Chapter IX: The Fair Bride

Oh, dearest in the world! Full many a lady
I have eyed with best regard: and many a time
The harmony of their tongue hath into bondage
Brought my too diligent ear; for several virtues
Have I liked several women: never any
With so full soul but some defect in her
Did quarrel with the noblest grace she owned,
And put it to the foil! But you! Oh you
So perfect, and so peerless, are created
Of every creature’s best!—_Shakspeare_

When Orville Deville opened his eyes in the morning, they fell upon his own comfortable chamber, already prepared for rising.

Some soft-footed servant had silently entered and mended the fire and swept the hearth, from which now arose a ruddy blaze that lighted up the whole warm, crimson-hued room. The same hand had laid his dressing-gown and slippers over the easy-chair beside his bed. And had arranged his wash-stand and his shaving apparatus. And lastly, had drawn the tassel of the bell-rope over his headboard, in easy distance of his hand.

The first emotion of the youth in waking from a vivid dream of the wilderness and of Lionne, was surprise at finding himself snugly in his own bed at home. The whole of his past life for the last few weeks seemed only parts of the same dream. Then came full memory, and with it remorse, grief, and dread.

His first action was to pull the bell-rope.

Keziah, with her soft feet and tender voice, answered it,

“Where is my servant? where is Nero?”

“If you please, my young marster, Uncle Nero set up so late last night telling all the negroes he could wake up to listen to him wonderful stories about—de amber-scalps, I think he called them,—that he is oversleeping himself this morning, and I thought our good marster would excuse him. ’Sides which, I thought I’d like, after all dese years, to wait on him myself! I believe I have fixed every thing. Is there any thing else I can do for marse?”

“No, my dear old foster-mother, nothing. Does your mistress know that I am here?”

“Not yet, Marster Orville. She is taking her coffee, and I thought I would not tell her until you woke up.”

“Quite right! How is my dear mother this morning?”

“Right smart! She says she’s sure you’d be home to-night! he! he! he! I could hardly help laughing when my lady said that, and I knowed how you were home already!”

“Dear mother! There, you may retire, aunty, and I will rise.”

Keziah punched the fire and made it blaze more brightly, went and opened the inside window-shutters, letting in a stream of morning sunshine through their rich crimson draperies, and then softly withdrew from the room.

“He nebber ax arter Lady Adelaide nyther last night nor yet this morning!” said the observant Keziah to herself. “But, then, maybe he’s bashful of axing about her,” she added, hopefully.

Meanwhile, Orville dressed himself and went down-stairs. He opened the door of the parlor, which was on the right hand, first floor front.

Early as it was the room was in perfect order, bright, cheerful, and inviting. A fine fire burned in the fireplace. The crimson moreen curtains were looped back, so that the long windows, reaching from ceiling to floor, commanded the fine, broad, water prospect. Within the room every thing breathed of refined woman’s occupation: little elegancies of furniture, little niceties of ornament, a delicate purity in the atmosphere, an etherial fragrance floating round; in one corner of the room a lute and music-stand, with some loose leaves of music; in another a drawing-board, with a half-finished sketch in water-colors; on the centre-table, near the fire, an open work-box, with a coil of embroidery; near it a tiny white kid glove, with the form of a beautiful hand still impressed upon it; lastly, a delicate pocket-handkerchief, breathing of roses.

With the interest of one long banished from cultivated female society, the young man roved about the room, taking up and examining with curiosity each article—looking at the drawing upon the easel, the music upon the stand, and the toys upon the mantle-piece. And finally he sat down by the centre-table and fell to playing with the articles there. First he looked into the little work-box; then he took up the tiny white glove, and smiled at the form of the taper-fingers left within it; then he meddled with the pocket-handkerchief, passing its delicate texture over his fingers.

Suddenly he dropped the handkerchief, as if from its folds a reptile had stung him!

He had seen in its centre the name—_Adelaide Deville_.

He groaned, and covered his face with his hands. Here was a bride who wore his ring, and bore his name, and claimed his hand,—and he,—_what had he done_?

While these terrible thoughts bowed down his head there came a soft, bright ray of sunshine, a pure, sweet breath of flowers, a floating of white raiment and a flashing of golden ringlets, and he looked up to see the gardendoor open, and the fairest angel that ever took mortal form standing, bashful and blushing, in his presence!

“And who are you, fair spirit, who comes to me heralded by sunshine and fragrance?” was the question that arose to the young man’s lips; instead of speaking he got up, bowed gravely, and offered a chair to the young lady.

Without taking the offered seat she hesitated, blushed, smiled, and then with sweet frankness said:

“I am Adelaide, Mr. Deville. I hope you feel refreshed after your long journey.”

So! this fair angel was the Lady Adelaide, his child-bride, the girl who wore his wedding-ring, bore his name, and believed herself to be his wife!

For his life he could not have spoken a word. He acknowledged her greeting by a deep bow, and then he looked up at her.

A form of medium height and perfect symmetry, gracefully arrayed in a pure white muslin dress; a face of classic beauty; ringlets of soft, bright, golden hue, parted over a forehead clear as the purest pearls, and shading cheeks of the most delicate rose tint; full, crimson lips; eyes of heavenly blue, and a smile full of tenderness and truth.

“She is inexpressibly lovely, this fair bride of mine,” thought Orville Deville, as he discreetly withdrew his glances.

Perhaps his look had expressed this thought, for she blushed still more deeply, and dropped her eyes as she said:

“Your mother has sent me to beg you, Mr. Deville, to walk up into her room. Shall I show you the way?”

With a third bow, Orville intimated his readiness to follow her.

She led the way into the hall and up the stairs, opened the door of the front chamber on the right, and saying:

“Here is Mr. Deville, mother,” meekly stood aside and let him pass in.

Then she crossed over to her own chamber, entered it, and stood, thoughtfully, looking out from the front windows upon the great water view.

