CHAPTER XV.
THE FAIRY BRIDE.
Since the morning of her ill-starred marriage, Sans Souci had waned like a waning moon; and the bridegroom saw, with dismay, his fairy bride slowly fading, passing, vanishing from his sight. There was no very marked disorder, no visible or tangible symptoms to guide the physicians, who were in succession summoned to her relief. Very obscure is the pathology of a wasting heart, very occult the scientific knowledge that can search out the secret sickness, which, the further it is sought, shrinks the deeper from sight.
Once, indeed, while she was sitting with her aunt and uncle, the latter suddenly and rudely mentioned Cloudy's name, saying that "the fool" was sulking over at Dell-Delight; that he believed he would have blown his brains out if it had not been for Thurston, and for his own part, he almost wished that he had been permitted to do so, because he thought none but a fool would ever commit suicide, and the fewer fools there were in the world the better, etc., etc. His monologue was suddenly arrested by Henrietta's rushing forward to lift up Sans Souci, who had turned very pale, and dropped from her seat to the floor, where she lay silently quivering and gasping, like some poor wounded and dying bird.
They tacitly resolved, from this time forth, never to name Cloudy in her presence again.
And the commodore struck his heavy stick upon the floor, and emphatically thanked God that Nace Grimshaw had not been present to witness her agitation and its cause.
And Jacquelina waned and waned. And the physicians, wearied out with her case, prescribed "Change of air and scene—pleasant company—cheerful amusement—excitement," etc. A winter in Washington was suggested. And the little invalid was consulted as to her wishes upon the subject. "Yes," Jacquelina said she would go—anywhere, if only her aunty and Marian would go with her—she wanted Marian.
Mrs. Waugh readily consented to accompany her favorite, and also to try to induce "Hebe," as she called blooming Marian, to make one of their party.
And the very first day that the weather and the roads would admit of traveling, Mrs. Waugh rode over to Old Fields to see Marian, and talk with her about the contemplated journey.
The proposition took the young lady by surprise; there were several little lets and hindrances to her immediate acceptance of the invitation, which might, however, be disposed of; and finally, Marian begged a day to consider about it. With this answer, Mrs. Waugh was forced to be content, and she took her leave, saying:
"Remember, Hebe! that I think your society and conversation more needful, and likely to be more beneficial to poor Lapwing, than anything else we can procure for her; therefore, pray decide to go with us, if possible."
Marian deprecated such reliance upon her imperfect abilities, but expressed her strong desire to do all the good she possibly could effect for the invalid, and made little doubt but that she should at least be able to attend her. So, with this hope, Mrs. Waugh kissed her and departed.
The very truth was, that Marian wished to see and consult her bethrothed before consenting to leave home for what seemed to her to be so long a journey, and for so long a period. In fact, Marian was not now a free agent; she had suffered her free will to slip from her own possession into that of Thurston.
She had not seen him all the wretched weather, and her heart now yearned for his presence. And that very afternoon Marian had a most pressing errand to Charlotte Hall, to purchase groceries, which the little family had got entirely out of during the continuance of the snow.
There was no certainty that she should see Thurston; still she hoped to do so, nor was her hope disappointed.
He overtook her a short distance from the village, on her road home.
Their meeting was a very glad one—heart sprang to heart and hand to hand—and neither affected to conceal the pleasure that it gave them. After the first joyous greetings, and the first earnest and affectionate inquiries about each other's health and welfare, both became grave and silent for a little while. Marian was reflecting how to propose to leave him for a three-months' visit to the gay capital, little thinking that Thurston himself was perplexed with the question of how to break to her the news of the necessity of his own immediate departure to England for an absence of at least six or eight months. Marian spoke first.
"Dear Thurston, I have something to propose to you, that I fear you will not like very well; but if you do not, speak freely; for I am not bound."
"I—I do not understand you, love! Pray explain at once," said he, quick to take alarm where she was concerned.
"You know poor little Jacquelina has fallen into very bad health and spirits? Well, her physicians recommend change of air and scene, and her friends have decided to take her to Washington to pass the remainder of the winter. And the little creature has set her sickly fancy upon having me to go with her. Now, I think it is some sort a duty to go, and I would not willingly refuse. Nevertheless, dear Thurston, I dread to leave you, and if you think you will be very lonesome this winter without me—if you are likely to miss me one-half as much as I have missed you these last three weeks, I will not leave you at all."
He put his hand out and took hers, and pressed it, and would have carried it to his lips, but her wicked little pony suddenly jerked away.
