The old gentleman had his snow-white hair turned back off his forehead, and carried all down to the nape of his neck, where it was plaited into a queue, and adorned with a large white satin bow, both snowy plait and bow in pleasant relief against the back of the dark crimson velvet coat—his vest and small clothes were of white satin, and his long hose of white silk were fastened to the small clothes below the knee with white satin bows and gold buckles—his slippers were of crimson morocco, with high heels, large bows, and gold buckles. His dress was rather antiquated even for that day. And he stood there waiting for silence with the suave and stately courtesy of the old school gentleman.
Very much like a queen looked the beautiful Carolyn, but very little like a bride, either in her dignified self-possession, or in her magnificent array. Her fair hair was carried up above her forehead, and dressed high, in the regal style of that day. Its rich waves and bands were wreathed with pearls, and adorned with a plume of white ostrich feathers, powdered with minute silver spangles. Her neck and arms were bare, but adorned with pearls, and softly shaded with the finest lace at the edge of the boddice and sleeves. Her dress was of rich blue satin brocade, made with long waist, sharp pointed stomacher, and flowing sleeves and flowing skirt—the edges of the skirt finished with a very deep border of silver embroidery; a lighter border of the same running around the sleeves; the stomacher was embroidered with silver and pearls. Over her skirt she wore a train of splendid lace, lightly embroidered with a running vine of silver. She toyed with an elegant fan of carved mother-of-pearl and marabout feathers. She stood there, as I said, not at all like a bride, either in her gorgeous apparel, or her self-asserting manner. She stood there with a gay, proud air, beneath which none could have discerned the deeply humiliated spirit of the arrogant woman, or suspected the wounded and breaking heart of the forsaken bride.—When the murmur of voices which had greeted their entrance had subsided, and silence was restored, Mr. Clifton bowed deeply, and—in the somewhat high-flown grandiloquence of style he had once seen exhibited by a manager of a city theatre, when apologising for the non-appearance of the evening’s star—spoke as follows: “Ladies and gentlemen, the distinction of your presence here this evening, has been prayed that you might give the honor of your countenance to the espousals of my nephew and daughter. You have graciously accorded us the dignity of your society here for that purpose.” (An embarrassed pause, while the assembly listened in breathless curiosity and expectation, and he continued,) “Ladies and gentlemen, ‘man proposes, but God disposes.’ The great Arbiter of destiny has ordained the issue of events otherwise than as we had hoped, planned, and expected. Even last night suddenly came a peremptory order from head-quarters, to Captain Clifton, to join his regiment instantly for the purpose of taking the command of a detachment of cavalry, to march immediately to the Indian frontier to put down an irruption of the Shoshowanawas! Ladies and gentlemen!” (continued the old gentleman, warming up with his subject,) “you know the stern, uncompromising duty of the soldier at such a crisis. One syllable—one single syllable comprehends his insupportable obligation—‘Go.’ The man, the lover, the bridegroom must give place to the soldier. As our greatest poet, Walter Scott, has it,—the soldier at the sound of the trumpet must
“‘Leave untended the herd,
The flock without shelter,
The dead uninterred,
The bride at the altar.’
“Ladies and gentlemen, our gallant Captain Clifton has literally left his ‘bride at the altar.’ But soldier’s love may not mourn bridegroom’s loss. Nor may we deny ourselves the distinction and joy of your presence for the whole night—nor,” (the old man was unconsciously sliding from his lofty magniloquence down to the plain vernacular,) “nor must I disappoint these young men and maidens of their dance to-night. Ho! music there! Strike up the liveliest quadrille air upon your list. Let them dance to the briskest music while they are fresh. Charley Cabell, my boy, come here and lead out your cousin Carolyn!”
Major Cabell advanced, and with much grace and dignity led Miss Clifton to the head of the quadrille, as the music pealed forth.
“Young gentlemen, select your partners!” exclaimed the old man, adding example to precept, by choosing the youngest and prettiest girl in the room, and leading her to the place right opposite his nephew and daughter. Soon all the surprise and disappointment were forgotten in enjoyment. The evening was spent in the gayest hilarity—Carolyn Clifton, the forsaken bride, apparently the gayest of the gay. So gay, indeed, was Miss Clifton, that she drew upon herself the severe animadversions of several ladies present, who affirmed that her conduct was heartless in the extreme; to laugh and sing and dance and jest with such thorough abandonment to pleasure, just after the departure of her lover to brave the ghastly horrors of Indian warfare. Much more did they approve of the pensive manners of Zuleime. Poor Zuleime was all unskilled in self-control—her heart was “exceeding sorrowful,” and so she let it appear. The company separated at a very late hour that night, or rather a very early hour of the next morning. Those in the neighborhood departing, those from a distance retiring to the chambers to take some sleep before breakfast, after which they were to set out for their homes.