—Bryant.
It was evening. In a large and spacious apartment, elegantly wainscoted, and filled with rich furniture, an innumerable number of lights were blazing, as if the room was shortly to witness a festival. Disposed about, on little exquisitely lacquered Chinese stands, were vases filled with flowers, most of them white. A rich Prayer-book lay open on a table at the head of the room. At the side a place had been fitted up for an orchestra. These were the preparations for the bridal of our heroine—strange mockery!
At length the company began to gather. Among numerous officers and other guests came Col. Campbell, the commander of the post, little dreaming of the tragedy in which unwittingly he was playing so very prominent a part. He was followed by Mr. Mowbray, accompanied by the groom. Major Lindsay was dressed in uniform, but he wore a white favor on his breast, and his sword-knot was of snowy ribbon. He walked with a firm, proud step, and looked around smiling. He knew that there was scarcely a brother officer that did not envy him the possession of his bride, and the consciousness of this increased the exuberance of his spirits. The prize he had so long struggled for was now about to be won; and all regret at his conduct had long since vanished. Gratified triumph was written on every feature of his face.
Mr. Mowbray was attired with becoming elegance, though the guests remarked that his dress was almost too sad for a wedding. It might, indeed, with almost equal propriety have been worn at a funeral. The dress, in fact, was no bad type of Mr. Mowbray’s feelings, and, perhaps, had been chosen on that account. The truth was, that in secret he could not reconcile himself to this union. Though Kate herself, weeping on his bosom, had declared she was ready to marry Major Lindsay, and though Mrs. Blakeley, herself deceived, had assured him that Kate’s agitation arose only from the usual coyness of a maid, he could not expel from his heart an uneasy fear lest Kate had consented to this marriage only to save his life. Why else was she so pale? Why were her spirits so high in company, while she bore traces, as he thought, of tears in secret? Only that morning he had caught her weeping; and when he pressed to know the cause, she declared she was merely nervous—an assertion which Mrs. Blakeley corroborated. To purchase life with her unhappiness, was what he could not consent to; and but for her, the aged patriot, perhaps, would have scorned to purchase it on any terms.
As we have said, therefore, a secret presentiment filled Mr. Mowbray’s heart with sadness. Something seemed to whisper to him that it was not yet too late to draw back. He seemed, indeed, like one going to a scaffold, rather than like the parent of a bride.
Directly the bride entered, attended by her aunt, and the daughter of one of the officers. Kate was dressed in simple white, without a single ornament, and every vestige of color had fled from her face, which looked almost like snowy wax. Still, she was wondrously beautiful. Even her deathly pallor, so like that of a corpse, that some of the females present actually shuddered and drew back as she approached, could not entirely destroy the effect of her surpassing figure, and the grace of every movement. Yet she looked rather like a nun about to take the veil than like a bride. Her smiles were no longer at her command—for the near approach of her doom had completely prostrated her. She seemed now what she was—a victim wreathed for the sacrifice.
She had sat in her room all that afternoon, in a sort of stupor, her fingers convulsively clasping and unclasping each other, and her eyes bent on the floor listlessly. The going out and coming in of her attendants attracted no attention. But she had not shed a tear. The fountains of her eyes seemed scorched up. When the time came to attire her for the ceremony, they had to rouse her; and the vacant gaze of inquiry she turned on the servant, made the slave, for a moment, think her insane. But when her aunt came in to superintend her toilet, she seemed to revive, and with an effort rose from her chair, and welcomed her with a smile—but one like a sunbeam on a wintry day, cold, and shuddering to look upon. From this moment, however, she was more like herself, though at times the muscles of her mouth would twitch convulsively. At other times she would turn away her head, and an expression of heart-breaking wo would then shoot across her countenance; but, on meeting her aunt’s eye once more, she would essay again to smile.
A few moments before the ceremony was to begin, they left her alone for a moment. She was standing before the mirror, and her eyes fell on the reflection of her form.
“The sacrifice will soon be complete,” she said bitterly. “God forgive me—yet surely I am doing right. Oh! that I could weep, but there is a load here,” and she pressed both hands on her breast, “that keeps back the tears. It is like burning fire.”
Who would have believed that this ghastly face was the once radiant one of Kate Mowbray?