 | XII.
THE WEDDING. Neighbor Jackwood |  |
12. XII.
THE WEDDING.
There was to be a wedding in the village, to which the Dunburys
were invited; and it devolved upon Hector to represent the
family. To his mother's surprise and gratification, he engaged to
undertake the responsibility, upon one condition. “Charlotte,”
said he, “shall go with me.”
Charlotte shrank from the thought of seeing society; but she
had no good excuse to offer — not even on the score of dress; for
since her residence with the Dunburys she had been liberally provided
for, in that respect. Notwithstanding, therefore, certain
forebodings she had, she suffered herself to be overcome by solicitation,
and gave her promise to accompany Hector.
The ceremony was to take place in the evening; and in due
season Corny brought the horse and buggy to the door.
“It is a brave wedding we are going to!” said Hector, as
he drove away. “The fair young bride is in her thirty-fifth summer,
— a little gray and faded, but for the virtues of a judicious
hair-wash, and the excellent care taken of her complexion. When
I was a school-boy, aged ten, she was the belle of the village, and
had as many lovers as she could count on her fingers and toes.
Old men renewed their age to become her suitors, and boys were
as sure to fall in love with her as they were to have down on
their chins. It was expected of them, just as we look for measles
in children. I was one of the predestinated, and at sixteen experienced
two days of excessive melancholy in consequence of a
rejection. Well, having suffered the first and second generation
of her admirers to pass away, she has chosen one out of a third
thin brood of weaklings, who have managed to get up a feeble
show of the ancient custom, in these latter days.”
Charlotte hoped the bridegroom was worthy.
“O, he is worthy enough, — although, to speak truth, she
would not have lowered even her haughty glance to his level, five
years ago.”
“Why will she now, then?”
“Because he stands to her in the interesting position of a last
chance for a husband. And it is so very horrible to live an old
maid, you know!”
“But,” said Charlotte, “it is dreadful — such a union!”
“O, it will do, it will do, as matches average!”
Arrived at the bride's house, Hector and Charlotte were ushered
into the presence of a large company in a crowded apartment, —
some silent, some conversing in subdued voices, and all very
solemn.
“If I had never been to a wedding before,” whispered Hector,
“I should think we had made a mistake, and got into a funeral.”
Suddenly there was a hush, and the happy pair, appearing with
the bridesmaids and groomsmen, marched to the place assigned
them in the light of the wax candles. The centre of observation
was of course the bride. She was of such commanding presence,
that the pretty Mr. Creston, with his weak face and slender shoulders,
seemed scarce noticeable at her side.
“How pale she looks!” said Bertha Wing, who sat with Mr.
Rukely, at Charlotte's left hand. “What a strange brightness in
her eye!”
Hector turned with a smile which sent the blood tingling to
her cheeks.
“She is taking her last look at her bright ideal, Bertha. Or
perhaps the phantoms of a thousand old-time lovers are flitting
between her and the light.”
Bertha, troubled: “She will be happier when it is all over.”
Hector: “So you may say of a drowning man!”
Mr. Rukely, mildly: “Let us have charity!”
Hector: “Amen, with all my heart! Yet it stirs the gall
within me, to see a woman, capable of loving, desecrate the sanctity
of her soul by mumbling vows with one utterly powerless to
call her passion out!”
Bertha, becoming suddenly pale as the bride, looked hastily
around, to see if the remark had been overheard. Mr. Rukely
smiled benignly, and, making a sign for silence, directed attention
to the ceremony.
This was performed by a staid old clergyman of the village,
who married the happy couple fast and strong, and blessed the
union. Congratulations and kisses followed; and at length
refreshments were introduced, — jellies, nuts, coffee, and several
kinds of costly cake, all very fine and very indigestible, together
with a feast of reason, to which the company was invited by the
bridegroom's uncle. He was a wrinkle-browed, snuff-taking, old-fashioned
individual, with a wise grimace, spectacles, and stiff
iron-gray hair stuck up all over his head.
“My daughter Etty,” said he, enunciating with slow precision,
“has prepared a poetical address, appropriate to the occasion,
which she will proceed to deliver. — Etty!”
A girl of thirteen, with a large forehead and great eyes, supposed
to be a genius, stepped forward promptly.
“It 's all her own composition,” remarked the child's mother,
by way of prologue. “She wrote it without any assistance.”
