That quiet sort of people who, having no divorce cases on hand, know that there are such things as pure women in the world, and know that a good wife, carries about her an atmosphere of goodness, that brings heaven itself down to the home.
And you, old bachelor,—a word in your ear,—if you only knew the experience of returning from a long journey late at night,—of stealing quietly into a home, your own home, up the dark stairs, and into a room, where a single light is shining near a bed,—of seeing there, blooming on the white pillow, the face of a pure wife, your own wife, rosy with sleep, and with her dark hair peeping out from her night-cap——, why, old bachelor, if you had only an idea of this kind of experience, you'd curse yourself for not getting married some forty years ago!—
The day passed quickly and happily, in quiet preparation for the bridal ceremony.
Eleanor was seated in a rocking-chair, her feet crossed and resting on a stool, her head thrown back, and her dark hair resting partly on her bared shoulders, partly on the arm of Esther, who stood behind her. The beams of the declining sun came softened through the window-curtains, and lit up the scene with mild, subdued light. It was a beautiful picture. There stood Esther, the matured woman, rich in every charm of voluptuous and stately beauty; and her gaze, softened by her long eyelashes, was tenderly fixed upon the upturned countenance of Eleanor,—a countenance radiant with youth, with abounding life, with passionate love. The habit of dark green cloth which Esther wore, contrasted with the robe of white muslin which enveloped Eleanor, its flowing folds girdled lightly about her waist and its snowy whiteness, half hidden by her unbound hair; for that hair which was soft brown in the sunlight and black in the shadow, fell in copious waves over her neck, her bosom, and below her waist. Eleanor was beautiful, Esther was beautiful, but their loveliness was of contrasted types; you could not precisely define how they differed; you only saw that they were beautiful, and that the loveliness of one, set off and added to, the charms of the other.
And as Esther was arranging the hair of the bride, for the marriage ceremony, they conversed in low tones:
"O, we shall all be so happy!" said Eleanor—"the climate of Havana, is as soft and bland as Italy, and it will be so delightful to leave this dreary sky, this atmosphere all storm and snow, for a land where summer never knows an end, and where every breeze is loaded with the breath of flowers!"
Esther was about to reply, but Eleanor continued,—and her words drove the life-blood from Esther's cheek.
"And on our way we will stop at the old mansion of Hill Royal, the home of Randolph's ancestors. How I shall delight to wander with you through those fine old rooms, where the associations of the past meet you at every step! Do you know, Esther, that I am a great aristocrat,—I believe in race, in blood,—in the perpetuation of the same qualities, either good or evil, from generation to generation? Look at Randolph, at yourself, for instance,—your look, your walk, every accent tell the story of a proud, a noble ancestry!"