University of Virginia Library

5. CHAPTER V.
THE BRIDAL DAY.

“It was the veriest farce in all the world, the marriage
of Frederic Raymond with a child of fifteen;”
at least so said Agnes Gibson of twenty-five,
and so said sundry other guests who at the appointed
hour assembled in the parlor of Redstone Hall, to
witness the sacrifice—not of Frederic as they vainly
imagined, but of the unsuspecting Marian.

He knew what he did, and why he did it, while she,
blindfolded as it were, was about to leap into the uncertain
future. No such gloomy thoughts as these,
however, intruded themselves upon her mind as she
stood before her mirror and with trembling fingers
made her simple bridal toilet. When first the idea of
marrying Frederic was suggested to her nearly as
much pride as love had mingled in her thoughts, for
Marian was not without her ambition, and the honor
of being the mistress of Redstone Hall had influenced
her decision. But during the two weeks since her
engagement, her heart had gone out toward him with
a deep absorbing love, and had he now been the
poorest man in all the world and she a royal princess,
she would have spurned the wealth that kept her
from him, or gladly have laid it at his feet for the
sake of staying with him and knowing that he wished
it. And this was the girl whom Frederic Raymond
was about to wrong by making her his wife when he
knew he did not love her. But she should never

know it, he said—should never suspect that nothing
but his hand and name went with the words he was so
soon to utter, and he determined to be true to her and
faithful to his marriage vow.

Some doubt he had as to the effect his father's letter
might have upon her, and once he resolved that
she should never see it; but this was an idle thought,
not to be harbored for a moment. He had told her
when she asked him for it the last time that she
should have it on her bridal day; for so his father
willed it, and he would keep his word. He had written
to Isabel at the very last, for though he was not
bound to her by a promise he knew an explanation of
his conduct was due to her, and he forced himself to
write it. Not a word did he say against Marian, but
he gave her to understand that but for his father the
match would never have been made—that circumstances
over which he had no control compelled him
to do what he was doing. He should never forget
the pleasant hours spent in her society, he said, and
he closed by asking her to visit the future Mrs. Raymond
at Redstone Hall. It cost him a bitter struggle
to write thus indifferently to one he loved so well, but
it was right, he said, and when the letter was finished
he felt that the last tie which bound him to Isabel was
sundered, and there was nothing for him now but to
make the best of Marian. So when on their bridal
morning she came to him and asked his wishes concerning
her dress, he answered her very kindly, “As
you are in mourning you had better make no change,
besides I think black very becoming to your fair
complexion.”

This was the first compliment he had ever paid her,
and her heart thrilled with delight, but when, as she
was leaving the room he called her back and said,
still gently, kindly, “Would you as soon wear your
hair plain? I do not quite fancy ringlets,” her eyes
filled with tears, for she remembered the corkscrew

curls, and glancing in the mirror at her wavy hair,
she wished it were possible to remedy the defect.

“I will do the best I can,” she said, and returning
to her room, she commenced her operations, but it
was a long, tedious process, the combing out of those
curls, for her hair was tenacious of its rights, and even
when she thought it subdued and let go of the end, it
rolled up about her forehead in tight round rings, as if
spurning alike both water and brush.

“I'd like to see the man what could make me yank
out my wool like that,” muttered Dinah, who was
watching the straightening process with a lowering
brow, inasmuch as it reflected dishonor upon her own
crisped locks. “If the Lord made yer har to curl,
war it so, and not mind every freak of his'n. Fust
you know, he'll be a-wantin' you to war yer face on
t'other side of yer head, but 'taint no way to do. You
must begin as you can hold out. In a few hours
you'll have as much right here as he has, and I'd show
it, too, by pitchin' inter us niggers and jawin' to kill.
I shall know you don't mean nothin' and shan't keer.
Come to think on't, though, I reckon you'd better let
me and the Smitherses be and begin with them Higginses.
I'd give it to old Hetty good—she 'sarves to
be took down a button hole lower, if ever a nigger
did, for she said a heap o' stuff about you.”