“Mrs. Greenwich,” interrupted her husband, with lofty disapprobation,
“I am talking now! Daughter!” — raising his hand,
— “one, two, three, — begin!”
At the word, Etty rattled away, like a militia company firing at
command, with a volley of blank verses levelled at the newly-married
pair.
Mother, parenthetically: “Not quite so fast, daughter.”
Father, severely: “I 'll dictate, if you please, Mrs. Greenwich!”
The lady nodded deferentially. Etty went on, holding her
hands stiffly folded across her lap, and looking down, as if reciting
to the carpet. The substance of the poem was, that the happy
pair were a strong oak and a graceful vine yoked together in the
car of matrimony, and sailing over a sapphire ocean, in a little Eden
of their own, full of flowery fountains, rainbows, the prodigal son,
and the wise virgins with the oil in their lamps. Quite a round
of applause greeted the conclusion.
“I want you all to understand,” said the mother of the genius,
“that the poem was composed in one hour and forty minutes —”
“Mrs. Greenwich! I was about to speak!”
Mrs. G., meekly: “O, certainly!”
Mr. G.: “Daughter!”
Young genius, prettily: “What, father?”
“I want you to recite the last part again, commencing at the
line, `There Flora spreads,' and let your voice rise at `spangled
groves.' Slowly and distinctly.”
Encouraged by the praises already bestowed, Etty repeated the
concluding lines with improved confidence, and won additional
applause. The bride, who had borne up under the infliction with
smiling patience, thanked the little prodigy for her compliments
and good wishes, and asked for a copy of the verses.
“A copy for me, too, Etty,” said the bridegroom.
Blushing bridesmaid: “I speak for a copy!”
Two or three, in a breath: “Me, too, Etty!”
Chorus of voices: “Wonderful genius!” — “Be-e-e-eautiful!”
— “Sweet pretty!” — “Ought to be printed!”
Mr. Greenwich: “Daughter, what have you got to say?”
Young genius, ready with a speech: “I thank you all very
kindly for your good opinion —”
Mrs. Greenwich, in a whisper: “Go on, — what is it about
talents?”
“If God has seen fit to endow me with talents, I ought not to
take any credit to myself, but show my gratitude by trying to
make a good use of them. At the same time, I trust my friends
will be less ready to praise than to tell me of my faults.”
More applause. Little prodigy's head quite turned. Mrs. G.
excited and silly. Mr. G. prosy on the subject of his daughter's
talents.
Bertha, holding Etty's hand: “Come and see me, and I 'll give
you a pretty subject for a poem.”
Hector: “Come and see me, and I 'll give you something
better.”
Young genius, with a curtsey: “Thank you! May I ask
what it would be?”
Hector: “Some good advice.”
Young genius: “I suppose you do not like my poetry, then.”
“My child,” said Hector, kindly, drawing her towards him, “I
like you” — he dropped his voice — “much better than I like
your verses. You can afford to let me say so much, can't you,
since everybody else is praising them? You said your friends
were to tell you of your faults; and if you would like to have me
mention one little one, to begin with —”
The genius repulsed him peevishly, and went pouting to her
mother.
Mrs. G., resentfully: “What have you been saying to her?”
Hector smiled: “The truth, simply. Is she so unaccustomed
to the taste of that article, that it bites her tongue?”
There was a good deal of disapprobation expressed, in an indirect
way, against Hector's proceeding, generally by those who
experienced a secret joy at the young prodigy's discomfiture.
“And you, Charlotte, — you blame me with the rest?”
“Were you not a little cruel?” answered Charlotte.
“Charlotte,” — a deep emotion struggled in Hector's voice, —
“I could endure that every person here to-night should misjudge
me, malign me, think me ill-natured and egotistical, except you!”
The young girl felt a joyous thrill. Why was it? Had she
not believed and preached to her poor heart, night and day, that
there was, there could be, no one single slenderest tie of sympathy
between her and Hector?
“I was cruel,” said he, “because I would be kind. And,
believe me, to wound the poor child's feelings as I did, was the
hardest thing I have had to do for weeks, — except when I have
so often wounded yours!”
“You thought it necessary to give me pain!”
“Yes, — and no. I cannot explain now. I have wronged you!
Not so much in my acts as in my thoughts. I have so much to
say to you!”
Charlotte could not speak one word. She could not raise her
eyes. The sound of Mr. Rukely's voice recalled her to herself.
