Chapter IV: +the Bridal+

THOUGH the morning of the wedding had dawned serene and cloudless, the glare of the treacherous sun of May, was accompanied by the cutting east wind, so prevalent in England in that month—fit emblem of the chequered course of married life, the transient joys of which are but too apt to wither beneath the chill breezes of disappointment. My young lady readers, _never marry in May_—that reputed most unlucky month for hymeneal ceremonies. As far as my experience goes, I have invariably seen this popular superstition verified by the result.

The wedding of the two cousins was quiet and private, the guests invited being restricted to the immediate relatives and connexions of the young couple. The bride, who was in high beauty, wore over a petticoat of white glacé silk a richly-embroidered robe of India muslin, the gift of her husband, who had brought it from India. Her wreath and bouquet were of real orange flowers and myrtle, and a veil of the most delicate lace enveloped her youthful form, as in a cloud. Her two young sisters, a friend and myself, in white tarletan, trimmed with pink, and looking like rose-buds around a queenly white moss-rose, formed the bridal train; and six little girls from the Sunday school, dressed in white, strewed flowers in their beloved teacher’s path. Evelyn, “the observed of all observers,” did not, I think, appear fully to realize the solemnity of the occasion, though I fancied I perceived a slight shudder pass through her frame, as the irrevocable words were uttered, which fixed her destiny forever. I, for my part, could not shake off a certain gloom, by no means appropriate to so festive an occasion; but I tried hard to be cheerful: and it was not until the last farewells were spoken, and Evelyn smiling, but tearful, was seated in her britschka, by the side of her good-looking young husband, that I sought the solitude of my chamber, and gave full and unrestrained vent to my feelings.

Evelyn’s first letters, though short, were happy and hopeful. She made a tour of about six weeks in the northern counties of England, visiting also a part of Scotland.

Soon after her return to the house of her husband, which, my readers will remember, was also that of her beloved, though unknown father, I received from my friend a long letter, which I shall proceed to transcribe, that she may speak for herself:

EVELYN TRAVERS TO MARY MILDMAY.

The Abbey, Woodlands, Derbyshire, }
July ——, 18——. }

You upbraid me for my long silence and short letters, my own
Mary, forgetting that I have been, for the last few weeks,
incessantly on the move, besides having suffered, with becoming
patience, that infliction miscalled “the honey-moon,” which,
with the exception of courtship, is certainly the dullest and
most unprofitable period of one’s life. Now that I am settled in
my new home, or rather, shall I not say, in my beloved _old_
home, (for was it not that of my father?) I can sit down and
endeavor to fulfil your wishes, by giving you a detailed account
of all you may desire to know.

First, then, this is the dearest old place in the
world—inexpressibly so to me, for the sake of that dear father,
whom, though unknown, I love better than any living thing. Even
as I write, I have his full-length portrait before me—of
life-size, and so like my impression of him, that I should have
recognized it anywhere. Yes, there are the mild blue eyes, the
noble features, the intellectual brow, I have frequently seen
bending over my couch in my dreams, when I felt happy—_so_ happy
in the thought that, though absent in body, he might, perhaps,
still be permitted, by a mysterious Providence, to guide and
guard his daughter. My husband and myself have an apartment in
the left wing of the old Abbey, which is completely overgrown
with ivy. We have a bed-chamber, with two dressing-rooms
attached—a smoking cabinet for Edward, full of guns, and
ugly-looking hooks to torment the poor fishes; and worse than
all—I regret to say—the chimney is ornamented with hideous old
pipes, of all shapes and sizes. There is, of course, a drawing
room, and the sweetest boudoir for me. This completes our suite
of apartments. Stay—I am wrong. There is yet another room, with
hangings of blue and white, (your favorite colors) which I have
already named, Mary’s “Canserie,” in the fond hope it will
shortly be occupied by her. Am I wrong? My boudoir is quite a
“ladye’s bower,” its latticed windows, overlooking the flower
garden, include also a more distant view of the park, with a
glimpse of the blue hills of Derbyshire, the lordly Peak
towering far above his companions in the dim and distant
horizon. Our beautiful Woodlands well deserves its name; the
Park is rich in its old ancestral trees, and abounds in grassy
knolls; and a river, sparkling and clear as crystal, filled with
trout, meanders through the grounds, preserving the freshness
and enhancing the beauty of the scene.

Fortunate creature, I think I hear you exclaim, and truly, I can
imagine no happier lot than to have called such a place by the
sweet name of home in my girlhood.

But, alas! as it is, I envy the deer, the birds, the flowers,
their freedom. Oh, Mary! when starting on my first journey as a
wife, you placed in my hands a volume of Byron, your parting
remembrance, you little thought what a fatal gift it would prove
to me. It has opened a new field of romance, and from a child
your poor Evelyn has sprung into womanhood. I now know the kind
feeling I bear towards my husband is not worthy the name of
_love_. How then could I continue to deceive him by permitting
him to believe the contrary? No; I thought it my duty to confess
to him that I never did, and never could love him. And he—loves
me better than his dog, and a little less than his horse.

What a prospect, when one is not yet seventeen! You will tell me
no one is to blame but myself. I deny this. I am the creature of
circumstance, and could not have done otherwise than I have
done. But to return to our family circle. You saw my
father-in-law at the wedding; a good-hearted, frank, generous,
but somewhat rough, country squire, who makes a great pet of his
new daughter. His wife, a tall, lanky, uninteresting lady, with
stony eyes, who studies nothing but her own health, fancying
herself a confirmed invalid. She lives almost entirely in her
own apartments, only occasionally appearing at dinner, to which
she does, however, most ample justice. This is the only time she
ever sees the good squire, her husband, and even then she is
barely civil to him. Not a very good example for us young
people. Both parents dote on their only son, and each appears
jealous of the other’s influence over him. My father-in-law,
with Edward, sometimes sit too long over their wine, usually,
indeed, not making their appearance in the drawing-room till it
is almost time to think of retiring for the night, and then they
throw themselves into an arm chair or on a sofa and fall asleep.
It is not, as you may suppose, very amusing for me, and only
makes me pine the more for your society. Do you remember, Mary,
how you used to tease me and tell me I was not going to marry a
man, “but a pair of moustaches?” Well, I confess, they may have
had a trifle to do with it, but only just imagine my horror:
Edward appeared yesterday morning at breakfast shorn of his
honors, and on my exclamation of natural disgust, he informed me
that his name having appeared in the gazette as having sold out
of the army, he was no longer entitled as a civilian, to wear
moustaches. I never thought my husband _clever_, I knew he did
not care for music, nor understand poetry, but I _did_ fancy him
good-looking, and now, Mary, the worst is to come—I actually
think him ugly—his long upper-lip, robbed of its greatest
ornament, has such a sullen, almost sulky expression, when he is
serious or asleep, that I actually shudder when I look at him.
You who are so sensible, and so _posée_—excuse a most expressive
French word—will perhaps not understand this, and will certainly
blame me, and yet all these feelings are involuntary. And now,
dear Mary, hasten here to your foolish, unhappy, childish, but
certainly loving, friend, who will count the weary hours till
she can welcome you to her new home.

Your attached

EVELYN.

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