“He never mentioned me in his letter; he never inquired for me when he got home; he has never even spoken to me since I came in! What _does_ it mean? Oh, what _does_ it mean? I know I am not worthy of him! I know I never can be! but have I done any thing very wrong, I wonder? Oh, if after _all_ he should not like me!—I must not be egotistical. Mr. Deville had more important subjects of thought than the foolish girl who was waiting so eagerly to be recognized. I am of no importance. I ought to say that over to myself a great many times. I will expect nothing. I will be meek, and above all _patient_. How shall I ever be worthy of Orville, if I am _not_ patient?” Such were the self-communings of Adelaide’s pure, worshipping young heart, as she stood looking out from her chamber-window upon the broad water prospect.

Meanwhile, Orville passed into his mother’s chamber. It was a cheerful room with white curtains to the windows and the tent bedstead, and white dimity covers to the toilet-tables and the chairs.

Lady Elizabeth, in a gray silk morning-dress and pretty lace cap, sat reclining in her easy chair before the fire. At her right side stood a little table covered with a white cloth, upon which stood her invalid breakfast-service. A cup of coffee was in her hand.

As Orville entered, and stepped rapidly up to her, she quickly sat down the cup, rose and dropped into his arms.

“My _dear_ mother!”

“My _dear, dear_ son! God be thanked for restoring you to me alive!”

Such were the first words of greeting.

Then she raised her head from his shoulder, sank back into her seat, and holding him off a little, gazed for a moment upon his face.

“Why, you are neither pale nor thin, my dear! Thank heaven for that! Were you badly wounded, my love? Oh, heaven! oh, Orville! I never can be a Spartan again! I shall never consent to your going off on such a dangerous expedition again, never! I shall never get over the terror and anxiety I have been in, never! Tell me all about it. But you haven’t had breakfast. Well, breakfast with me for once,” and she put out her hand and pulled the bell-rope at the chimney corner.

Keziah came in.

“Another cup and saucer, and plate, and more hot waffles for Mr. Deville.”

Her orders were obeyed. And while the mother and son drank their coffee, Orville, amid many interruptions, eager questions, and emphatic comments from Lady Elizabeth, told the story of Braddock’s fatal field.

When the tale was finished, and the breakfast-service removed, Lady Elizabeth signed for her son to draw his chair nearer, and said—

“You have seen Adelaide?”

“Yes, madam.”

“What do you think of her?”

The young man paused before he answered. Then slowly he said—

“She is the most beautiful, the most graceful, and the most charming maiden I ever saw. She is fair, sweet, and bright as a poet’s vision of an angel; and yet that does not do her full justice. She is more than all I have described. I want one comprehensive word——”

While the young man spoke, though it was with the air of a _connoisseur_ rather than that of a _lover_, the lady looked at him with a brightening face.

“Well, that word that describes Adelaide—what is it?” she asked.

“LOVELY!”

“Yes, that is it! Other girls may be beautiful, graceful, and fascinating; Adelaide is all that, and in addition to that, she is lovely.”

“Aye; for loveliness in woman includes all excellencies—beauty, wisdom, goodness!” said Orville, but still with the deliberation of a _thinker_, rather than with the ardor of a _lover_.

“Ah, you don’t know _how_ good she is, my dear! how tender, how patient, how courageous, how devoted! You will only find that out in the close intimacy of your married life.”

Orville winced. Fortunately for him, Lady Elizabeth did not see it, and she continued her desultory talk.

“Now, Orville, consider—that charming creature is your own wife!”

Orville averted his head, and busied himself with his watch seals.

“She has been secured to you beyond all possibility of failure, by your mother’s solicitous affection. She has been taught from childhood to admire and respect you. To _yourself_ has been left the more delightful task of teaching her to _love_ you,” added this politic woman, knowing full well that men like to do all the courting themselves.

Orville cast down his eyes, and occupied himself with his knee-buckles.

“And now, Orville, all that I have to say to you, my son, is that there is nothing to prevent you taking your wife to your bosom. Your chamber, Orville, opens into hers. Be happy in her society; but in your great happiness do not utterly forget the mother whose care has secured you your greatest blessing,” and here the lady drew a lace handkerchief from the pocket of her dressing-gown and put it to her eyes.

Orville left his seat, walked up and down the floor uneasily, and finally pausing before his mother’s chair, said—

“I thought that it was fixed I should go to Oxford, mother?”

“So ’twas; but I have changed my mind since that time. I am getting old, Orville.”

“Old at forty, mother!”

“Well, at least I am not well; and since your terrible danger, I cannot bear that you should leave me for any length of time. Besides, as you have not your living to get, it is not really necessary that you should go to the university. A gentleman of fortune need not be a profound scholar. No, Orville, gratify me who have done so much for you. And, indeed, knowing that you have no great taste for learning, it is not much to ask you to settle down at your beautiful home and take your lovely bride to your heart.”

“Madam,” said the young man, respectfully, “there is one thing that you have lost sight of.”

“And what is that?”

“Adelaide Lorne and myself were but children at the time of our betrothal.”

“Betrothal! it was MARRIAGE!!”

Orville knew that perfectly well, though he had chosen to use another word.

“Well, madam, _marriage_, then. Adelaide Lorne——”

“You forget—Adelaide _Deville_,” amended his mother, whose feminine instincts had detected some design in the persistence with which he gave his bride her maiden name.

“The Lady Adelaide _Deville_, then, and myself were children at the time that marriage was solemnized between us; and we could neither have known each other or understood the purport of what we mutually promised. From that time to this we have never met until to-day. It may possibly be that the young lady may not find me the least to her taste; in which case I should consider the marriage-ceremony solemnized between two children not binding upon either.”

“Not binding upon either! your marriage not binding upon either! Sacred honor! Orville Deville, what do you mean?”

“What I said, dear mother; that a marriage ceremony between a boy of fifteen and a girl of twelve can _not_ be binding upon the after lives of either.”

“Oh, I grant you that a marriage between parties of that early age would _not_ be binding unless sanctioned by parents or guardians. But yours was so sanctioned; no legal form was omitted. Your marriage is as strong as law and gospel can make it. You two are bound together as fast as church and state can bind a man and woman, in a marriage _indissoluble, except by death or crime!_ An examination of the statute laws of England and Scotland relating to marriage will satisfy you upon this point. Yet why trouble yourself? Dear Adelaide does not even dream of evading her duties.”

