University of Virginia Library

37. CHAPTER XXXVII.
THE BRIDAL.

The week went by as all weeks will, whether laden with
happiness or pain, and the rosy light of the 15th morning
broke over the New England hills and over Collingwood,
where the servants, headed by Grace Atherton, were all
astir, and busy with their preparations for the festive scene
of the coming night. Edith had made strenuous efforts
to have the party given up, sending message after message
to Richard, who, without any good reason for it, was
determined upon this one point, and always answered
“No.”

He had adhered to his resolution of staying in his room,
and Edith had not seen him since the eventful day when
he had made the great sacrifice. Arthur, however, was
admitted daily to his presence, always coming from those
interviews with a sad look upon his face, as if his happiness
were not unmixed with pain. And still Richard
tried to be cheerful, talking but little of Edith, and appearing
so calm when he did mention her, that a casual
observer would have said he did not care.

In the village nothing was talked about save the change
of bridegrooms and the approaching wedding, and when
the morning came, others than the inmates of Collingwood
were busy and excited.

It was a glorious day, for leafy June had donned her
gala robes for the occasion, and every heart, save one, beat
with joy, as the sun rose higher and higher in the heavens,

bringing nearer and nearer the appointed hour. Richard
could not be glad, and that bridal day was the saddest he
had ever known. Not even Arthur was permitted to be
with him, and none save Victor saw the white, still anguish
creeping over his face as hour after hour went by, and
from the sounds without he knew that they had come
whose business it was to array his Edith in her bridal
robes of costly satin and fleecy lace. Then two more
hours dragged heavily on, and going to his window he
felt that the sun was setting. It was time his own toilet
was commenced, and like a little child he submitted himself
to Victor, groaning occasionally as he heard the merry
laugh of the bridesmaids on the stairs, and remembered
a time when he, too, felt as light, as joyous as they, aye,
and almost as young. He was strangely altered now,
and looked far older than his years, when, with his wedding
garments on, he sat in his arm-chair waiting for the
bride. He had sent Victor for her, knowing it would be
better to meet her once before the trying moment at the
altar. Edith obeyed the summons, and in all her wondrous
beauty, which this night shone forth resplendently, she
came and stood before him, saying softly,

“Richard, I am here.”

There was no need to tell him that. He knew she was
there, and drawing her to his side, he said,

“I am glad that I am blind for once, for should I behold
you as you are, I could not give you up. Kneel down here,
darling, and let me feel how beautiful you are.”

She knelt before him, and her tears fell fast as she felt
his hand moving slowly over her dress, pressing lightly
her round arms, pausing for a moment upon her white
neck, tarrying still longer upon her glowing cheeks, and
finally resting in mute blessing upon her braids of hair,
where the orange blossoms were.

“I must have a lock of my Birdie's hair,” he said. “Let
Arthur cut it off to-night. It will be dearer to me than

if 'tis later severed. Leave it on the table, where Victor
can find it, for, Edith, when you return from your bridal
tour, I shall be gone, and I have sent for you because
I would talk with you again ere we part — it may be for
years, and it may be forever.”

“No, Richard, no,” Edith sobbed. “You must not go
away. I want you here with us.”

“It is best that I go for a while,” he replied. “I am
almost as much at home in Europe as I am here, and Victor
is anxious to see Paris again. I have talked with
Arthur about it, asking him to live here while I am gone
at least and take charge of my affairs. He had thought
to rebuild Grassy Spring, but finally consented to defer it
for a time and do as I desired. The negroes will be
pleased with this arrangement, and as Grace must wish to
be rid of them, they will come up here at once. I shall be
happier knowing that you are here; and when I feel that
I can, I will come back again, but do not let thoughts of
the wanderer mar your bliss. I have been thinking it
over, Edith, and I see more and more that it was right
for me to release you. I do not censure you for aught
except that you did not tell me in the beginning. For
this I did blame you somewhat, but have forgiven you
now.”

“Oh, Richard, Richard,” Edith burst out impetuously,
“I never loved you one half so much as since you gave
me to Arthur, and I have wanted to come and tell you
so, but you would not let me.”

He knew what kind of love she meant, and his heart
beat just the same as she continued,

“I wanted to tell you how sorry I am that I was ever
cross to you, and I have been many times since that night
I promised to be yours. I don't know what made me.
I do not feel so now.”

“I know what made you,” Richard replied. “You
did not love the blind old man well enough to be his wife,

and the feeling that you must be, soured your disposition.
Forgive me, darling, but I don't believe I should have
been happy with you after a time — not as happy as Arthur,
and it is this which helps me bear it.”

This was not very complimentary to Edith, but it comforted
her just as Richard meant it should, and made the
future look brighter. Richard was dearer to her now than
he had ever been, and the tender, loving caress she gave
him, when at last Arthur's voice was heard without
asking for admission was not feigned, for she felt that he
was the noblest, the best of men, and she told him so, kissing
again and again his face, and sighing to think how
white and wan it had grown within the last few weeks.

