The Actress' Daughter: A Novel

by May Agnes Fleming

At early morning all Burnfield was astir, and crowding toward the little sea-side cot, to catch a glimpse of the elegant bridal carriage and gayly decked horses, and, perhaps, be fortunate enough to obtain a peep at the happy pair.

Inside the cottage all was bustle and excitement. Out in the kitchen (to begin at the beginning, like the writer of the "House that Jack Built,") Fly had been ignominiously deposed, to make way for the accomplished cook from Richmond House, who for the past week had been concentrating his stupendous intellect on the bridal breakfast, and had brought that dejeuner to a state of perfection such as the eye, nor heart, nor palate of man had ever conceived before. There were also the two fascinating young footmen, making themselves generally useful with a sort of lofty condescension and dignified contempt for everything about them, except when they met the withering eye of Miss Jerusha, and then they wilted down, and felt themselves dwindling down to about five inches high. There was Mrs. Hamm, in black velvet, nothing less, and so stately, and so politely dignified, that the English language is utterly unable to do justice to her grandeur. There was Miss Jerusha, in rustling brown satin, her wildest dreams realized, perfectly awful in its glittering folds, enough to strike terror into the heart of a Zouave, with a flashing ruby brooch, and a miraculous combination of lace and ribbons on her head, all broke out in a fiery eruption of flaring red flowers, which were in violent contrast to her complexion—that being, as the reader is already aware, decidedly, and without compromise, yellow. And, lastly, there were our two friends, the Betsey Periwinkles, looking very much astonished, as well they might, at the sudden change that had taken place around them; and, evidently considering themselves just as good as anybody there, they kept poking themselves in the way, and tripping up the company generally, and the two fascinating footmen in particular, invoking from those nice individuals "curses, not loud but deep." There was the Rev. Mr. Barebones, gaunt and grim in his piety; and the Rev. Mrs. Barebones, a severe female, with a hard jaw and stony eye; and there was Mrs. Tolduso, whom Miss Jerusha admitted just to dazzle with her brown satin; and there were ever so many other people, until it became a matter of doubt whether the bridal party would have room to squeeze through.

In the hall stood Richmond Wildair, looking very handsome and very happy indeed, while he waited for Georgia to descend. Mr. Curtis, his friend, resplendent in white vest and kids, lounged against the staircase, caressing his mustache, and inwardly raging that that flagstaff of a Becky Barebones was to be his vis-a-vis, instead of sweet, blooming little Emily Murray.

Up stairs in her "maiden bower" was our Georgia, under the hands of Emily, and Becky, and one of the spruce dressmakers, being "arrayed for the sacrifice," as she persisted in calling it. And if Georgia Darrell, in her plain cottage dress, was beautiful, the same Georgia in her white silk, frosted with seed pearls, enveloped in a mist-like lace vail, and bearing an orange wreath of flashing jewels on her regal head, was bewildering, dazzling! There was a wild, glittering light in her splendid oriental eyes, and a crimson pulse kept beating in and out like an inward flame on her dark cheek, that bespoke anything but the calm, perfect peace and joy of a "blessed bride."

Was it a vague, shadowy terror of the new life before her? Was it distrust of him, distrust of herself, or a nameless fear of the changes time must bring? She did not know, she could not tell; but there was a dread, a horror of she knew not what overshadowing her like a cloud. She tried to shake it off, but in vain; she strove to strangle it at its birth, but it evaded her grasp, and loomed up a huge misshapen thing between her mirror and the shining beautiful image in its snowy robes there revealed.

Little Emily Murray, quite enchanting in a cloud of white muslin, and no end of blue ribbons, kept fleeting about, hardly knowing whether to laugh or cry, and alternately doing both. She was so glad Georgia was going to be a great lady, and so sorry for losing the friend she loved that it was hard to say whether the laughing or crying had the best of it. And there, on the other side, stood Miss Barebones, as stiff and upright as a stove-pipe, in a crisp rattling white dress and frozen-looking white lilies and petrified rosebuds in her wiry yellow hair, with all the piety and grimness of many generations of Barebones concentrated in her.