"My own dearest Marian," he said; "my frank, generous love! if I were going to remain in this neighborhood this winter, no consideration, I fear, for others' good, would induce me to consent to part with you."
It was now Marian's turn to change color, and falter in her tones, as she asked:
"You—you are not going away?"
"Sweet Marian, yes! A duty—a necessity too imperative to be denied, summons me."
She kept her eyes fixed on his face in painful anxiety.
"I will explain. You have heard, dear Marian, that after my father's death my mother married a second time?"
"No—I never heard of it."
"She did, however—her second husband was a Scotchman. She lived with him seven years, and then died, leaving him one child, a boy six years of age. After my mother's death, my stepfather returned to Scotland, taking with him my half-brother, and leaving me with my grandfather. And all communication gradually ceased between us. Within this week, however, I have received letters from Edinburgh, informing me of the death of my stepfather, and the perfect destitution of my half-brother, now a lad of twelve years of age. He is at present staying with the clergyman who attended his father in his last illness, and who has written me the letters giving me the information that I now give you. Thus, you see, my dearest love, how urgent the duty is that takes me from your side. Yet—What! tears, my Marian! Ah, if so! let my dearest one but say the word, and I will not leave her. I will send money over to the lad instead."
"No, no! Ah! no, never trust your mother's orphan boy to strangers, or to his own guidance. Go for the poor, desolate lad, and never leave him, or suffer him to leave you. I know what orphanage in childhood is, dear Thurston, and so must you. Bring the boy home. And if he lives with you, I will do all I can to supply his mother's place."
"Dear girl! dear, dear Marian, my heart so longs to press you to itself. A plague upon these horses that keep us so far apart! I wish we were on foot!"
"Do you?" smiled Marian, directing his attention to the sloppy path down which they were riding.
Thurston smiled ruefully, and then sighed.
"When do you set out on your long journey, dear Thurston?"
"I have not fixed the time, my Marian! I have not the courage to name the day that shall part us for so long."
He looked at her with a heavy sigh, and then added:
"I shrink from appointing the time of going, as a criminal might shrink from giving the signal for his own execution."
"Then let some other agent do it," said Marian, smiling at his earnestness. Then she added—"I shall go to Washington with Jacquelina. Her party will set out on Wednesday next. And, dear Thurston, I shall not like to leave you here, at all. I shall go with more content, if I knew that you set out the same day for your journey."
"But fairest Marian, never believe but that if you go to Washington, I shall take that city in on my way. There is a vessel to sail on the first of February, from Baltimore, for Liverpool. I shall probably go by her. I shall pass through Washington City on my way to Baltimore. Nay, indeed! what should hinder me from joining your party and traveling with you, since we are friends and neighbors, and go at the same time, from the same neighborhood, by the same road, to the same place?" he asked, eagerly.
A smile of joy illumined Marian's face.
"Truly," she answered, after a short pause. "I see no objection to that plan. And, oh! Thurston," she said, holding out her hand, and looking at him with her face holy and beaming with affection, "do you know what fullness of life and comfort—what sweetness of rest and contentment I feel in your presence, when I can have that rightly?"
"My own dear Marian! Heaven hasten the day when we shall be forever united."
And he suddenly sprang from his horse—lifted her from her saddle, and holding her carefully above the sloppy path, folded her fondly to his bosom, pressed kisses on her lips, and then replaced her, saying:
"Dear Marian, forgive me! My heart was half breaking with its need to press you to itself! Now then, dearest, I shall consider it settled that I join your party to Washington. I shall call at Locust Hill and see Mrs. Waugh, inform her of my destination, and ask her permission to accompany her. By the way—when do you give your answer to that lady?"
"I shall ride over to the Hill to-morrow morning for that purpose."
"Very well, dearest. In that case I will also appoint the morning as my time of calling; so that I may have the joy of meeting you there."
They had by this time reached the verge of the forest and the cross-road where their paths divided. And here they bade a loving, lingering adieu to each other, and separated.
That evening Marian announced to Edith her decision to accompany
Jacquelina to Washington City.
Edith approved the plan.
The next morning Marian left the house to go to Locust Hill, where, besides the family, she found Thurston already awaiting her.
Thurston was seated by Jacquelina, endeavoring, by his gay and brilliant sallies of wit and humor, to charm away the sullen sadness of the pale and petulant little beauty.