Orville was not thinking of Adelaide or her dreams. He was bitterly reflecting upon the folly, sin, and danger into which his headlong passions had hurled him.

If his marriage with Adelaide was an indissoluble bond, in the name of honor, _what was his marriage with Lionne?_

_A felony to which he dared not give its legal name._

“You do not answer me, my son,” observed Lady Elizabeth.

“Madam,” replied the young man, with a strange smile, “give me time to realize my happiness!” And rising, with a bow, he left the room.

He went down-stairs, and with the aimlessness of a perplexed mind he strolled into the parlor.

There was a scene that surprised and mortified him. It was now ten o’clock, yet there stood the little breakfast-table, with its snowy damask and elegant service, and there sat Adelaide, patiently waiting and filling up the time with some little needle-work.

As soon as she saw him, she arose with a smile, touched the bell, and, when Keziah entered, said—

“Mr. Deville is ready for breakfast; serve it immediately.”

Orville turned around upon her with a look of surprise, which said, “I hope you have not waited for me!”

And Keziah said plainly, “Why, Mr. Deville has breakfasted with Lady Elizabeth!”

Adelaide turned her gentle blue eyes inquiringly towards Orville.

“Yes, I took coffee with my mother this morning. You should have been notified. I am _very_ sorry you were kept waiting,” said the young man.

“Oh, it is not worth a moment’s thought, much less regret,” said Adelaide, cheerfully.

“But,” said the young man, glancing covertly at her sweet face, “your table is very tempting; and as it has been two hours since I took the single cup of coffee and the half waffle, that Keziah pleases to miscall _my breakfast_, perhaps you will not consider me an unpardonable gourmand if I beg leave to join you.”

“Oh, certainly not! Keziah, bring in the grouse,” said Adelaide, smiling more brightly than before.

The chocolate and the muffins were already on the board, and Keziah soon sat the roasted grouse before her master.

And while Adelaide poured out the chocolate, Orville carved the bird, and covertly watched her pearl-white hand as it fluttered among the cups and saucers.

But for the dull aching of the sin at the bottom of his heart, Orville must have greatly enjoyed the tête-a-tête breakfast with this fair creature. And even as it was—in gazing upon her, his heart swelled, if not with manly love, at least with boyish pride, as he thought:

“I am not a guest here! I am master! This house and these servants are mine! I sit at my own table! and that fair creature, who is pouring out my chocolate, is—my wife! my wife! my own, own indisputable wife! no power on earth can take her from me! so says the church, the state, and my mother, who is just as infallible as the others. How many men in this world would risk their soul’s salvation for the possession of that lovely creature! Yes, great statesmen, great scholars, great generals would! and yet, if it were to save their lives or their souls, not one of them could get her, because she belongs to _me!_ she is _my wife_!”

Oh, heaven! what sudden thought was that which bowed his haughty head and struck all color from his cheek?

It was his secret consciousness making itself heard through all the _éclat_ of his pride, and putting the fearful question:

“And if Adelaide is your wife—_what then is Lionne?_”

“Would to heaven I had never seen Lionne! beautiful, terrible, fatal Lionne!” thought the young man, with a shudder.

When breakfast was over and the service removed, Adelaide said, gaily:

“You will please to excuse me now, Mr. Deville. I am your mother’s housekeeper, and must go to my duties,” and taking up her little basket of keys, she nodded and withdrew.

Orville returned the bow, and inwardly resolved that a housekeeper should be found to emancipate this fair girl from what he was pleased to call domestic drudgery.

He sauntered about for a while like a lost spirit, and finally rambled off towards the library to find pen and ink to write to Lionne.

The library was on the opposite side of the hall, and back of the saloon. In going thither, he caught a glimpse of Adelaide in a linen apron and doe-skin mittens, with a little basket of keys in her hand, and he heard her light, cheerful tones saying to the cook:

“Boiled rock-fish, with egg-sauce and mashed potatoes. Remove with boiled ham and cauliflowers, to be followed by roasted canvas-back ducks, with celery dressing. The usual side-dishes. I will be in the kitchen in time to attend to the jellies and the custard.”

He hurried past and got into the library, found stationery, and sat down to write to Lionne.

And by a very natural, but very reprehensible rule of human action, the more doubtful he felt of the durability of his attachment, the more positive he was in protestations of fidelity. It was a long, long letter, from which, upon account of its significance, we must make one short extract:

“My mother, dearest, is out of immediate danger, yet her condition is still so precarious as to forbid my leaving her, for the present. Yet, dearest, rest assured that _as soon as I can properly do so_ I will hurry back to your side! And now my bright Lionne, I wish you to rest with perfect confidence on my fidelity. And whatever befalls—whether my letters should in these uncertain routes be delayed, or even lost—or weeks, or even months should elapse without your hearing from me—do not torment yourself with false doubts of me. I tell you this, in advance, that you may remember weather and the roads are uncertain, mails unreliable, and post-offices are fallible; but that _I_ am faithful through life and unto death!”

Having sealed this letter and directed it to Winchester, he put it in the family mail-bag that went twice a week to the nearest post-town—Port Tobacco.

“I know not how all this is to end. I must meet the consequences as I can best,” he muttered, as he deposited the letter. He saw no more of Adelaide until dinner time. When the bell rang he sauntered into the dining-room, where, to his surprise and gratification, he saw his mother sitting at her place at the head of the table.

Replying to his look of inquiry, that lady said:

“Yes, my dear. Your return home has been a better tonic to me than Jesuit’s bark itself. This is the first day that I have left my chamber, and I have left it to dine with you. Sit down; Adelaide will be here presently.”

Orville stooped and kissed his mother’s hand, and then went to his place and stood waiting for Adelaide’s coming. He had not long to wait. She came in, neatly and prettily dressed in a light gray silk, with a delicate lace tucker and frills, and took her seat at the side of the table. Her presence there seemed to light up the whole scene. Lady Elizabeth and herself talked and jested lightly as happy mother and daughter, and drawing Orville into the gay conversation, charmed him from his gloomy thoughts.

