The Missing Bride Part 5

"Well, I was to have been his heiress. Now he disinherits me, unless I consent to be married to his friend and favorite, Dr. Grimshaw."

"You put the case gently and delicately, dear Edith, but the hard truth is this--is it not--that he will disinherit you, if you consent to be mine? You need not answer me, dearest Edith, if you do not wish to; but listen--I have nothing but my sword, and beyond my boundless love nothing to offer you but the wayward fate of a soldier's wife. Your eyes are full of tears. Speak, Edith Lance! Can you share the soldier's wandering life? Speak, Edith, or lay your hand in mine. Yet, no! no! no!

I am selfish and unjust. Take time, love, to think of all you abandon, all that you may encounter in joining your fate to mine. G.o.d knows what it has cost me to say it--but--take time, Edith," and he pressed and dropped her hand.

"I do not need to do so. My answer to-day, to-morrow, and forever, must be the same," she answered, in a very low voice; and her eyes sought the ground, and the blush deepened on her cheek, as she laid her hand in his. How he pressed that white hand, to his lips, to his heart! How he clasped her to his breast! How he vowed to love and cherish her as the dearest treasure of his life need not here be told.

Edith said:

"Now take me in to uncle, and tell him, for he asked me not to keep him in suspense."

Michael led her into the hall, where the commodore strode up and down, making the old rafters tremble and quake with every tread--puffing--blowing over his fallen hopes, like a nor'-wester over the dead leaves.

Michael advanced, holding the hand of his affianced, and modestly announced their engagement.

"Humph! So the precious business is concluded, is it?"

"Yes, sir," said Michael, with a bow.

"Well, I hope you may be as happy as you deserve! When is the proceeding to come off?"

"What, sir?"

"The marriage, young gentleman?"

"When shall I say, dearest Edith?" asked Michael, stooping to her ear.

"When uncle pleases," murmured the girl.

"Uncle pleases nothing, and will have nothing to do with it, except to advise as early a day as possible," he blurted out; "what says the bride?"

"Answer, dearest Edith," entreated Michael Shields.

"Then let it be at New Year," said Edith, falteringly.

"Whew!--six months ahead! Entirely too far off!" exclaimed the commodore.

"And so it really is, beloved," whispered Michael.

"Let it be next week," abruptly broke in the commodore. "What's the use of putting it off? Tuesdays and Thursdays are the marrying days, I believe; let it then be Tuesday or Thursday."

"Tuesday," pleaded Michael.

"Thursday," murmured Edith.

"The deuce!--if you can't decide, I must decide for you," growled Old Nick, storming down toward the extremity of the hall, and roaring--"Old Hen! Old Hen! These fools are to be spliced on Sunday! Now bring me my pipe;" and the commodore withdrew to his sanctum.

Good Henrietta came in, took the hand of the young ensign, and pressed it warmly, saying that he would have a good wife, and wishing them both much happiness in their union. She drew Edith to her bosom, and kissed her fondly, but in silence.

As this was Friday evening, little preparations could be made for the solemnity to take place on Sunday. Yet Mrs. Henrietta exerted herself to do all possible honor to the occasion. That very evening she sent out a few invitations to the dinner and ball, that in those days invariably celebrated a country wedding. She even invited a few particular friends to meet the bridal pair at dinner, on their return from church.

The little interval between this and Sunday morning was pa.s.sed by Edith and Shields in making arrangements for their future course.

Sunday came.

A young lady of the neighborhood officiated as bridesmaid, and Cloudesley Mornington as groomsman. The ceremony was to be performed at the Episcopal Church at Charlotte Hall. The bridal party set forward in two carriages. They were attended by the commodore and Mrs. Waugh. They reached the church at an early hour, and the marriage was solemnized before the morning service. When the entries had been made, and the usual congratulations pa.s.sed, the party returned to the carriages.

Before entering his own, Commodore Waugh approached that in which the bride and bridegroom were already seated, and into which the groomsman was about to hand the bridesmaid.

"Stay, you two, you need not enter just yet," said the old man, "I want to speak with Mr. Shields and his wife, Edith!"

Edith put her head forward, eagerly.

"I have nothing against you; but after what has occurred, I don't want to see you at Luckenough again. Good-by!" Then, turning to Shields, he said, "I will have your own and your wife's goods forwarded to the hotel, here," and nodding gruffly, he strode away.

Cloudesley stormed, Edith begged that the carriage might be delayed yet a little while. Vain Edith's hope, and vain Mrs. Waugh's expostulations, Old Nick was not to be mollified. He said that "those who pleased to remain with the new-married couple, might do so--he should go home! They did as they liked, and he should do as he liked." Mrs. Waugh, Cloudesley, and the bridesmaid determined to stay.

The commodore entered his carriage, and was driven toward home.

The party then adjourned to the hotel. Mrs. Waugh comforting Edith, and declaring her intention to stay with her as long as she should remain in the neighborhood--for Henrietta always did as she pleased, notwithstanding the opposition of her stormy husband. The young bridesmaid and Cloudesley also expressed their determination to stand by their friends to the last.

Their patience was not put to a very long test. In a few days a packet was to sail from Benedict to Baltimore, and the young couple took advantage of the opportunity, and departed, with the good wishes of their few devoted friends.

Their destination was Toronto, in Canada, where the young ensign's regiment was quartered.

CHAPTER V.

SANS SOUCI.

Several miles from the manor of Luckenough, upon a hill not far from the seacoast, stood the cottage of the Old Fields.

The property was an appendage to the Manor of Luckenoug--, and was at this time occupied by a poor relation of Commodore Waugh, his niece, Mary L'Oiseau, the widow of a Frenchman. Mrs. L'Oiseau had but one child, a little girl, Jacquelina, now about eight or nine years of age.

Commodore Waugh had given them the cottage to live in, permission to make a living, if they could, out of the poor land attached to it. This was all the help he had afforded his poor niece, and all, as she said, that she could reasonably expect from one who had so many dependents.

For several years past the little property had afforded her a bare subsistence.

And now this year the long drought had parched up her garden and corn-field, and her cows had failed in their yield of milk for the want of gra.s.s.

It was upon a dry and burning day, near the last of August, that Mary L'Oiseau and her daughter sat down to their frugal breakfast. And such a frugal breakfast! The cheapest tea, with brown sugar, and a corn cake baked upon the griddle, and a little b.u.t.ter--that was all! It was spread upon a plain pine table without a tablecloth.

The furniture of the room was in keeping--a sanded floor, a chest of drawers, with a small looking-gla.s.s, ornamented by a sprig of asparagus, a dresser of rough pine shelves on the right of the fireplace, and a cupboard on the left, a half-dozen chip-bottomed chairs, a spinning-wheel, and a reel and jack, completed the appointments.

Mrs. L'Oiseau was devouring the contents of a letter, which ran thus:

"MARY, MY DEAR! I feel as if I had somewhat neglected you, but, the truth is, my arm is not long enough to stretch from Luckenough to Old Fields.

That being the case, and myself and Old Hen being rather lonesome since Edith's ungrateful desertion, we beg you to take little Jacko, and come live with us as long as we may live--and of what may come after that we will talk at some time. If you will be ready I will send the carriage for you on Sat.u.r.day.