And, truth to tell, soon fitful, fleeting smiles broke over the little wan face—smiles that grew brighter and more frequent as she noticed the surly anxiety they gave to Dr. Grimshaw, who sat, like the dog in the manger, watching Thurston sunning himself in the light of eyes that never, by any chance, shone upon him, their rightful proprietor!
Never! for though Jacquelina had paled and waned, failed and faded, until she seemed more like a moonlight phantom than a form of flesh and blood—her spirit was unbowed, unbroken, and she had kept her oath of uncompromising enmity with fearful perseverance. Petitions, expostulations, prayers, threats, had been all in vain to procure one smile, one word, one glance of compliance or forgiveness. And the fate of Dr. Grimshaw, with his unwon bride, was like that of Tantalus. And now the inconceivable tortures of jealousy were about to be added to his other torments, for this man now sitting by his side, and basking in the sunshine of her smiles, was the all-praised Adonis who had won her maiden admiration months ago.
But Thurston soon put an end to his sufferings—not in consideration of his feelings, but because the young gentleman could not afford to lose or risk the chance of making one of the party which was to number Marian among its members. Therefore, with a light smile and careless bow, he left the side of Jacquelina and crossed over to Mrs. Waugh, with whom, also, he entered into a gay and bantering conversation, in the course of which Mrs. Waugh mentioned to him their purpose of going to Washington for a month or two.
It was then that, with an air of impromptu, Thurston informed her of his own contemplated journey and voyage, and of his intention to go to Baltimore by way of Washington.
"And when do you leave here?" asked Mrs. Waugh.
"I thought of starting on Wednesday morning."
"The very day that we shall set out—why can't we travel in company?" asked Henrietta, socially.
"I should be charmed, indeed—delighted! And nothing shall prevent me having that honor and pleasure, if Mrs. Waugh will permit my attendance."
"Why, my dear Thurston, to be sure I will—but don't waste fine speeches on your uncle's old wife. How do you travel?"
"As far as Washington I shall go on horseback, with a mounted groom to bring back the horses, when I proceed on my journey by stage to Baltimore."
"On horseback! Now that is excellent—that is really providential, as it falls out—for here is my Hebe, whom I have coaxed to be of the party, and who will have to perform the journey also on horseback, and you will make an admirable cavalier for her!"
Thurston turned and bowed to Marian, and expressed, in courtly terms, the honor she would confer, and the pleasure she would give, in permitting him to serve her. And no one, to have seen him, would have dreamed that the subject had ever before been mentioned between them.
Marian blushed and smiled, and expressing her thanks, accepted his offered escort.
These preliminaries being settled, Thurston soon after arose and took leave.
Marian remained some time longer to arrange some little preparatory matters with Mrs. Waugh, and then bade them good-by, and hastened homeward.
But she saw Thurston walking his horse up and down the forest-path, and impatiently waiting for her.
* * * * *
Dr. Grimshaw was very much dissatisfied; and no sooner had Marian left the home, and left him alone with Mrs. Waugh and Jacquelina, than he turned to the elder lady, and said, with some asperity:
"I think it would have been well, Mrs. Waugh, if you had consulted the other members of your party before making so important an addition to it."
"And I think it would be better, Dr. Grimshaw, if you would occupy your valuable time and attention with affairs that fall more immediately within your own province," said Henrietta, loftily, as she would sometimes speak.
Dr. Grimshaw deigned no reply. He closed his mouth with a spasmodic snap, and sat ruminating—the very picture of wretchedness. He was, indeed, to be pitied! For no patience, no kindness, no wooing could win from his bride one smile. That very afternoon, under the combined goadings of exasperated self-love and poignant jealousy, Dr. Grimshaw sought an interview with Mrs. L'Oiseau, and urged her, in the most strenuous manner, to exert her maternal influence in bringing her daughter to terms.
And Mrs. L'Oiseau sent for Jacquelina, to have a talk with her. But not all her arguments, entreaties, or even tears, could prevail with the obstinate bride to relax one single degree of her unforgiving antagonism to her detested bridegroom.
"Mother," she said, with sorrowful bitterness, "you are well now; indeed, you never were so ill as I was led to believe; and you are independent. I parted with my only hope of happiness in life to render you so; I sold myself in a formal marriage to be the legal medium of endowing Dr. Grimshaw with a certain landed estate. Even into that measure I was deceived—no more of that! it crazes me! The conditions are all fulfilled; he will have the property, and you are independent. And now he has no further claim upon me, and no power over me!"