When dinner and the dessert were over, they adjourned to the drawing-room on the other side of the hall, where coffee was ordered to be served, for Lady Adelaide playfully remarked that on this festive day of Orville’s return home, and his mother’s re-appearance in the parlor, the family should keep state!

It was impossible not to feel the influence of her happy spirit; her innocent gaiety was contagious.

When the fragrant Mocha had been imbibed, and all felt its enlivening effect, Lady Elizabeth said—

“Now open your harpsichord, my dear, and give us something.”

“Have you a choice, Mr. Deville? But of course you have. Name it,” said Adelaide.

“Let me hear your own favorite, my dear cousin,” replied Orville, attending her to the instrument.

She sat down, opened her folio of sacred music, and struck into the prelude of Stoeckle’s glorious “Creation of Light.”

No words of mine can give a fair idea of that magnificent harmony or its effect upon its audience. Its greatest tribute was the perfect silence that succeeded it. No vain, impotent word of praise, was spoken. The anthem, after a short interval, was followed by a heroic ballad, and that again by several humorous songs sung to the accompaniment of the guitar.

And then as the songstress was weary, and the afternoon was far spent, Lady Elizabeth said—

“My dear Adelaide, that will do. It is time you should take your usual ride. I will go and lie down. And Orville must amuse himself in his own way until you meet at supper.”

And she rang for her maid to attend her to her chamber.

“You are going to ride?” inquired Orville, as soon as he was left alone with Adelaide.

“Yes, I always ride in the afternoon.”

“Will you let me have the pleasure of attending you?”

“Oh, yes! I should be much obliged,” said Adelaide, blushing with delight.

He rang the bell and gave the order—

“Nero, saddle Norse King and bring him around with Lady Adelaide’s palfrey.”

They separated to don their riding-habits, and in a few minutes met in the front hall.

Fairer still shone Adelaide’s fair beauty in contrast to her dark blue riding-dress and her little, black velvet jockey-cap, with its single black plume.

“Have you any particular route laid out, dear Adelaide?” inquired the young man.

“No, unless it is to ride up to the border of Bush Creek, to see if the old negroes there have heard news of Kate Kyte or her brothers.”

“Very well: up Bush Creek we go, then,” said Orville, as he lightly lifted her to the saddle.

They rode through the north gate and down the wooded hillside to the thickly wooded valley, and turning their horses’ heads eastward, soon reached the banks of Bush Creek, and followed its beautiful windings under the skeleton shadows of the leafless trees until they reached the rustic bridge, the ruined mill, and the old homestead.

“A wild spot!” said Adelaide, turning half apologetically to her companion.

“And a wild race to own it!” said Orville, in reply.

“Yet we miss them! the country has been too still almost, for the want of their running hounds, and racing horses and their joyous ‘_tally-ho!_’—I hope no harm has come to Kate and her merry men!”

“Kate and her merry men, my dear!” exclaimed Orville, who not being nearly so innocent as Adelaide, fancied something queer in her words.

“Why, yes, Kate, and her merry men, I say again! You have been away. You have not known the Kytes since they all grew up. Kate is the youngest of a family of seven—a sole sister in a band of brothers—lives with them, rides with them, hunts with them, hawks with them, and she would have _enlisted_ with them, if the recruiting officer would have taken her. Her brothers, in their rough chivalry and brotherly love, accord to this fiery little amazon sister the first rank among themselves; they delight to make her a little queen; so, as Kate is a sort of Robin Hood, I call her brothers her merry men!”

“Ah, well, here we are at the bridge. Let me go first, dear, to try the soundness of these logs,” said Orville.

“No! mine is the lightest weight, and consequently the least danger,” said Adelaide, as she spurred her horse and flew past him,—her long skirt, and long plume, gracefully waving in the air behind her.

“Who would have thought the little fairy had so much courage, promptitude and self-will!” thought Orville, as he followed her over the creaking bridge.

They passed through the old gate into the yard. There was the old gray stone-house, and the gigantic old oaks, elms and poplars, and over all the dreary look of desertion and solitude. No human creature was in sight. Yes! there was old Luce, the aged negro crone, stooping and gathering sticks in her apron, doubtless to cook her supper.

The reader may take this as a general fact, that when poor old Luce was visible outside the house, she was always gathering sticks.

“How do you do?” said Adelaide, kindly.

“The rum beggar, honey! the rum-beggar in my spine!” said the old creature, raising herself with difficulty, and putting her right hand to the small of her back, while she carefully held her apron of chips with her left.

“What does she mean?” asked Orville.

“The lumbago. I am sorry. Luce! but I will send you some opodeldoc to cure it. Has Miss Kate, or any of the young men been heard from?”

“No, honey, I ain’t hearn a single halloo from any on ’em to-day. I don’t ’spect how dey’ll be home till de fox brush is taken.”

Adelaide looked in surprise and pain from the old woman’s lack-lustre eyes to her cousin’s face; and then, to test her, she asked:

“When did they leave home, Luce?”

“Child, ‘pears to me dis mornin’ or some time; I don’t memorize zactly, but I must get supper for ’em.”

“Poor, old creature, she knows nothing of their fate, and she has lost her wits. I must attend to her,” thought Adelaide, as she took a kind leave of old Luce, and turned, attended by Orville, towards River-view. The sun had set. The autumn-wind was rising and wailing through the leafless forest, as they crossed the rude bridge and turned down the path leading along the Bush Creek.

“You are silent, fair cousin,” said Orville, noticing that his companion rode on with slack rein and downcast looks.

“I am thinking of Kate Kyte! Dear, brave, glorious Kate!”

“And what about her, dearest?”

“Hark to that wind! Wintry weather is at hand, with tempests, deep snows and impassible roads! and where, in the houseless and pathless wilderness, is Kate?”

“But, lovely Adelaide, how came she in the wilderness?”