Marian smiled a kind of quiet happy smile and
went on with her task, which was finished at last, and
her luxuriant hair was bound at the back of her head
in a large flat knot. The effect was not becoming and
she knew it, but if Frederic liked it she was satisfied,
even if Dinah did demur, telling her she looked like
“a cat whose ears had been boxed.” Frederic did
not like it, but after the pains she had taken he would
not tell her so, and when she said to him, “I am
ready,” he offered her his arm and went silently down
the stairs to the parlor, where guests and clergymen
were waiting.

The day was bright and beautiful, for the light of

the glorious Indian Summer sun was resting on the
Kentucky hills, and through the open window the
murmuring ripple of the Elkhorn came, while the
balmy breath of the south wind swept over the white
face of the bride, and lifted from her neck the few
stray locks which, escaping from their confinement,
curled naturally in their accustomed place. But to
the assembled guests there seemed in all a note of
sadness, a warning voice which said the time for this
bridal was not yet; and years after, when the beautiful
mistress of Redstone Hall rode by in her handsome
carriage, Agnes Gibson told to her little sister
how on that November day the cheeks of both bride
and bridegroom paled as if with mortal fear when the
words were spoken which made them one.

Whether it were the newness of her position, or a
presentiment of coming evil Marian could not tell, but
into her heart there crept a chill as she glanced timidly
at the man who stood so silently beside her, and
thought, “He is my husband.” It was, indeed, a
sombre wedding—“more like a funeral,” the guests
declared, as immediately after dinner they took their
leave and commented upon the affair as people always
will. Oh, how Frederic longed yet dreaded to
have them go. He could not endure their congratulations,
which to him were meaningless, and he had
no wish to be alone. He was recovering from his
apathy, and could yesterday have been his again, he
believed he would have broken his promise. But
yesterday had gone and to-morrow had come—it was
to-day, now, with him, and Marian was his wife.
Turn which way he would, the reality was the same,
and with an intense loathing of himself and a deep pity
for her, he feigned some trivial excuse and went away
to his room, where, with the gathering darkness and
his own wretched thoughts, he would be alone.

With strange unrest Marian wandered from room to
room, wondering if Frederic had so soon grown
weary of her presence, and sometimes half wishing

that she were Marian Lindsey again, and that the
new name by which they called her belonged to some
one else. At last, when it was really dark—when the
lamps were lighted in the parlor and Alice had wept
a bitter, passionate good-night in her arms and gone
to sleep, she bethought her of the letter. She could
read it now. She had complied with all the stipulations,
and there was no longer a reason why it should
be withheld. She went to Frederic's door; but he
was not there, and a servant passing in the hall said
he had returned to the parlor while she was busy with
Alice. So to the parlor Marian went, finding him
sitting unemployed and wrapped in gloomy thought.
He heard her step upon the carpet, but standing in
the shadow as she did, she could not see the look of
pain which flitted over his face at her approach.

“Frederic,” she said, “I may read the letter now—
will you give me the key?”

Mechanically he did as she desired, and then with a
slightly uneasy feeling as to the effect the letter might
have upon her, he went back to his reflections, while
she started to leave the room. When she reached the
door she paused a moment and looked back. In giving
her the key he had changed his position, and she
could see the suffering expression of his white face.
Quickly returning to his side, she said anxiously, “Are
you sick?”

“Nothing but a headache. You know I am accustomed
to that,” he replied.

Marian hesitated a moment—then parting the damp
brown hair from off his forehead she kissed him timidly
and left the room. Involuntarily Frederic raised
his hand to wipe the spot away, but something stayed
the act and whispered to him that a wife's first kiss
was a holy thing and could never be repeated!

Through the hall the nimble feet of Marian sped until
she stood within her late guardian's room, and
there she stopped, for the atmosphere seemed oppressive
and laden with terror.

“'Tis because it's so dark,” she said, and going out
into the hall, she took a lamp from the table and then
returned.

But the olden feeling was with her still—a feeling
as if she were treading some fearful gulf, and she was
half tempted to turn back even now, and ask Frederic
to come with her while she read the letter.

“I will not be so foolish, though,” she said, and
opening the library door she walked boldly in; but
the same Marian who entered there never came out
again!