"He has, Jacquelina; and it is only Dr. Grimshaw's forbearance that permits you to indulge in this wicked whim."
"His forbearance! Oh! hasn't he been forbearing, though!" she exclaimed, with a mocking laugh.
"Yes; he has, little as you are disposed to acknowledge it. You do not seem to know that he can compel your submission!"
"Can he!" she hissed, drawing her breath sharply through her clenched teeth, and clutching her fingers convulsively, while a white ring gleamed around the blue iris of her dilated eyes. "Let him try! let him drive me to desperation, and then learn how spirits dare to escape! But he will not do that. Mimmy! he reads me better than you do; he knows that he must not urge me beyond my powers of endurance. No, mother! Let him take my uncle into his counsels again, if he pleases; let them combine all their ingenuity, and wickedness, and power, and bring them all to bear on me at once; let them do their worst—they shall not gain one concession from me; not one smile, not one word, not one single look of tolerance—so help me heaven! And they know it, mother!—they know it! And why? You are secured from their malice; now they can turn no screws upon my heart-strings!—and I am free! They know it, mother—they know it, if you do not."
"But, Jacquelina, this is a very, very wicked life to lead! You are living in a state of mortal sin while you persist in this shocking rebellion against the authority and just rights of your husband."
"He is not my husband! that I utterly deny! I have never made him such! There was nothing in our nominal marriage to give him that claim. It was a mere legal form, for a mercenary purpose. It was a wicked and shameful subterfuge; a sacrilegious desecration of God's holy altar! but in its wickedness heaven knows I had little will! I was deluded and disturbed; facts were misrepresented to me, threats were made that could never have been executed; my fears were excited for your life; my affections were wrought upon; I was driven out of my senses even before I did consent to be his nominal wife—the legal sumpter-mule to carry him an estate. I promised nothing more, and I have kept all my promises. It is over! it is over! it is done! and it cannot be undone! But I never—never will forgive that man for the part he played in the drama!"
"Ave Maria, Mater Dolorosa! Was ever a mother so sorrowful as I? Holy saints and angels! how you shock me. Don't you know, wretched child, that you are committing deadly sin? Don't you know, alas! the holy church would refuse you its communion?"
"Let it! I will be excommunicated before I will give Dr. Grimshaw one tolerant glance! I will risk the eternal rather than fall into the nearer perdition!"
"Holy Mary save her! Don't you know, most miserable child! that such is your condition, that if you were to die now your soul would go to burning flames?"
"Ha! ha! Where do you think it is now, Mimmy?"
"You are mad! You don't know what you're talking about! And, alas! you are half an infidel, I know, for you don't believe in hell!"
"Yes, I do, Mimmy! Oh! yes, indeed I do! If ever my faith was shaken in that article of belief, it is firm enough now! It is more than re-established, for, look you, Mimmy! I believe in heaven, but I know of hell!"
"I'm very glad you do, my dear. And I hope you will meditate much upon it, and it may lead you to change your course in regard to Dr. Grimshaw."
"Mimmy!" she said, with a wild laugh, "is there a deeper pit in perdition than that to which you urge me now?"
* * * * *
Fortune certainly favored the lovers that day; for when Thurston reached home in the evening, his grandfather said to him:
"Well, Mr. Jackanapes, since you are to sail from the port of Baltimore, I think it altogether best that you should take a private conveyance, and go by way of Washington."
"That will be a very lonesome manner of traveling, sir," answered the young man, demurely.
"It will be a very cheap one, you mean, and, therefore, will not befit you, Sir Millionaire! It will cost nothing, and, therefore, lose its only charm for you, my Lord Spendthrift," cried the miser, sharply.
"On the contrary, sir, I only object to the loneliness of the long journey."
"No one to chatter to, eh, Mr. Magpie! Well, it need not be so! There's Nace Grimshaw, and his set—extravagant fools!—going up to the city to flaunt among the fashionables. You can go as they go, and chatter to the other monkey, Jacquelina—and make Old Nace mad with jealousy, so that he shall go and hang himself, and leave you the widow and her fortune! Come! is there mischief enough to amuse you? But I know you won't do it! I know it! I know it! I know it! just because I wish you to!"
"What, sir? drive Dr. Grimshaw to hang himself?"
"No, sir! I mean you won't join the party."
"You mistake, sir. I will certainly do so, if you wish it," said
Thurston, gravely.
"Humph! Well, that is something better than I expected. You can take the new gig, you know, and take Melchisedek to drive you, and to bring it back."
