"Anon through every pulse the music stole,
And held sublime communion with the soul,
Wrung from the coyest breast the imprisoned sigh,
And kindled rapture in the coldest eye."
Rosalind's mmd was soon too deeply engrossed with her own personal affairs, to dwell much on the sad events recorded in the last chapter. After procuring a decent burial for the unfortunate girl, and transplanting a white rose-bush from their own garden, to designate the spot where the weary and homeless one had at last found a resting place, every thought was given to an approaching event of the most vital interest to herself. The day which had long been set apart as the celebration of their nuptials was near at hand, with its usual accompaniment of bustle and preparation. Notwithstanding she had often said, that there was no necessity of being so hurried at the last moment, if sufficient time were allowed, so much was crowded into the last few weeks, that she scarcely realized what was about to take place. As Mrs. Claremont's house was sufficiently large to accommodate them all, a few changes only being deemed necessary, they were saved the labored details of a fresh outfit at house keeping. But then there were so many last calls to be made, so many little things to be attended to, which, in a sudden event of that kind, might just as well have been dispensed with, that it was almost by compulsion Ernest could gain her undivided attention, even for a single evening. Like a cat just ready to jump, unless there was something to consult him about, her hand was on the point of withdrawing from his the moment he took it, as something was sure to recur to her mind that must be done then, or it would be forgotten. Systematic in all her arrangements, her ruling desire that every trifling thing, unconnected with herself, should be properly attended to, sprung from a consciousness, which in her demonstrative nature could not fail of expression, that she had reached a dividing point in her life where the closing hours of the era just past would yield satisfaction in proportion to the duties fulfilled, though they might be nothing more than to gratify her love of order and completeness. Any one similarly constituted will understand this feeling from experience on other occasions than this. A journey yields much more pleasure upon the reflection that no duty has been neglected, and every thing has been left in its proper place at home, even at the expense of a hurried preparation. Rosalind was of such a positive nature that any omission, however slight, disturbed her peace of mind. Perhaps she had promised some poor, lone woman, to spend an hour in reading to her, or to repair some article of dress for which young eyes were needed, but not so much as the bloom of young hearts, which detained her when Ernest was waiting for her at home, whom she held in reserve, intending to atone in the future for her seeming neglect of him then.
A poor widow, whose only daughter and only child had recently died, received her last share of attention, to whom it was a great consolation to be thought of at such a time, and Rosalind subjected herself to much inconvenience to gratify her.
The Saturday night before her bridal witnessed all her plans completed, and she seated herself by the side of Ernest, with an evident feeling of satisfaction which lent an additional charm to their last private social interview as lover and maiden. The excitement of the last few weeks had not worn off sufficiently to come to the sober second thought of their approaching marriage, which was not even alluded to. Ernest enjoyed her thoughtless girlishness of manner, which to a stranger contrasted strangely with the sedateness of the woman a moment's thoughtfulness was sufficient to transform her into. The next morning, at break of dawn, she was up and doing. An odd memento she had long since promised to her mother when laughingly reminded of her strong attachment to home, a picture, representing the bride's farewell, suddenly recurred to her memory, which she immediately secured from a mass of articles collected for Kate, and hastily adjusting it to a frame, hung it in her mother's room, where her eyes would be likely to fall upon it as soon as she awoke. The affectionate embrace of mother and daughter was very touching, but the anger of the bridegroom at this manifestation of feeling which he expected to monopolize was shown by his irritable looks as his hand grasped the door with a half intention to leave her where she was.
Mrs. Claremont smiled as she met her daughter at breakfast, but her thoughts were turned into a channel too serious for much demonstration of levity. When she arose, she approached Rosalind, and throwing her arms around her, said,—"And is this the last Sabbath morning on which I can call you exclusively my own?"
A sudden revulsion of feeling swept over Rosalind at these words, and it was difficult for her to restrain the fast coming tears. Thoughts of her father and the reflection that she was so soon to part with the freedom and independence of girlhood, tinged her anticipations with a sort of mournful pleasure. With a thoughtful and reverent air the remainder of the day was chiefly devoted to her mother whose side she scarcely left. At church the sound of the music thrilled her with unusual fervor as if it heralded the advent of a new life whose record would be pure or sullied as she cultivated in her own soul those graces which should make it worthy the love of him who had chosen her for his companion through the storm and sunshine of their earthly career, and most ardently she prayed for strength.
The wedding day at length arrived, the day which for its tender and sacred associations, was scarcely less of interest to Mrs. Claremont than to the prospective bride. It was a day of her own selection, the anniversary of her marriage twenty-two years before, the memory of which brought no sadness, but a perpetual joy.
Sorrow had no power over a love and faith like hers;—it was only the heavenly dew-drop to quicken their celestial growth. In witnessing her daughter's bridal, she lived over again her young days without a regret to dim their radiance. Her passion for orange-bloom was not abated, and as it had presided at her own marriage festival, she wished it also to grace Rosalind's. She had then three trees laden with blossoms whose perfume filled the rooms. Then her favorite arbutus was strewn in lavish profusion, and a few exotics, like stray visitors, were welcomed to add their rich and varied beauty to the festivities of the occasion.
Rosalind wore a charmed expression, one of unusual serenity. She had accomplished every thing she intended, and nothing was left for this day which could be done before. She indulged in all the poetry of soul such an hour is calculated to inspire, and when the time came for her to dress, went about it as calmly as if she were merely to spend an evening out. Ernest re-arranged the orange bloom in her hair according to his artistic taste, after which they were ready to descend to the parlor.
