Orange-Blossoms Frosted
Er mother did not do right. So Bessie was the chief Hoht of her father’s house. In childhood, lightfooted, merry-hearted, bright-eyed, she skipped into the admiration of all who saw her. You could no more keep her out of your heart than you could bar out the breath of honeysuckle from your opened window. People passed In the street, and looked down Into her eyes, and stopped, and asked who It was, and found out that It was Bessie the beautiful. In choicest school she was educated, and returned home with all the graces of young womanhood, the Inrushing light of a new morning, before which the longshadows lifted. In the drawlne-room,
while the groups of young people moved round, her father not long at a time kept his eye off her who was unconsciously becoming his idol. To him no one had so sweet a voice, so captivating a manner, so kind a heart, so loving a disposition. But Bessie responded with full as much ardor of affection. She well knew how to stroke the care out of her father’s troubled brow. With griefs that he could tell no other, he often woke her at midnight, and went back to his own pillow comforted. Opening his own door at nightfall, before he had time to see the skeleton of trouble that hung before the hearth, there burst upon him the laughter of his child, like a warm shower against a bank of blasted heather.
Next to God, upon whom this good man stayed his soul, was the love and sympathy of Bessie the beautiful. They sat together as lovers sit, and walked out in the hush of the moonlight, and together visited the hovel of the sick, one hand on her father’s arm, the other thrust through a basket of delicacies that would be cool and pleasant to the parched lips. The one with deep voice would offer a prayer for the coming of God’s angel of help, and the sick man would look up to where the maiden stood, and would think that the prayer was already answered, and the angel come.
But Bessie changed her mind. Maidens will sometimes change their minds. Not that she loved her father less, but that she loved another more. Old eagles need not, I can tell them, expect always to keep young eaglets in their eyry. Who ever had in his cage a bird of glossy wing and gushing song, but some one else looked at It wistfully, and wondered if in some other cage its wing would not be just as glossy, and its song as sweet? One day the father looked at the vine that had only one blossom, and behold there were two. One for him — one for another. The father’s blossom no smaller, but the other a little deeper hued. A young man plucked the one to wear on his own heart.
The church was lighted. All through the Western city it had been whispered that the silver hammer was about to fall on the altar, smiting two lives into one. As the lights flashed up, they did not seem to flame steadily, as on Sabbath eve; but with a throb, and flicker, and nervous tremor, as though they were ready to leap and laugh, not wishing merely to light others, but wanting for themselves to see. A dense mass of people filled the house, and, with their heads half turned toward the door, waited in thrill of expectation. The door opened, and with exciting buzz, hundreds of voices said: “There they come!” But, no! It was only the minister, book under arm, stepping lighter than on other days, rejoicing to think with how few words he might make two people happy. Men took out their watches, and said: “They are five minutes late!” But blame them not, for what are five minutes to a couple at such a time, when they live fifty years in half an hour? Again there was a step in the vestibule, and this time it was certain that the parties had come, and ribbons fluttered, and pew-doors on middle aisle swung shut to give clear way to the long trail of the dresses. But, no! it was an aged man, who had held Bessie’s father on his knee, and who had come in, wondering how time flits by, and saying to some one who got up and gave him a seat: “I thought I would attend one more wedding before I die. It seems only yesterday when I trotted her on my knee! How these young things do sprout up! Bless me! if I were only a little younger, I would have contested for that prize.” But at last there was the unmistakable clash of wheels and hoofs — for horses always know when they are going to a wedding — and orders to stand back, and as the organ, unable longer to hold its peace, breaks forth in the wedding march, keys, pedals, stops, and pipes are as much excited as if it were themselves about to be made happy.
My heart got in my throat, as, standing at the altar, I saw the brilliant line advance, rustle, and tramp, and gleam, and ruddy cheek, and fluttering hearts, and streaming veil. The attendants came first, man and maiden, parting at the foot of the altar, and going to either side, as a stream breaks in twain at the foot of mossed rock, to join again, perchance, a little further down the hill. At last confronted me the tall figure of a young man, with lips whiter than was his wont: on his arm, blushing as any climbing rose, when in a strong breeze it leans its whole weight upon a trembling trellis, was Bessie the beautiful. This stream broke not at the foot of the mossed rock. A hush came down, such as drops from heaven, and as they bowed for a blessing, and the ring was set, and in strong, clear, sweet voice came from that girl’s lips the solemn “I will,” in all eyes the tears started — not grief-struck tears, but glad as morning dewdrops glistening in the blue eyes of violets. “God bless her!” said young and old; “God bless her!” said the’ working -woman who had helped bring up Bessie, and who, to the astonishment of all, had walked into the church right behind the bridal party, saying to those who told her to stand back: “I brought her up, and I will see her married!” As the bridal party passed out, the whole church was perfumed with orange - blossoms. As I think of it, now that years have gone by, though much of the scene has faded from my mind, every avenue and cell of memory is filled till they can hold no more with the odor of the oranore-blossoms. Time passed on, and the vine put forth another flower. In its blooming, the vine withered away. Another life given, but one gone. The hand that launched an immortal on the sea falls benumbed of the blast that came off the waters. The church again is lighted. There is a dense throng filling seats, aisles, and doorways. The assemblage that came before come again. Joy gathered us before, grief convoked us now. The one upon whom hundreds of eyes concentrated then is the chief object of interest now. She wears not the bridal veil, but a chaplet of flowers about her brow, white and beautiful as her own glorified spirit. A procession again comes up the aisle, but with slower and more solemn tread. She is happier now than then. She wears the same dress, for in what garment so well should such an one be wrapped as in bright marriage apparel? Tears then, and tears now, but those were sun-glistened, these are thunder-shaken. The same organ sounds, but a dirge tramples the pedal. The same lips speak from the altar; but then they offered congratulation — now they utter condolence. The wreath on the cold, white brow looks like an April crocus on a ridge of virgin snow.
A story told in four short sentences:
a black hawk swooped upon the brood!
Ring broken!
Lights out!
Orange-blossoms frosted!