“She went to seek her lost brothers! After the news of the massacre, her impatient spirit, rebelling against protracted suspense, urged her to venture in quest of them. And now she is alone in the howling wilderness, exposed to the fury of the elements, the rapacity of wild beasts and the cruelty of wild savages!”

“Well, my dearest, if this young Quixota would go in search of adventures, and has roamed beyond your power to recall her, dismiss her from your mind!”

“As if I could!” thought Adelaide, who sincerely approved the wisdom of the advice, though her sympathetic heart forbade her to follow it.

The rising wind, driving black clouds up over the evening sky, so obscured their path that they felt the growing necessity of hurrying home ere it should become too dark for safe riding. It was, in fact, quite dark when they reached the horse-block in front of the hall-door.

Orville sprang from his horse and lifted Adelaide from her saddle.

She gathered up her riding-skirt and ran into the house.

Tea was served in Lady Elizabeth’s room, where a cheerful evening was spent.

At ten o’clock Lady Elizabeth, retaining Adelaide near her a little longer, dismissed Orville from her room. The young man almost immediately retired to his chamber, where he found a fine fire burning, and all things made comfortable for his accommodation.

Orville remained apparently luxuriating in his bachelor paradise. In smoking-cap, dressing-gown and slippers, he leaned back, half buried in the easiest of easy chairs; his feet reposed upon the softest of leopard-skin rugs; before him burned the brightest of wood fires; at his right hand stood convenient a little stand with a quiver of the most fragrant cigars and a bottle of the oldest Madeira.

He first quaffed a glass or two of the choice old wine, and then lighted his cigar, and extending his feet towards the fire, lapsed into dreaming and smoking. In the wall on his right hand was a white door leading into the adjoining room, the bower of maiden beauty, the sanctuary of maiden innocence,—in a word, the chamber of his unclaimed bride, Adelaide.

As the evil spirit gazed on the gates of paradise, so glanced he at that white door.

“Curious,” thus ran his thoughts, “curious! That is my wife’s room; I know it, and my mother says it, and with her blessing bids me freely enter! she _expects_ me to enter, I have the _right_ to enter, I _wish_ to enter, and yet, knowing what I know, how dare I! Heigh-ho!” and so the smoking, the dreaming, and the covert glancing at the white door went on, until it was all interrupted by approaching footsteps, as if of two persons coming softly along the passage. They entered the adjoining chamber, and then, in the deep stillness of the night, he heard the low tones of Adelaide’s voice saying to her attendant—

“Hush! shut the door softly after you, Keziah; your master retired very much fatigued, no doubt; he is likely asleep; do not risk disturbing him by the least noise.”

Next he heard a mumbled, inarticulate reply, and then the departure and the retiring footsteps of the waiting-woman.

“Ah, my fair Adelaide thinks that I can sleep! Well, let her think so. I will not stir to break that illusion,” thought Orville, as he held his very breath in silence. It was this deep quiet in every part of the house, as well as in his own chamber, that made every slightest sound in the adjoining room so distinctly audible to him. Perhaps because he could not help listening, or without listening, could not help hearing, he heard every motion of the fair girl as she passed about her room; her soft, light step in crossing the floor; the gentle rustle of silk and muslin, as she laid aside her evening-dress and prepared herself for her couch; the reverential deliberation with which she sank upon her knees, and the low, melodious murmur in which her evening prayer was offered up; then he heard her commit her innocent soul to the holy keeping of God, and her fair person to the repose of her couch.

And then followed a silence so deep that the utmost straining of attention could not make out one sound. Unwilling to break this spell of sacred silence, Orville remained sitting in his easy chair, until at length, overcome with weariness, he slept, and sleeping, dreamed. He thought that, unable longer to deny himself the companionship of his lovely bride, he had arisen and approached the white door; that he had his hand upon the knob; that he had turned the latch and opened, and was about to advance his foot over the threshold, when he felt himself caught and violently hurled back. Gathering himself up, and looking around, he saw before him the haughty figure, flowing ringlets, and flashing black eyes of his wild forest-love, Lionne.

And with a cry he awoke and came to himself.

But so real had seemed that dream, so strong remained its impression, that groan after groan burst from the sin-burdened bosom of the young man, and they were only suppressed at last in fear of disturbing Lady Adelaide.

It was late before Orville laid his head upon his pillow, now sown thick with the thorns of an uneasy conscience.

And thus ended his first day at home.

The second day was like the first; a tête-a-tête breakfast with the fair Adelaide, a forenoon spent in the dilettanteism of leisurely country life, a cheerful family dinner, an hour in the drawing-room enlivened by music, then a long ride among the hills, then the social tea-table, and the long winter evening, spent in reading, in music, and in enlivening conversation.

But that which gave vivacity to this calm country life was the presence of Adelaide. It was not only her enchanting beauty—a dayspring of delight to all who looked upon her—nor her genius and accomplishments, which were the chief source of home recreation in their quiet lives, nor even her angelic goodness, which was the greatest comfort of all connected with her; it was not _only_ these that invested her with a peculiar interest and temptation for Orville.

It was this, mark it!

SHE HELD THE POSITION OF HIS WIFE, AND THE MISTRESS OF HIS HOUSE! She, the meek, the humble, the unassuming maiden, the neglected bride, held this rank, from which no human power could displace her. Unconsciously, on her own part, had the gentle girl been inducted into this position. First, during the illness of Lady Elizabeth, she had willingly enough accepted the duties of housekeeper. Then, after Orville’s return and the invalid’s rapid convalescence, she from habit still continued to manage domestic affairs, to carry the keys, and to sit at the head of the table; and with so much faithfulness, competency, and easy grace were all these duties accomplished, that no one could have wished to see her place filled by another.

One day, indeed, when Lady Elizabeth seemed unusually well and cheerful, just as they were all about to sit down to dinner, Adelaide, with a blush, put her hand on the chair she herself usually occupied at the head of the table, and said—

“Will you not now resume your place, mamma?”

“No, my dear. I have abdicated in favor of Lady Adelaide Deville. My son’s wife must henceforth take the head of my son’s table,” said the elder lady, very pointedly; and taking the hand of her daughter-in-law, she gently but decidedly placed her in the chair of honor.