Kate, who with becoming deference had refrained from her sallies of wit during the day, could no longer control herself, after being permitted with Milly and Amelia the honor of assisting at the bridal decorations, and addressed him, saying,—"If you do not look out she will take wings and fly to the seventh heaven before you get her half way through the knot," glancing at the lace drapery which hung in rich profusion over the pearl colored silk that was Mrs. Claremont's choice for her daughter's wedding dress.
Upon reaching the stairs, a sound as of distant music fell upon their ears, which gradually approached nearer until they reached the parlor, when a choir of infant voices in an adjoining room sung a hymn appropriate to the occasion. It was well for Rosalind that she had attained so much composure that day, or she would have found the exercises too lengthy, notwithstanding all she had said about the hasty manner in which the marriage ceremony is apt to be consummated. When with solemn emphasis the minister addressed her with the query, "if she would promise to love, honor and obey," she gave not the slightest token of response. That investigating mind had unpremeditatedly started off on a train of thought suggested by the occasion and the words, which could not comprehend the connection of the phrase with their relations to each other. The hour was too sacred,—the lingering influence of the music too exalted to be desecrated by an assent to any unmeaning phrase or unhallowed requirement which would give the lie to the pledge of mutual love, reverence and equality each acknowledged as their bond of union.
When the services were concluded, a troop of six young girls, dressed in white with wreaths of the arbutus and orange bloom intertwined with sprigs of myrtle upon their heads, entered and stood before them, singing,—
"Now we come to greet you."
The whole was a surprise, arranged by Mrs. Claremont. Her own married life had been so singularly harmonious and happy, she could scarcely harbor a doubt that according to present indications her daughter's would be equally so. So insignificant in the presence of an overwhelming joy seems the remembrance of all our griefs, that the future only, with its blank pages of virgin whiteness opens before us, about which it seems almost a sacrilege to breathe the thought of coming sorrow. The sound of the infant voices died away, and soon after the vibrations of the piano, when an impressive silence followed as the most fitting response for feelings too deep for expression. It was broken by the officiating minister, now slightly silver-haired, who, when a young man, had joined the hands of Alfred Claremont and Marianne Beaufort.
"I cannot forbear," he said, "giving utterance to my heartfelt joy, arising from emotions excited in an hour like this. I have often wished that music had been ordained a part of the marriage ritual. Nothing could be more appropriate to such an occasion,—nothing could shed a more hallowed influence over the trials and triumphs that lie hidden in the dim future.
"During my experience of the last quarter of a century I have seen much, very much to pain me. I have been called to administer consolation in desolate homes whence the angel of love and charity seemed to have departed, when I have almost involuntary whispered to myself, 'Surely there is not music enough in life.' And again I have been the witness of joys that seemed all too holy to be of mortal birth, when I have felt that the melodious harmony of heaven was reflected on earth in strains of sweetest music.
"My young friends, standing at the threshold of that portion of existence which yields the holiest emotions as well as the keenest afflictions, permit me as one who has experienced both its purest joys and its sacred sorrows, to assure you that in the storm as in the sunshine, God's love is over all, and you will find that not alone in the spring-time of love, when the sunny future opens in unclounded beauty before you, but in the waning summer and the chilling autumn, amid blossoming hopes and the blight of disappointments, the green tree of affection which you have planted in your hearts will put forth new verdure, and like the orange scent of these rooms, will make your souls redolent with heavenly perfume. Life is not all poetry, and in those stern prose moments which will come to you as they come to us all, may the music song of this hour, like the grand old anthem which was chanted at creation's birth, float over you as a prophetic inspiration of the future haven which shall witness the consummation of more than wedded bliss.
"Pardon me for this trespass upon the evening's festivities, and permit me to introduce you to these assembled guests as Mr. and Mrs. Livingston."
There were not many dry eyes when he closed his remarks, and one among those not the least affected was Mary Kingley, now Mrs. Morgan. Only through tears could her joy and swelling gratitude find relief as the trying scenes of her life passed in rapid review before her, and her soul responded to the sentiments of the speaker, though she had yet but sipped of the full contents of the cup, whose varied mixture could scarcely admit of greater contrast than she had already experienced.
This was the first time she had visited the city since she left it, which was in accordance with a promise Rosalind had exacted the day of her marriage. It was the source of great pleasure to her—to them both, for the four weeks they had spent together so happily had united them ui bonds of the closest friendship. One thing alone detracted from its unalloyed enjoyment, which was her longing desire to visit her old home and see her mother. This could not be, since her father had abated none of his former harshness, and had absolutely forbidden her mother to see her on any condition whatever. Often in the silence of the night with none but God to witness, had she wrestled with this inward pain, and as resolutely shut it out when day brought its cares that none might know, especially James, the struggle it cost her.
Rosalind, who often visited and sympathized with her, knew more of it perhaps than any one else. In answer to a salutation with which she frequently greeted her, "As happy as ever?" she would say, "Oh yes! only one thing to mar my happiness," and then immediately turned the conversation.
Walter was at the height of enjoyment. His visit home and meeting so many old friends, combined with the occasion to render it more than usually interesting to him. Rosalind saw his eyes mischievously following her as if he had some fun in contemplation, and she studiously avoided him. He watched his opportunity before the guests dispersed when he saw her and Ernest together, to whisper to him that the ceremony was but half performed, and ho had better see to it before it was too late that Rosalind should enter into her part of the contract. Li vain she tried to check him by placing her hand over his mouth. "I think I can manage that part," replied Ernest.
The clergyman being near, caught enough of what was said, to assure him what was going on, and stepping up, said, "As the power is all on the gentleman's side, man and wife being both one, and that one the husband, it matters little what she assents to; "but my young friend," said he, slyly addressing her, "if you should be heavily oppressed, remember you will find a friend in me, who can defend you upon the testimony of this evening."