And now all is ready, and, "with a smile on her lip and a tear in her eye," Emily puts her arm around Georgia's waist and turns to lead her down stairs, where her lover so impatiently awaits the rising of his day-star, and Miss Barebones and the trim little dressmaker follow. And Georgia involuntarily holds her breath, and lays her hand on her breast to still her high heart-beating that can almost be heard, and goes down and finds herself face to face with the future lord of her destiny. And then Emily kisses and relinquishes her, and she looks up with the old defiant look he knows so well in his handsome young face, and he smiles and whispers something, and draws her arm within his and turns to go in. And then Mr. Curtis swallows a grimace, and offers his arm to Miss Barebones, and that wise maiden gingerly lays the tips of her white kid glove on his broadcloth sleeve, and with a face of awful solemnity is led in, and the ceremony commences. And all through it Georgia stands with her eyes burning into the floor, and the red spot coming and going with every breath on her cheek, and hardly realizes that it has commenced until it is all over, and she hears, "What God hath joined together let no man put asunder." And then there is crowding around and a great deal of unnecessary kissing done, and Emily and Miss Jerusha are crying, and Mr. Curtis and Mr. Barebones, and the rest are shaking hands and calling her "Mrs. Wildair," and then, with a shock and a thrill, Georgia realizes she is married.

Georgia Darrell is no more; the free, wild, unfettered Georgia Darrell has passed away forever, and Georgia Wildair is unfettered no longer; she has a master, for she has just vowed to obey Richmond Wildair until "death doth them part." And her heart gives a great bound, and then is still, as she lifts her eyes in a strange fear to his face, and sees him standing beside her smiling and happy, and looking down on her so proudly and fondly. And Georgia draws a long breath, and wonders if other brides feel as she does, and then she tries to smile, and reply to their congratulations, and the strange feeling gradually passes away, and she becomes her own bright, sparkling self once more.

And now they are all sitting down to breakfast, and there is a hum of voices, and rattling of knives and forks, and a clatter of plates, and peals of laughter, and everybody looks happy and animated, and Miss Jerusha and Emily dry their tears and laugh too, and the fascinating footmen perform the impossibility of being in two or three places at once, and speeches are made, and toasts are drank, and Mr. Wildair gets up and replies to them, and thanks them for himself and his wife. His wife! How strange that sounds to Georgia. Then she sees through it all, and laughs and wonders at herself for laughing; and Mr. Curtis, sitting between Miss Barebones and Emily Murray, totally neglects the former and tries to be very irresistible, indeed, with the latter, and Emily laughs at all his pretty speeches, and doesn't seem the least embarrassed in the world, and Miss Barebones grows sourer and sourer until her look would have turned milk to vinegar; but nobody seems to mind her much. She notices, too, that Mr. Barebones perceptibly thaws out under the influence of sundry glasses of champagne, to that extent that before breakfast is over he refers to the time when he first met the "partner of his buzzum," as he styles Mrs. B., and shed tears over it. And Mrs. Hamm, in her black velvet and black lace mits, hides a sneer in her coffee cup at him, or at them all, and Miss Jerusha is looking at her with so much real tenderness in her eye that Georgia feels a pang of remorse as she thinks how ungrateful she has been, and how much Miss Jerusha has done for her. And then she thinks of her mother, and her brother Warren—her dear brother Warren—of whose fate she knows nothing, and of Charley Wildair and his unknown crime, and heaves a sigh to their memory. And then Betsey Periwinkle the second comes purring round her, and Georgia lifts her up and kisses the beauty spot on her forehead, and a bright tear is shining there when she lifts her head again, and Betsey purrs and blinks her round staring eyes affectionately, and then everybody is standing up, and Mr. Barebones, hiccoughing very much, is saying grace, and then she is going up to her room and finds herself alone with Miss Jerusha and Emily, who are taking off her bridal robes and putting on her traveling-dress.

And there she is all dressed for her journey, and Miss Jerusha holds her in her arms, and is kissing her, and sobbing as if her heart would break; and little Emily is sobbing, too, and Georgia feels a dreary, aching pain at her heart, at the thought of leaving her forever—for though she is coming back, they can never be the same to one another again in this world that they are now—but her eyes are dry. And then Miss Jerusha kisses her for the last time, and blesses her, and lets her go, and she follows her down stairs, where Richmond awaits her, to lead her to the carriage. And then there is more shaking of hands, until Georgia's arm aches, and a great deal of good-bying and some more female kissing, and then she takes her husband's arm and walks down the graveled walk to the carriage. And on the way she wonders what kind of a person Mrs. Wildair, Richmond's mother, may be, and whether she will like her new daughter, and whether that daughter will like her. And now she is sitting in the carriage, waving a last adieu, and the carriage starts off, and she springs forward and looks after the cottage until it is out of sight. And then she falls back in her seat and covers her face with her hands, with a vague sense of some great loss. But that picture she never forgets, of the little vine-wreathed cottage, with its crowd of faces gazing after her, and Miss Jerusha and little Emily crying at the gate. How she remembers it in after days—in those dark, dreadful days, the shadow of whose coming darkness even then was upon her!