CHAPTER XXIII
BRIDE’S PROPOSAL
PAPA,” said Bride softly, coming into the Duke’s study and standing behind his chair with her arms loosely clasped about his neck, “will you let me marry Eustace now?”
The Duke gave a very slight start, and then sat perfectly still. He could not see Bride’s face, and he was glad for a moment that his own could not be seen.
“My dear child,” he said, after an appreciable pause, “do you mean that you do not know?”
“I think I know everything,” answered Bride softly. “I know that Eustace will be as he is now for two or three years—perhaps all his life; but I do not think it will be that—I mean not all his life. I had a long talk before he went with the doctor from London, and he said he was almost confident that power would return, only the patient must have good nursing, care, and freedom from worry of mind, or anxious fears for himself, which might react unfavourably upon him. It is only for a few years he will be helpless; and I want to be his wife during those years, to help him through with them, to keep him from the worry and the care which I believe he will feel if he thinks he may perhaps never be a strong man again, never be able to ask me to marry him. I know that he loves me, papa, and that I can do more for him than anybody else. I know that even now he is beginning to lose heart, not because his work is stopped—he is most wonderfully brave over that—but because he thinks he may lose me. Does it sound vain to say that? But indeed it is true. I can read Eustace through and through, because I love him so. Why should I not be his wife? Then I could nurse him back to health and strength, and he could stay here with us all the time, and we should be so happy together!”
The Duke had been silent at first from sheer amaze. He had never yet entered into all the still depths of Bride’s nature; and though personally conscious of his disappointment that his daughter and heir could not now think of marriage till the health of the latter was reestablished, he had never thought of a different solution of the difficulty with regard to Eustace in his helpless and lonely condition. He had been grieving over the situation in silence many long days, but the thing that Bride suggested so quietly and persuasively had never entered his head.
Yet even as she spoke there came upon him a conviction of the truth of her words. None knew better than he the comfort and support that a man can receive from a loving and tender wife. He was beginning to recognise in his daughter those very traits of character which had been so strongly developed in her mother. Well could he understand what it would be to Eustace to be nursed and tended, consoled and strengthened, by such a wife. Doubtless it would be an enormously powerful factor in his recovery, and the father had long wished with a great desire to see the future of his child settled before many more months should pass. It had been a sad blow to him to hear that Eustace’s recovery must be so slow, for he felt very sure he should not live to see him on his feet again; and what would become of Bride, left so utterly alone in the world?
Now he drew her gently towards him, and she knelt beside him at his feet, looking up into his face with a soft and lovely colour in her cheeks.
“Has Eustace spoken of this to you, my dear?” he said.
“Ah no!” she answered quickly. “Is it likely he would? He calls himself a helpless log; and I know that the worst trouble of all is, that he thinks his helplessness divides him from me. Papa, I want you to go to him. I want you to tell him that we will be married very soon—as soon as it can be arranged—and that I will nurse him back to health. Tell him that we will stay happily together here, and have only one home, here at Penarvon. I know you do not want to lose me, yet I know (for you have told me) that you would like to see me Eustace’s wife. Well, it is all so easy. Do you not see it so yourself? Dearest father, I love him, and he loves me. What can anything else matter? Does not his weakness and his helplessness make me love him all the more? I want to have the right to be with him always, to lighten the load which will weigh on him, however brave and patient he is, heavily sometimes. I shall never love anybody else; and I think he will not either. Why should we wait? Why should we not have the happiness of belonging to one another before he is strong again as well as after? Why should those years be wasted for us both?”
The Duke looked into her soft, unfathomable eyes, and he ceased to oppose her.
“It shall be as you wish, my dear,” he said. “I believe had it been with me as it is with Eustace, your mother would have done just what you propose to do. God has His angels here below amongst us still. I will go and speak of this to Eustace, if you wish it. You are right, my child, in saying that I would fain see you married to Eustace, since you love each other. I had not thought of this way, but perhaps it is the best.”
“You will come and tell me what he says,” answered Bride, with a lovely blush upon her face; and the Duke went slowly upstairs to the sick-room.
Eustace was gaining vital power rapidly and most satisfactorily, and was not paralysed in the ordinary acceptation of the term; but he had received such violent blows in the spine, either from the force of the waves whilst he was tossed to and fro at their mercy, or by being dashed upon rocks—though there were few outward bruises or cuts—that the whole nervous power had been most seriously impaired, and he could neither raise himself in bed nor move any of his limbs, although sensation was not materially affected. It was a case likely to be tedious and trying rather than dangerous or hopeless. There was every prospect of an ultimate recovery; but great patience would be needed, and any premature attempts at exertion might lead to bad results. Eustace had heard his fate with resolute courage, and had breathed no word of repining since; but a gravity had settled down upon him which deepened rather than lessened day by day; and Bride had been quick to note this, and trace it to its source.
