italy, against the beauties of all the world!”
“And I,” said a bronzed old veteran, who had risen to the Colonelcy by
his long service and hard fighting; “and I have a pretty lass of a daughter
there in England, whose blue eyes and flaxen hair would shame your tragic
beauties of Italy into very ugliness.”
“I have served in India, as you all must know,” said the Major, who sat
next to the veteran, “and I never saw painting or statue, much less living
woman, half so lovely as some of those Hindoo maidens, bending down with
water-lillies in their hands; bending down by the light of torches, over the
dark waves of the Ganges.”
And thus, one after another, Ensign, Colonel, and Major, had given their
opinion, until that young American Refugee, yonder at the foot of the table,
is left to decide the argument. That American—for I blush to say it—
handsome young fellow as he is, with a face full of manly beauty, blue deep
eyes, ruddy cheeks, and glossy brown hair, that American is a Refugee, and
a Captain in the British army.—He wore the handsome scarlet coat, the
glittering epaulette, lace ruffles on his bosom and around his wrists.
“Come, Captain, pass the wine this way!” shouted the Ensign; “pass
the wine and decide this great question! Which are the most beautiful:
the red cheeks of Merry England, the dark eyes of Italy, or the graceful
forms of Hindoostan?'
The Captain hesitated for a moment, and then tossing off a bumper of
old Madeira, somewhat flushed as he was with wine, replied:
“Mould your three models of beauty, your English lass, your Italian
queen, your Hindoo nymph, into one, and add to their charms a thousand
graces of color and form and feature, and I would not compare this perfection
of loveliness for a single moment, with the wild and artless beauty of—an
American girl.”
The laugh of the three officers, for a moment, drowned the echo of the
dance in the next room.
“Compare his American milk-maid with the woman of Italy!”
“Or the lass of England!”
“Or the graceful Hindoo girl!”
This laughing scorn of the British officers, stung the handsome Refugee
to the quick.
“Hark ye!” he cried, half rising from his seat, with a flushed brow, but
a deep and deliberate voice: “To-morrow, I marry a wife: an American
girl?—To-night, at midnight too, that American girl will join the dance in
the next room. You shall see her—you shall judge for yourselves!
Whether the American woman is not the most beautiful in the world!”
There was something in the manner of the young Refugee, more than in
the nature of his information, that arrested the attention of his brother officers.—For
a moment they were silent.
“We have heard something of your marriage, Captain,” said the gay
Ensign, “but we did not think it would occur so suddenly? Only think
of it! To-morrow you will be gone—settled—verdict brought in—sentence
passed—a married man!—But tell me? How will your lady-love be
brought to this house to night? I thought she resided within the rebel lines?”
“She does reside there! But I have sent a messenger—a friendly Indian
chief, on whom I can place the utmost dependence—to bring her from her
present home, at dead of night thro' the forest, to this mansion. He is to
return by twelve; it is now half-past eleven!”
“Friendly Indian!” echoed the veteran Colonel; “Rather an odd guardian
for a pretty woman!—Quite an original idea of a Duenna, I vow!”
“And you will match this lady against all the world, for beauty?” said
the Major.
“Yes, and if you do not agree with me, this hundred guineas which I lay
upon the table, shall serve our mess, for wines, for a month to come! But
if you do agree with me—as without a doubt you will—then you are to replace
this gold with a hundred guineas of your own.”
“Agreed! It is a wager!” chorussed the Colonel and the two other
officers.
And in that moment—while the door-way was thronged by fair ladies
and gay officers, attracted from the next room by the debate—as the Refugee
stood, with one hand resting upon the little pile of gold, his ruddy face
grew suddenly pale as a shroud, his blue eyes dilated, until they were encircled
by a line of white enamel, he remained standing there, as if frozen
to stone.
“Why, captain, what is the matter?” cried the Colonel, starting up in
alarm, “do you see a ghost, that you stand gazing there, at the blank wall?”
The other officers also started up in alarm, also asked the cause of this
singular demeanor, but still, for the space of a minute or more, the Refugee
Captain stood there, more like a dead man suddenly recalled to life, than a
living being.
That moment passed, he sat down with a cold shiver; made a strong
effort as if to command his reason; and then gave utterance to a forced
laugh.