Her action was perfectly regular.

What could Adelaide do but blush more vividly than before as she sank into the seat?

What could Orville say, even though his silence gave consent? Nothing. He only bowed in tacit acknowledgment of the arrangement.

And from this day, if ever by chance a servant came to Lady Elizabeth for instructions, she was careful to say—

“You are henceforth to take all your orders from Lady Adelaide Deville, who is now mistress of this house.”

The news spread in the kitchen, and the servants began to speak of the Lady Adelaide as “our mist’ess,” and of the older lady as “ole missus.” All this greatly embarrassed Orville, who went to his mother’s chamber to expostulate.

“My dear mother, why _do_ you afflict me by yielding up your position as the mistress of this house?”

“Because it is not my just position, Orville,” replied the lady.

“And _why_ is it not?”

“Because the house is not mine but yours.”

“Then, if it is mine, I desire, my mother, that you retain your place at the head of the establishment.”

“But that would not be _just_, Orville. That place belongs to the young lady whom you have made your wife; whom I have very carefully brought up, and instructed in all the duties appertaining to the mistress of a family, and who is, consequently, quite competent to their fulfilment. I take great comfort, indeed, in witnessing how admirably she sustains the character.”

“But you, my mother?”

“I repeat that I am proud and happy to abdicate in favor of your wife.”

“My wife! good heaven!” thought Orville, distractedly, as he left his mother’s chamber.

As the news of Lady Adelaide’s return from school, of Mr. Deville’s arrival at home, and of Lady Elizabeth’s re-appearance in the parlor spread abroad, the county families began to call and pay their respects and offer their congratulations. And to every one of these in succession was the young mistress of the mansion presented by Lady Elizabeth as—

“My daughter-in-law, Lady Adelaide Deville.”

And from each one in turn did Mr. Deville and Lady Adelaide receive the customary congratulations offered to a bridal pair.

Among the visitors came the Reverend Mr. Sinclair, the pastor of the Presbyterian parish of Bush Creek, and his young wife, who was an intimate friend of Lady Adelaide’s.

In welcoming and shaking hands with Orville the minister said—

“I wish you a long and happy wedded life with the lady of your choice, Mr. Deville; and in congratulating you on the auspicious event of your marriage, I do not do so in mere formality, but with the most earnest conviction of your blessedness in the possession of a young creature whose lovely nature approaches as near the angelic as fallen human nature may. Cherish her, my dear young friend, as the choicest gift of Heaven!”

What could Orville do but bow deeply, and thus indorse all that the minister took for granted?

Thus every day strengthened the position of the young unclaimed wife as mistress of the mansion. And every day, also, marked her progress in the esteem of him who was called—and who should have been _worthy_ to be called—her husband.

Orville Deville felt as though he had lost all power over his own fate, and was being drifted he knew not whither.

His manner towards his fair young bride evinced the deepest respect, the most delicate tenderness, and the most affectionate courtesy; yet he carefully avoided every thing that could be construed into courtship.

And Adelaide, so long as he was kind, remained perfectly happy in her simplicity, never dreaming that she was the object of commiseration which every one in the house thought her to be—a neglected bride. She was happy in fulfilling all duties required of her, as wife, daughter, friend, mistress and Christian. Happy, if you please, in ruling her house, managing her domestic affairs, caring for her young husband’s comforts, noticing his tastes at table, preparing his favorite dishes, and taking care of his wardrobe; happier still in riding alone with him every afternoon through the wintry woods, over the bleak hills, or along the sanded beach by the water side; or, when seated at her work-table by the evening fire-side, listening to his voice in reading; happiest of all while sitting at his side each Sabbath-day at church, listening to the word of God!

Reader! do we wonder that a thunderbolt from heaven did not strike this sinner from the side of the youthful saint?

No; for we know that God permits the tares to grow with the wheat until the day of the final harvest.

Meanwhile this young sinner was in some sense to be pitied. To see his fair young bride so perfect in her loveliness; to know her his very own, and to refrain from taking her to his heart, was growing every day more difficult.

He, a young man educated at Eton, had never before known what good and beautiful young girlhood was. And now that he recognized, he reverenced this womanly excellence that approached as nearly as possible to angelic perfection. He regarded his past, vehement, but transient passion for wild Lionne in its true light—as a short madness. He recognized in Adelaide—had he been worthy of her—the angel of his better life.

“She is beautiful, amiable, and accomplished. She is ‘altogether lovely.’ I love her! and I feel that she loves me. I know that she is my own—that no one disputes my claim; and yet because of the fetter of sin that binds me, I dare not approach her! Oh! am I not punished for my sin? Is not my fate worse than that of Tantalus?” Thus in the bitterness of his heart he mused, one winter afternoon, as he rode beside Adelaide.

He had been so long silent that she suddenly turned her head and looked at him with close attention.

And then, for the first time in their acquaintance, she saw that he was unhappy.

The discovery pierced her gentle bosom like a sword!

Adelaide had borne neglect, without, in her sweet humility, even knowing that she _was_ neglected! She would have gone on drawing her happiness from her duties—from her pleasantest occupation in ministering to his comfort—and never, in the unexacting, unsuspicious meekness of her heart, asked herself the question whether she were appreciated or repaid.

But now she saw the idol of her worshipping young heart unhappy, and—her own peace of mind was gone! She had been so long tutored to believe that his comfort was _her own_ proper care—that _she_ was the custodian of his domestic happiness—that now, when she saw the cloud upon his brow, she began to examine her conscience to see in what particular she had been remiss. She could come to no absolute certainty upon any point, but resolved to devote herself with more assiduity than ever to her duties.

And from this day, it would have been a piteous sight to any sympathetic observer, to witness her frequent, mute, appealing gaze, that asked so plainly—

“Ah! what can we do to give you ease and pleasure? If you would only speak and tell us, how glad we should be to gratify you!”

