“‘And are you sure you love Squire Russell well enough to be his wife?’
This question threw Jessie into another impetuous outburst, and she exclaimed:
“‘That is just what he asked me, too; and if I had not loved him before I should have done so when he said, “I wish you to be certain, Jessie, so there need be no after-repentance. I have borne one disappointment,” and he looked so white and sad. “A second would kill me. If I take you now, and then have to give you up, my life will go with you. Can you truly say you love me, Jessie, and are perfectly willing to be mine?”
“I was foolish then, Dora, for I told him straight out how it was very sudden; but the knowing he loved me brought into life a feeling which kept growing and growing so fast, that even in a few minutes it seemed as if I had loved him all my life. He is so good and kind, and will let me do just as I please. Don’t you believe he will?”
“I had no doubt of it, and I smoothed her short curls while she told me how sorry she was that she ever thought Letitia stupid, or Jimmie less interesting than the others.
“‘It seems as if they died just to be out of my way, and I do so wish they were back.’
“Then she said that the wedding was to be the 25th of June, her twentieth birthday, that is, if her father consented; that John had promised to take her to Europe some time, but not this year, and they were going instead to the White Mountains, to Newport, and lots of places, and Johnnie was going with them. Then she settled her bridal trousseau, even to the style of her gaiters, declaring she would not have those horrid square toes, if they were fashionable, for they made one’s foot so clumsy, and she put up her fairy little feet, which looked almost as small as Daisy’s. Dear little Jessie, of whom I once was jealous! What a child she is, and what a task she is taking upon herself! But her heart is in it, and that makes it very easy. Had I loved John one half as well as she seems to love him, I should not now be Richard’s wife, waiting for him by the window as I wait for him many nights, knowing that though he chides me for sitting up so late, he is usually pleased to find me so, and kisses me so tenderly as he calls me a naughty girl, and bids me hurry to bed.
“June 28th.—The house is very still these days, for John and Johnnie are gone, and with them all the bustle, the stir, and the excitement which has characterized our home for the last few weeks. I invited Bell to return with me from the wedding, but her father said no, he could not spare both his daughters; and so she stayed, her tears falling so fast as she said to me at parting: ‘You cannot guess how lonely I am, knowing Jessie will never come home to us again, just as she used to come.’
“Poor Bell, I pity her; but amid her tears I saw, as I thought, a rainbow of promise. As the clergyman at Morrisville chanced to be absent, Mr. Kelly went down with us to perform the ceremony, and if I am not mistaken he will go again and again until he brings Bell away with him. The wedding was a quiet affair, save as Jessie and Johnnie laughed and sported and played. The bride and groom were, however, perfectly happy, I know, which was more than could be said for the Judge. At first he had, as Jessie predicted, said all kinds of harsh things about the match, but Bell and Jessie won him over, until he was ready to receive his son-in-law with the utmost kindness, which he did, acting the polite, urbane host to perfection, and only breaking down when Jessie came to say good-by. Then he showed how much he loved his baby, as he called her, commending her so touchingly to her husband’s patient care, because ‘she was a wee, helpless thing,’ that we all cried, Richard and all, while the Squire could not resist giving his fairy bride a most substantial hug, right before us all, as he promised to care for her as tenderly as if she were his little Daisy instead of his little wife. I have no fears for them. It is a great responsibility which Jessie has assumed, but her sunny nature, which sees only the brightest side, and the mighty love which her husband and Johnnie have given her, will interpose between her and all that otherwise might be hard to bear. God bless her. God keep her in all her pleasant journeyings, and bring her safely back to us, who wait and watch for her as for the refreshing rain.
“December 24th, 1863—Christmas Eve.—Just one year I have been Richard’s wife, and in that time I cannot recall a single moment of sadness, or a time when Richard’s voice and manner were not just as kind and loving as at first. My noble husband, how earnestly I pray that I may be worthy of him, and make him as happy as he makes me. We are in our new home now, and I cannot think of a single wish ungratified. Everything is as I like it. The furniture is of my own and Richard’s selecting, and is as good as our means would afford,—not grand and costly like Mattie’s and Jessie’s, but plain and nice, such as the furniture of a village doctor’s wife ought to be. And Richard’s mother is with us now, resting from the toils of life as nurse in the hospital. We would like so much to keep her, but she says ‘No, not till the war is over; then if my life is spared, I will come back to live and die with my children.’