“Come, darling, we are waiting for you,” Arthur said,
as he advanced into the room, and Richard put from his
lap the beautiful young girl around whose uncovered
shoulders Arthur wrapped the white merino cloak which
was to shield her from the night air; then bending over
Richard, he said, “Heaven will bless you, even as I do, for
the peerless gift I have received from you, and believe me,
there is much of pain mingled with my joy — pain at leaving
you so desolate. I cannot tell you all I feel, but if a
lifetime of devotion can in the smallest degree repay you
what I owe, it shall be freely given. Now bless me once
more, me and my — bride.”

Richard had arisen as Arthur was speaking, and at the
word bride he put out his hand as if to keep from falling,
then steadying that on Arthur's head and laying the other
on Edith's he whispered,

“To him who saved my life when he believed I was
his rival I give my singing bird, who for eleven years has
been the blind man's sunshine — give her freely, cheerfully,
harboring no malice against him who takes her. My
Arthur and my precious Edith, I bless and love you both.”

The nerveless hands pressed heavily for a moment upon
the two bowed heads, and then Arthur led his bride away
to where the carriage waited.

The ceremony was appointed for half-past eight, but long
before that hour St. Luke's was filled to overflowing, some
coming even as early as six to secure seats most favorable
to sight. And there they waited, until the roll of wheels
was heard and the clergyman appeared in the chancel.
Then seven hundred tired heads turned simultaneously
toward the door through which the party came, the rich
robes of the bride trailing upon the carpet and sweeping
from side to side as she moved up the middle aisle.
But not upon her did a single eye in all that vast assemblage
linger, nor yet upon the bridegroom, nor yet upon
the bridesmaid, filing in one behind the other, but upon
the stooping figure which moved so slowly, blind Richard
groping his way to the altar, caring nothing for the staring
crowd, nothing for the sudden buzz as he came in, hearing
nothing but Victor's whispered words, “'twill soon be over.”

Yes, it would soon be over. It was commencing now,
the marriage ceremony, and Richard listened in a kind of
maze, until the clergyman asked,

“Who giveth this woman to be married to this man?”

As Arthur had supposed this part would, of course, be
omitted, no arrangements had been made for it, and an
awkward pause ensued, while all eyes involuntarily turned
upon the dark man now standing up so tall, so erect, among
that group of lighter, airier forms. Like some frozen statue
Richard stood, and the minister, thinking he did not
hear, repeated his demand. Slowly Richard moved forward,
and Grace, who was next to Edith, stepped aside as he
came near. Reverently he laid his hand on Edith's head,
and said aloud,

“I do!”

Then the hand, sliding from her head rested on her
shoulder, where it lay all through that ceremony, and the
weeping spectators sitting near, heard distinctly the words
whispered by the white lips which dripped with the perspiration
of this last dreadful agony.

“I, Richard, take thee, Birdie, to be my wedded wife, to
have and to hold, from this day forward, for better for
worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to
love and to cherish, till death us do part, according to
God's holy ordinance; and thereto I plight thee my troth.”

He said it every word, and when it was Edith's turn, he
bent a little forward, while his hand grasped her bare
shoulder so firmly as to leave a mark when she put Arthur's
name where his should have been, and the quivering
lips moaned faintly,

“Don't Birdie, don't.”

It was a strange bridal, more sad than joyous, for though
in the hearts of bride and groom there was perfect love
for each other, there were too many bitter memories crowding
upon them both to make it a moment of unmixed
bliss — memories of Nina, who seemed to stand by Arthur,
blessing him in tones unheard, and a sadder, a living memory
of the poor blind man whose low wail, when all was
done, smote painfully on Edith's ear.

In a pew near to the altar Victor sat weeping like a
child, and when the last Amen was uttered, he sprang to
his master's side and said,

“Come with me. You cannot wish to go home with
the bride.”

Instantly the crowd divided right and left as Victor
passed through their midst, leading out into the open air
the faint, sick man, who, when they were alone, leaned
his head meekly on his faithful valet's arm, saying to him,

“You are all there is left to care for me now. Be good
to me, won't you?”

Victor answered with a clasp of his hand and hurried
on, reaching Collingwood before the bridal guests, who
ere long came swarming in like so many buzzing bees, congratulating
the newly-wedded pair, and looking curiously
round for Richard. But Richard was not there. He had
borne all he could, and on his bed in his bolted room he

lay, scarcely giving a token of life save when the sounds
from the parlors reached his ear, when he would whisper,

“'Tis done. It is done.”

One by one the hours went by, and then up the gravelled
walk the carriages rolled a second time to take the
guests away. Hands were shaken and good nights said.
There was cloaking in the ladies' room and impatient waiting
in the gentlemen's; there was hurrying down the stairs,
through the hall, and out upon the pizza. There was
banging to of carriage doors, cracking of drivers' whips,
and racing down the road. There was a hasty gathering
up of silver, a closing of the shutters, a putting out of
lamps, until at last silence reigned over Collingwood, from
whose windows only two lights were gleaming. Arthur
was alone with his bride, and Richard alone with his
God.