Lady Elizabeth thought her son the most insensible of all men, and was exasperated to use many little expedients to bring the young couple to a better understanding. Being on much more intimate terms with her daughter-in-law than with her son, she one day entered the chamber of the young lady, and asked Adelaide—

“What in the world is the matter between you and Orville? You are not at all like a bride and groom in their honeymoon! Now what is amiss?”

“I do not know, indeed, dear mamma, but I see that he is very unhappy. I am afraid that I do not act rightly, and I am, besides, so ignorant or blind that I cannot see where I am remiss. If _you_ know, dear mamma, please tell me.”

“I do know _one_ little thing.”

“What is it, dear friend? what can I do?”

“_Put his chamber to rights._”

“Keziah attends to that, and she is very faithful,” said Adelaide, blushing deeply.

“Keziah! My dear, the most competent servant that ever lived cannot give delicate finishing touches to the arrangement of a room. Come, let us go in and see Keziah’s handiwork,” said the lady, rising and approaching the white door.

“But, dear mamma, such a trifle as the condition of his room, never could make Mr. Deville so unhappy as he now seems.”

“_No_, not in _itself_, but as a token of his _wife’s indifference_, it might.”

Adelaide started, and looked wistfully into the face of her mother-in-law. She was far from indifferent, poor girl!

“Why, this door is locked, and the key is on your side, Adelaide! how is this?”

“Why, dear mamma, I always fasten _both_ the doors of my chamber; and as I never have occasion to use _this_ door, it remains fastened,” said Adelaide, simply.

“In fact, I do not wonder that Orville is unhappy,” said the lady, petulantly.

“_Why_, dear mamma? what do you mean?”

“To be locked out of his wife’s apartment in this manner!”

“I had no intention of locking him out in particular! He never wished to pass through this room that I know of!”

“Orville is a gentleman, I hope you know, my dear.”

“Dear mamma, I do not comprehend you at all! Pray tell me in what I have erred! Indeed, I have an earnest desire to do right!” pleaded Adelaide.

“You have turned the key on Orville, who has as much right as yourself to the freedom of this room, and you should know, Adelaide.”

“But I did not know! Indeed, I meant no offence! Pray, do not be angry! the key shall not be turned again!”

“I do not intend that it shall—on Orville!” thought the matron, as she withdrew it and put it in her own pocket, leaving Adelaide without means of fastening the communicating-door.

They passed into the adjoining room, which, begging Lady Elizabeth’s pardon, was as well arranged as it could possibly be, and needed “no finishing touches” at all. The crimson curtains to the bedstead and the windows were as gracefully festooned, and the mantle ornaments and toilet services were as tastefully arranged, as the hands of the most delicate young lady could have managed it.

Even Lady Elizabeth was constrained to admit that the appointments wanted no “finishing touches,” and much to Adelaide’s relief, they left the room.

The same day, while Adelaide was down-stairs, preparing some jellies for dinner, Lady Elizabeth ascended to her daughter-in-law’s room, where she waited until she heard her son come up and pass into his own apartment. Then she called—

“Come in here, Orville!”

Mr. Deville started and looked around, not knowing exactly whence the voice came.

“Here, in Adelaide’s chamber,” again called his mother’s voice.

This time he knew, and he advanced and laid his hand upon the knob of that sacred white door, turned the latch, opened it, and looked for the first time upon the sanctuary of Adelaide’s privacy.

A chamber, white curtained and white draperied, with the indescribable fragrance of youth, beauty, and girlhood lingering about it; a scene of simplicity, purity, and holiness.

Well might he linger on the threshold. His mother, seeing his hesitation, said—

“Do not be afraid, Orville. Dear me! what are you thinking of? It’s your wife’s room, and consequently _your own_.”

His own! He might have _a legal privilege_, but he felt that he had _no moral right_ to enter there! At his mother’s invitation, he crossed the threshold, but felt as uncomfortable, as much out of his sphere, as a sinner might feel in heaven!

“Come here and sit beside me on this couch; I want to talk to you, Orville,” she said.

He obeyed, and placed himself beside her on the dimity lounge.

In truth she had little of any importance to say; all she wished to do, was to bring him through that communicating-door; but having done so, she affected to consult him on the cutting down of certain timbers, and the reclaiming of certain swamp lands, until the bell rang for dinner, when this conference broke up.

Yet days and weeks passed, and with all her manœuvering Lady Elizabeth did not succeed in bringing the young couple to what she called a good understanding.

Time wore on. Orville and Adelaide talked, walked, read, and rode together as usual, as the most affectionate brother and sister might do; only it is certain that never brother loved a sister as Orville loved Adelaide, and never a sister repaid a brother with such a heart-whole devotion as Adelaide rendered to Orville. This was all! Their marriage-ceremony remained a dead letter, and Lady Elizabeth was in despair, and was driven to new expedients.

“Though they will not advance, I will put it out of their power to recede,” said her ladyship; and thereupon, Christmas being at hand, she issued a large number of invitations for a dinner and ball, to be given at River-view.

In those days, and in that neighborhood, all complimentary tickets were written; and the preparation of tickets of invitation was no small part of the trouble of the getting up of a large party.

Lady Elizabeth, one morning after breakfast, called her daughter-in-law into her own chamber to assist her in this business.

She sat down at the writing-table with a ream of note paper on her right hand, and Lady Elizabeth’s visiting-list on the other.

She began, as she had been accustomed to begin—

“_Lady Elizabeth Deville presents her compliments_——” when that lady looking over her shoulder, said—

“No, my dear love, that is not proper.”

“How then, dear mamma?”

“Write—‘_Mr. and Lady Adelaide Deville present_, etc.’ The dynasty of River-view is changed, you know, my dear child, and the world around us must understand it.”

Adelaide, accustomed to subordination, readily obeyed.

And the cards were written and issued accordingly; and now the neighborhood, as well as the household, knew that henceforth the young and lovely Adelaide was mistress of River-view.

The dinner and ball came off on Christmas evening.

The guests—many of them mere acquaintances from a distance—were all presented to Lady Adelaide Deville as their hostess.