He had taken Hector's place at her side. But his words rustled
merely, and fell away from her like husks. He left her to give
of an admiring circle, and frivolous young men brought compliments
to purchase her smiles. Their commonplace prattle wearied
her; it cost an effort to treat them with civility; and she was
glad when the arrival of an unexpected guest occasioned a whirl
of interest, which left her, for a moment, free to follow her own
thoughts.
Her mind was with Hector. Amid all the throng and buzz, she
saw his form and heard the music of his voice alone. Until ONE
came between her and him. It was the new guest. She saw the
two shake hands with a certain freedom which betokened old
familiar acquaintance. She saw the new face, she heard the new
voice, she felt the new presence, with a sudden overwhelming
shock. What followed she knew not, until she found herself, all
unnerved and shaken, clinging to the door of the dressing-room,
whither she had instinctively fled.
It was a small apartment, with a bed at one side, covered with
bonnets and shawls, and a bureau opposite, on which there was a
lamp burning dimly in the gloom. In utter helplessness, she sank
upon a chair. But a rustling of the bed-curtains warned her that
she was not alone. Among the garments thrown upon the side
of the bed, an object moved, arose, and turned upon her a child's
face, with eyes that shone large, and red, and swollen, in the dull
light of the lamp. It was Etty, the genius.
“Have you seen him?” she asked, timidly.
Charlotte controlled as well as she could the agitation of her
heart, and said, kindly, “Have I seen whom?”
“My brother Robert. I had been crying; and he always
used to dislike me when I cried, — so I ran in here. He has
been away a year; and I have wanted him to come home so
much! But he won't care to see me, — do you think he will?”
The child seemed to cling to Charlotte for sympathy and
help. She was a child indeed then. The genius and the prodigy
had disappeared. The hard shell of affectation, in which
her young nature was cased, was burst by the swelling of her
heart.
“Yes,” — Charlotte scarce knowing what she said, — “I am
sure he will be glad to see you, — if he is your brother.”
“But he never answered my letters, and I wrote him such long
ones, and took so much pains with them! I wish you would go
out with me to see him!”
“O, no, — that would do no good! All your friends are out
there; and I — I am a stranger to all of you, you know.”
“I don't care; you don't seem so. I 'd rather you would go
with me, than mother, or father, or any of them. I can't tell
why, but you make me feel so.”
Charlotte took the child in her arms, and pressed her close.
“You are a good girl,” said she, “and I 'm sure your brother
can't help loving you, if you are always simple and true.”
“He says I am so odd!”
“Perhaps that is because you try too hard to be a lady, and
are not enough a child. But no matter now. Go out and see
him. And — would you be afraid to speak to Mr. Dunbury?”
“He did n't like my poetry!” said the child, quickly.
“Perhaps the fault was as much in your poetry as in him,”
suggested Charlotte.
“I know it was! They were silly lines, and I never will write
any more as long as I live!”
“O, yes, you will write more, — and write a great deal better
for what he told you. I know he meant it kindly.”
“I will speak to him, if you wish me to,” said Etty, thoughtfully.
“And say that I am here, and would like to see him.”
The child was glad to do anything to oblige her new friend;
and, having dried her eyes, and made Charlotte tell her again
that her brother would be glad to see her, she went timidly forth.
Left to her own thoughts, Charlotte endeavored to be calm.
She felt a powerful impulse to tell Hector everything, throw herself
upon his mercy, and then, if he cast her from him — Cast her
from him! The thought chilled her; and when, at length, she
heard a hand on the latch, she shrank within herself, and would,
if possible, have fled even from his sight.
But the comer was not Hector. It was Etty again.
“I dropped my handkerchief,” said the child, getting down to
look for it on the floor.
“Here it is, by my feet.” Charlotte took it up, and gave it
her.
Etty, wiping her eyes: “Thank you. I told Mr. Dunbury, and
he said he would come. I saw Robert, too; but he only just
looked at me, and went on talking and laughing with the rest, as
if I was nobody! I don't care now! He hates me, and I might
have known he would.”
At that moment Hector entered. Etty tried to escape, but he
caught her in his arms.
“Do you dislike me very much for what I said?”
She hid her face; and Hector kissed her forehead.
“I believed that you had a true heart, and a real desire to do
well,” he said, kindly; “so I thought it best to tell you of your
faults, in order that you might correct them. You must be
patient and humble, and aim at something more excellent than
indiscriminate praise, if you would have your wings grow out
beautiful and strong. You have wings; but, O, you only flutter
with them a little now, instead of flying into the very dome of
heaven, as your flatterers would have you think. This is what I
wanted to say to you; now, if you dislike me for it, I am very
sorry.”