With the Duke, the relations of the young man were now of a most cordial character. His kinsman had played a father’s part to him during these past days, and his visits were always welcome in the monotony of sick-room life.
“I have been talking to Bride,” said the elder man, as he took his accustomed seat; “we have been talking about your marriage, Eustace, and neither she nor I see why it should be indefinitely postponed. Indeed, there seems good reason for hastening it on, since she can then be your companion and nurse, as is not possible now, greatly as she wishes it. We cannot think of parting with you till you are well and strong once more, and that will not be for some time even at best. Have I your authority to arrange with Mr. St. Aubyn for a marriage here as quickly as it can be arranged? Since your minds are both made up, there appears no reason why Bride should not have the comfort of caring for you and making you her charge. Perhaps you hardly estimate the joy which such a charge is to a woman of her loving nature. But you know her well enough to believe that she never speaks a word that is not literal truth; and as she wishes to have that privilege, I confess I see no legitimate objection.”
Eustace had been silent, much as the Duke had been silent when the girl laid her proposal before him. Sheer astonishment and an unbounded sense of his own unworthiness and her almost divine devotion and love held him spellbound for a moment; and when his words came they were tempestuous and contradictory, declaring one moment the thing impossible—Bride’s youth must not be so sacrificed—the next declaring that it was too much happiness, that he dared not accept it, because it was altogether too much joy to contemplate. The Duke let him have his fling, and then took up his word again, imposing silence by a gentle motion of the hand.
“I respect your doubts and your scruples, Eustace; but I think you need not let them weigh too heavily in the balance against your own wishes and ours. I will take you into my confidence, and I think you will then see that even for Bride’s sake this thing is a good one. She does not know it, but I have a mortal illness upon me, which may carry me off at any moment, though I may perhaps be spared some few years longer. I myself consulted the physician whom we summoned for you, and he admitted that my life was a bad one, and that with my family history I must not look to be spared much longer. You know how lonely Bride would be were I taken from her. You can imagine how greatly I desire to see her settled in life with a husband to love and cherish her. Were I to die whilst you were thus laid aside, you must of necessity be separated, and where would Bride go? What would she do? Money is not everything. A home—a husband’s care—that is what a woman wants. Eustace, if you are made man and wife now, all this anxiety will be done away, and the happiness of all will be secured. Will you not consent? It all rests with you, for I desire it, and Bride desires it—I think you desire it——”
“Only too much!” cried Eustace, with such a light in his eyes as had not been seen there for weeks, “only too much. I am afraid of my own intensity of desire.”
“If that is all, we may dismiss the objection as frivolous,” said the Duke with a slight smile. “Then I have your consent to make the arrangements? I will go and tell Bride, and send her to you.”
She came within half-an-hour, calm, tranquil, serene as ever, a lovely colour in her face, but no other outward sign of excitement or confusion. Her eyes sought his with one of those glances he had learned to look for and treasure; and when she came to his side she bent and kissed him, which hitherto she had not made a habit of doing.
“Bride,” he said softly, getting possession of her hand, “is this true?”
“Yes, Eustace,” she answered softly; “I do not think we can love each other more than we do; but we can belong to each other more when we have been joined together by God. That is what I want, to be one with you in His sight, so that nothing can part us more.”
He looked earnestly at her, the love in his eyes as eloquent as it was in hers, and scarcely as much under control.
“You are not afraid, my darling? You were afraid of trusting yourself to me once?”
“Yes,” she answered gently; “I had not learned to love you then, and you had not learned love either. You have only learned that slowly, as I have learned it slowly myself.”
“How do you know I have learned it—the love which you mean?”
She looked at him with a smile that brought an answering smile to his face.
“Do you think I have been with you all these weeks, in and out, by day and night, and have not known that? Do you forget how you showed it in those days when you seemed to be slipping away from life, and only the eternal promises of everlasting love and help could reach you to help and strengthen you? You did not talk, but you made us talk to you, and your eyes gave their answer. You found then that it was not a beautiful philosophy, but a living Saviour you wanted; not an abstraction representing an ideal purity, but a Man, the one Incarnate Son of God, to whom you must cling in the darkness of the night. Ah! Eustace, it was then that you truly turned back to the Father’s house; and I know that the Father came out to meet you, and to bring you into His safe shelter. I knew He would—oh! I think I have known that for a long time now; but the joy of the certainty is so wonderful and beautiful——”
Her voice broke, and she turned her head away for a moment, but he said softly—
“The angels of God rejoicing over one sinner that repenteth? Is that it, Bride? For you are a veritable angel upon earth!”