“Ha, ha! See how I've frightened you!” he said—and then laughed
that cold, unnatural, hollow laugh again.
And yet, half an hour from that time, he freely confessed the nature
of the horrid picture which he had seen drawn upon that blank, wainscotted
wall, as if by some supernatural hand.
But now, with the wine cup in his hand, he turned from one comrade to
another, uttering some forced jest, or looking towards the doorway, crowded
by officers and ladies, he gaily invited them to share in this remarkable
argument: Which were the most beautiful women in the world?
As he spoke, the hour struck.
Twelve o'clock was there, and with it a footstep, and then a bold Indian
form came urging through the crowd of ladies, thronging yonder doorway.
Silently, his arms folded on his war-blanket, a look of calm stoicism on
his dusky brow, the Indian advanced along the room, and stood at the head
of the table. There was no lady with him!
Where is the fair girl? She who it is to be the Bride to-morrow?
Perhaps the Indian has left her in the next room, or in one of the other
halls of the old mansion, or perhaps—but the thought is a foolish one—she
has refused to obey her lover's request—refused to come to meet him!
There was something awful in the deep silence that reigned through the
room, as the solitary Indian stood there, at the head of the table, gazing
silently in the lover's face.
“Where is she?” at last gasped the Refugee. “She has not refused to
come? Tell me—has any accident befallen her by the way? I know the
forest is dark, and the wild path most difficult—tell me: where is the lady
for whom I sent you into the Rebel lines?”
For a moment, as the strange horror of that lover's face was before him,
the Indian was silent. Then as his answer seemed trembling on his lips,
the ladies in yonder doorway, the officers from the ball-room, and the party
round the table, formed a group around the two central figures—the Indian,
standing at the head of the table, his arms folded in his war-blanket—that
young officer, half rising from his seat, his lips parted, his face ashy, his
clenched hands resting on the dark mahogony of the table.
The Indian answered first by an action, then by a word.
First the action: Slowly drawing his right hand from his war-blanket, he
held it in the light. That right hand clutched with blood-stained fingers, a
bleeding scalp, and long and glossy locks of beautiful dark hair!
Then the word: “Young warrior sent the red man for the scalp of the
pale-faced squaw! Here it is!”
Yes—the rude savage had mistaken his message! Instead of bringing
the bride to her lover's arms, he had gone on his way, determined to bring
the scalp of the victim to the grasp of her pale face enemy.
Not even a groan disturbed the silence of that dreadful moment. Look
there! The lover rises, presses that long hair—so black, so glossy, so
beautiful—to his heart, and then—as though a huge weight, falling on his
brain, had crushed him, fell with one dead sound on the hard floor.
He lay there—stiff, and pale, and cold—his clenched right hand still
clutching the bloody scalp, and the long dark hair falling in glossy tresses
over the floor!
This was his bridal eve!
Now tell me, my friends, you who have heard some silly and ignorant
pretender, pitifully complain of the destitution of Legend, Poetry, Romance,
which characterises our National History—tell me, did you ever read a tradition
of England, or France or Italy, or Spain, or any land under the
Heavens, that might, in point of awful tragedy, compare with the simple
History of David Jones and John M'Crea? For it is but a scene from this
narrative, with which you have all been familiar from childhood, that I have
given you.
When the bridegroom, flung there on the floor, with the bloody scalp and
long dark tresses in his hands, arose again to the terrible consciousness of
life—those words trembled from his lips, in a faint and husky whisper:
“Do you remember how, half an hour ago—I stood there—by the table
—silent, and pale, and horror-stricken—while you all started up round me,
asking me what horrid sight I saw? Then, oh then, I beheld the horrid
scene—that home, yonder by the Hudson river, mounting to Heaven in the
smoke and flames! The red forms of Indians going to and fro, amid flame
and smoke—tomahawk and torch in hand! There, amid dead bodies and
smoking embers, I beheld her form—my bride—for whom I had sent the
messenger—kneeling, pleading for mercy, even as the tomahawk crashed
into her brain!”
As the horrid picture again came o'er his mind, he sank senseless again,
still clutching that terrible memorial—the bloody scalp and long black hair!
That was an awful Bridal Eve.