In a rich and tasteful evening-dress of pale blue brocade, over white satin, and with her golden hair dressed with a wreath of harebells, Adelaide looked more beautiful than Orville had ever before seen her. Her beauty, grace, and accomplishments elicited general admiration, and the heart of Orville swelled with pride, as well as with love, to hear her called his wife. How proudly, how gladly would he also have called her thus! but it might not be, for, in the very height of his anticipated happiness, visions of the village inn in which he had wedded Lionne, visions of the crystal grotto that had been their bridal bower, arose in vengeance to dash the desired cup of joy from his lips! One evil change was coming over the spirit of Orville,—for his sin in having yielded to his transient passion for Lionne he no longer _blamed_ himself, but accused his _fate_.

The initiative Christmas-party given at River-view acted as a suggestion and a stimulus to the festive hospitality of the neighborhood. Other dinners and balls followed in rapid succession. Never before in that neighborhood had been known so gay a Christmas and New-Year. And everywhere the young married-pair, as they were called, were fêted, toasted, and admired to the heart’s content of Lady Elizabeth! There was no retrograding now! no such thing as denying or repudiating a marriage so generally published, so universally acknowledged!

Still time wore on. Spring approached. Orville had received no answer to his letter to Lionne. This circumstance, which might have distressed a faithful lover, elated him.

It was early in March that an event occurred that tended to precipitate a denouement, if not a catastrophe

It was one evening that the family were still lingering at the tea-table, when old Nero came in from the post office, with the mail-bag stuffed quite full.

“An unusually large mail,” exclaimed Orville, with gusto, as he seized the bag with the anticipation of a great treat.

“Furrin post,” remarked old Nero, laconically.

“How should you know?” asked his master.

“Pos’ marser told me—came in wid de packet-ship Prince o’ Whales’ from Libberpool, in furrin parts.”

“It is the English papers,” said Orville, gaily, as he emptied the bag upon the table and began to distribute its contents.

“No letters, but we can dispense with them this time!—Here, mother, is the ‘Morning Post,’ always your favorite!—The ‘Court Journal,’ my dear Adelaide, I suppose will be the most acceptable to you.—I will look into the ‘Times.’”

And without leaving the table, Orville was soon deep in parliamentary debates; Adelaide in court gossip; and Lady Elizabeth in fashionable intelligence,—when the latter suddenly exclaimed—

“Heaven bless us!”

At this startling invocation both Orville and Adelaide looked up.

Lady Elizabeth’s attention was concentrated upon one column of the “Morning Post,” whose lines her eyes were following with avidity, amid such involuntary exclamations as:

“Dear me! who would have thought it! I wonder what is up now!”

“So do we!” said Orville, with an amused smile.

“Oh, excuse me, young people, for thinking aloud; but, really, this is so singular! I do not know what the ministry can mean!”

“Nor we what you mean, dear madam!”

“Oh! ay! certainly! this it is! You see, the Earl of Lennark is pardoned and recalled.”

Orville and Adelaide looked quite as much puzzled as before.

“Ah, I see you have forgotten! Well, then, my half-brother, your uncle, Alexander Lorne, proscribed as a Jacobite since ’45, has been pardoned, and recalled to take possession of the title and estates of the Earldom of Lennark, sequestrated since ’45, but now restored to their rightful heir.”

“Oh!” said Orville.

“Indeed!” said Adelaide.

“Great clemency on the part of the ministry,” remarked Orville.

“Or great policy, who can tell which?” demurred his mother.

“But I thought that my dear uncle Alexander, whom I can just barely remember, died abroad long, long, ago,” said Adelaide.

“Such was the rumor, and as I never heard from my brother after the battle of Preston, I had reason to believe it true. However, since the ministry are apt to know what they are about, I consider his recall conclusive proof of his existence.”

“Had he any family?” inquired Orville.

“When I heard from him last, while he was in France, he was a widower with one daughter; but, as I tell you, I have had no correspondence with Alexander since ’45, the time of his connection with the young Chevalier.”

“If Uncle Alexander accepts the recall he will return to the old place, I suppose,” said Adelaide.

“Yes—he loved the Highlands, and doubtless his long exile will make it all the more attractive to him now. Dear me—what if?—but no matter!”

“_What_, mother?”

“Nothing, I had a thought, but it is premature; I will sleep on it to-night, and, perhaps, if it is worth while, name it to you to-morrow. Now I am tired: good-night.” And rising, the lady left the room.

Lady Elizabeth was as good as her word, and before she closed her eyes that night she consulted her pillow with such good results, that she completely matured a project that had been suggested by the news of the night. The next day she was in no great hurry to propose her plan, but waited until

“The after-dinner talk
Across the walnuts and the wine,”

when she suddenly said:

“How would you like to visit Glen Lennark Lodge and the Highlands this summer, Orville?”

“Oh! very much, indeed!” exclaimed the young gentleman, catching eagerly at the suggestion.

“And you, Adelaide, would you like to revisit the home of your childhood?”

“Oh, yes! yes! dear Glen Lennark!” exclaimed the gentle girl, delightedly, adding considerately—“if I might do so as well as not.”

“There is nothing on earth to prevent you! It would be a pleasant wedding-tour, which, upon all accounts, it is quite proper you should make.”

“I see by a Norfolk paper that there is a packet to sail from that port for Glasgow on the first of April. That will give you time enough to prepare. You can make a fine spring voyage and reach the Highlands by the beginning of summer. Come! what do you both say to making this visit?”

Adelaide beamed with delight at the prospect, but left it to Orville to reply.

He saw her radiant eyes, and hastened to express his high approval of the project.

The details of the plan were then discussed at large for more than an hour, at the end of which the discussion being left unfinished, Lady Elizabeth arose, and saying with a smile that she would go and take her afternoon nap, withdrew from the dining-room.

Orville left the table to go and order the horses for their usual ride, and Adelaide tripped up-stairs to put on her habit.

As, still elated with the prospect of her voyage, she opened her chamber-door and danced into the room, she paused, aghast! There, in the middle of the room, was a sight that seemed to freeze all the blood in her veins!

The two wronged wives—the fierce, implacable Lionne, and the mild, gentle-hearted Adelaide—stood face to face!