Hector kissed her again, and told her that she might go. How
noble and good he seemed to Charlotte then! Etty felt comforted.
He had touched a chord that had never been touched before.
As he was about to speak again, the door opened. A qualm
smote Charlotte's heart, as she heard once more the tones of that
dreaded voice.
“Ah! here is the fugitive!” The speaker paused at the door.
Charlotte felt cold from head to foot. But she did not stir, nor
raise her eyes, nor betray any sign of emotion, save in the pallor
of her face. — “I beg pardon!” — smiling and bowing. “Is that
you, Hector? Who would have thought of stumbling upon
you here? I suppose I ought to know that lady, too — but —
such a dim, religious light — excuse me, — I was looking for
that choice sister of mine.”
He patted Etty's cheek, — at the same time, his keen eyes
glancing at Charlotte.
“We have just been getting a little acquainted,” said Hector,
giving Etty into her brother's arms. “She is too good a heart to
be a sister of yours.”
“So our beloved mother says! She thought I hurt your feelings,
just now, sis, and sent me to ask your forgiveness.”
“O, no — you did not —”
“She has scolded me, too, for not answering your letters. You
did n't mind that, though, — for you knew I never liked school-girl
compositions. Come, don't pout! I was in hopes you had
outgrown your odd ways. Is this lady your friend, too?”
Etty, struggling from him, reached the door and escaped. He
followed her, pausing, as he went, to apologize once more for his
intrusion. Then Hector, impatient, closed the door, and returned
to Charlotte's side.
“What is this? Why are you so pale?” He gave her his
hand; but, rising up, she tottered to the window. “Charlotte,
what can I do for you?”
“Take me home — let me see no one — say that I am ill.
When I am calm, I will tell you. Be my friend — until then!”
“Till then — and forever!” exclaimed Hector. “Trust in me;
lean upon my arm; and the world shall wrench my life out, before
I will let you go. Sit here till I come back. Courage, dear
heart, courage!”
She made haste to find her things and put them on; and by
the time he returned, she was ready to accompany him. They
went out together unobserved. His buggy was at the door; he
helped her in; then, seated by his side, with the darkness of the
road before them, the lighted windows behind, and the silence and
the starlight all around, the excitement which had nerved her
flight subsided, and she sank helpless as an infant on his arm.
At length, putting his arm gently away: “How inconsistent I
must appear to you! Still you have patience with me!”
“Patience, Charlotte? For weeks I have studied you with
jealous eyes. If ever soul read soul, mine has read yours, — and
I am satisfied. I wronged you once, as I told you. You had
slandered yourself in my ear; and it was my fortune to hear an
evil report, that I construed into an interpretation of what remained
told me; I am ashamed to confess the source from which it came;
— but, Charlotte, it was by the very strength of my interest in
you that I became so weak.”
“Perhaps you were not weak — perhaps you saw me better
then than you do now.”
“Stop!” said Hector. “No more self-slander. I know you,
Charlotte. By treating you harshly,— by appearing cruel, bitter,
disdainful, — I have discovered the depth and sweetness of your
nature. What inward conflicts have heaved and torn me, the
while! O, Charlotte, if you knew! But no more of this. I see
you crushed to-night beneath a burden; let me first take that
away, — then we can talk.”
“Not now — my tongue is numb! — To-morrow —”
“To-morrow we may have no opportunity. I expect company.”
“Company?”
“After I left you in the dressing-room, Robert Greenwich got
me by the button, and told me he should try to call to-morrow
afternoon: he will probably be with us at tea.”
Hector went on talking, but Charlotte heard no more. She did
not answer when he spoke to her. At length she repeated, vacantly,
“At tea? Did you say, to-morrow?”
“Your mind is on some other subject. Let Robert Greenwich
go. He is nothing to you or me, to-night.”
“Did he — did he speak — of me?”
“He apologized again for intruding upon us, and said he hoped
to meet you to-morrow.”
That she had been recognized by the man she dreaded, Charlotte
could no longer doubt. She tried to tell Hector all her fear
and despair; but misgivings chilled her heart, and sealed her lips,
and sent her to her lonely room, that night, with the heavy secret
of her life still pent up in her soul.
| XII.
THE WEDDING. Neighbor Jackwood | |