"Just as you say, sir," said the young gentleman, with filial compliance.
"And mind, take care that you are not led into any waste of money."
"I shall take care, sir."
And here Thurston's heart was gladdened within him. He profoundly thanked his stars. The new gig! What an opportunity to save Marian the fatigue of an equestrian journey—offer her an easy seat, and have the blessing of her near companionship for the whole trip! While his servant, Melchisedek, could ride Marian's pony. And this arrangement would be so natural, so necessary, so inevitable, that not even the jealous, suspicious miser could make the least question of its perfect propriety. For, under the circumstances, what gentleman could leave a lady of his party to travel wearily on horseback, while himself and his servant rode cosily at ease in a gig? What gentleman would not rather give the lady his seat in the gig—take the reins himself and drive her, while his servant took her saddle-horse. So thought Thurston. Yet he did not hint the subject to his grandfather—the method of their traveling should seem the impromptu effect of chance. The next morning being Sunday, he threw himself in Marian's path, waited for her, and rode with her a part of the way to church. And while they were in company, he told her of the new arrangement in the manner of traveling, that good fortune had enabled him to make—that if she would so honor and delight him, he should have her in the gig by his side for the whole journey. He was so happy, so very happy in the thought, he said.
"And so am I, dearest Thurston! very, very happy in the idea of being with you. Thank God!" said the warm-hearted girl, offering her hand, which he took and covered with kisses.
Thurston's good fortune was not over. His star was still in the ascendant, for after the morning service, while the congregation were leaving the church, he saw Mrs. Waugh beckon him to her side. He quickly obeyed the summons. And then, the lady said:
"I may not see you again soon, Thurston, and, therefore, I tell you now—that if you intend to join our party to Washington, you must make all your arrangements to come ever to Locust Hill on Tuesday evening, and spend the night with us; as we start at a very early hour on Wednesday morning, and should not like to be kept waiting. My Hebe is also coming on Tuesday evening, to stay all night. Now, not a word, Thurston, I know what dilatory folks young people are. And I know very well that if I don't make sure of you on Tuesday evening, you will keep us a full hour beyond our time on Wednesday morning—you know you will."
Thurston was secretly delighted. To spend the evening with Marian! to spend the night under the same roof with her—preparatory to their social journey in the morning. Thurston began to think that he was born under a lucky planet. He laughingly assured Mrs. Waugh that he had not the slightest intention or wish to dispute her commands, and that on Tuesday evening he should present himself punctually at the supper-table at Locust Hill. He further informed her that as his grandfather had most arbitrarily forced upon him the use of his new gig, he should bring it, and offer Miss Mayfield a seat.
It was now Mrs. Waugh's turn to be delighted, and to declare that she was very glad—that it would be so much easier and pleasanter to her Hebe, than the cold, exposed, and fatiguing equestrian manner of traveling. "But mind, young gentleman, you are not to make love to my Hebe! for we all think her far too good for mortal man!" laughed Mrs. Waugh.
Thurston gravely promised that he would not—if he could help it. And so, with mutual good feeling, they shook hands and separated.
On Monday evening, at his farewell lecture, Thurston met Marian again, and joyfully announced to her the invitation that Mrs. Waugh had extended to him. And the maiden's delightful smile assured him of her full sympathy with his gladness.
And on Tuesday evening, the whole party for Washington was assembled around the tea-table at Locust Hill. The evening passed very cheerily. The commodore, Mrs. Waugh, Marian and Thurston, were all in excellent spirits. And Thurston, out of pure good nature, sought to cheer and enliven the pretty, peevish bride, Jacquelina, who, out of caprice, affected a pleasure in his attentions that she was very far from feeling. This gave so much umbrage to Dr. Grimshaw that Mrs. Waugh really feared some unpleasant demonstration from the grim bridegroom, and seized the first quiet opportunity of saying to the young gentleman:
"Do, Thurston, leave Lapwing alone! Don't you see that that maniac is as jealous as a Turk?"
"Oh! he is!" thought Thurston, benevolently. "Very well! in that case his jealousy shall not starve for want of ailment;" and he devoted himself to the capricious bride with more impressement than before—consoling himself for his discreet neglect of Marian by reflecting on the blessed morrow that should place her at his side for the whole day.
And so the evening passed; and at an early hour the party separated to get a good long night's rest, preparatory to their early start in the morning.
But Thurston, for one, was too happy to sleep for some time; too happy in the novel blessedness of resting under the same roof with his own beautiful and dearest Marian.