“Ah no!” she answered quickly, “do not say that—do not think it. Holy and blessed as the angels of God are, we have yet a higher vocation—a higher calling to live up to. It is a human body, not an angelic body, that our Lord took and sanctified to all eternity. It is for fallen human creatures, not for the angels, that He came down to die. And it is glorified human beings, changed into His glorious likeness, who are called to live and reign with Him in glory unspeakable. I never want to be an angel. Ours is a more truly blessed and glorious calling. To be His at His coming. To hear His voice, and be caught up to meet Him in the air. To be ever with the Lord—kings and priests for ever and ever! O Eustace! we cannot conceive of such a thing yet; but the day will come when the kingdoms of this world shall become the Kingdoms of our God and of His Christ, and He shall reign for ever and ever!”
The face she turned upon him was as it were transfigured already, and it seemed to Eustace as though for a moment a curtain lifted before his eyes and showed him a glimpse of some unspeakable glory which lay beyond the ken of mortal man. For the first time since he had known her he began to understand that what had seemed to him as the outcome of a mystic fanaticism might be in reality the development of some purer spiritual understanding than he had been able to attain to. Lying for days at the gate of the unseen world as he had done, he had learned that many things formerly slighted and almost despised were the very things which brought a man peace at the last, and which glowed and strengthened beneath the mysterious fire of peril that turned to dross and nothingness the wisdom in which he had trusted, and the staff upon which he had tried to lean. Having learned this much, he could believe there was more to learn; that even when fear was cast out and faith reigned in its stead, there was still progress to be made in the heavenly life. He did indeed believe that the Saviour had died for the sins of the whole world, and that He lived to make intercession eternally for those who claimed the Atonement of His blood. But now he began to understand that for those who truly love Him and walk every step of their lives in the light from above, there is a vision of unspeakable and unimagined glory always open before them; and that, leaving those things that are behind, there is a continual pressing forward to the prize of our high calling in Christ—the one overmastering desire so to live as to be His at His coming, and be used for His eternal purpose of establishing His Kingdom on the earth.
“Bride,” he said softly, after a long pause, “you must teach me more of this Kingdom. I had hoped to do a great work for our fellow-men in this land, and even now I may live to do something; but I can at least seek to understand God’s ways of working, which are not always man’s ways; that if it please Him to raise me up, I may consecrate my life, first to His service, and secondly to the service of man. Abner truly told me I was beginning at the wrong end when I first spoke to him long ago. I did not understand him then, but I begin to do so now. I may never see things clearly, as you do, in the heavenly light; but at least I do see that our first aim and object must be to do God’s work on earth in His way; not blinded by our own wishes and ambitions. The fate of poor Saul Tresithny will always be a warning and a landmark to me. He might have grown as wild and reckless without my teaching—with that I have nothing to do—but I did teach him dangerous doctrines of all sorts, and his life and death are a standing memorial to me of what such teaching may lead to. I trust the lesson has not been learned in vain.”
“And I think his death was a very happy one,” said Bride softly. “I think I am glad he died with us alone. He loved you, Eustace. And I am sure if any of us had our choice, we should always choose to be with the being we love best at the moment of our death. It was so with him. I think it was rather beautiful and wonderful how he rose and came to you when the hand of death was upon him. Poor Saul!—but we need not grieve for him. Abner has ceased to grieve, and is more peaceful and happy than I have seen him for many years. ‘To depart and be with Christ’ was so much better for him than anything he had to expect upon earth. He learned his lesson at the last—I am sure his end was peace.”
After that there was no reserve on any subject between Eustace and his betrothed wife. Bride was able to speak to him from the very depths of her heart, and as she elevated and strengthened his spiritual perceptions, so did he in another fashion impart to her such knowledge of the things of this world as were beneficial to her in forming her mind and character, and helping her to obtain a just and accurate outlook upon the affairs of the nation and the events moving the hearts of men. They acted as a check one upon the other; helping, strengthening, teaching, and encouraging—growing every day nearer in love and in spirit, finding fresh happiness and closer unity of soul each day as it passed, and always upheld by the thought that a few days more would see their union hallowed and blessed in the sight of God—a thought so unspeakably sweet and precious to both that they seldom spoke of it, though it was never altogether out of their thoughts.
Mr. St. Aubyn was to perform the ceremony, with the cordial consent of Mr. Tremodart, who was glad to be spared the task himself. The Rector of St. Erme had been much at the castle when Eustace lay in so critical a state, and the young man had profited much from his instruction and counsel. Now he came frequently to see both Bride and her betrothed husband, for he was one of those who rejoice to see true spirituality in all its forms, and to be certain before hearing pronounced any solemn and binding vows that they are spoken from the very heart.
The Duke went about looking very happy in those days, and his manner to his daughter was more gentle and fatherly than it had ever been before. The whole castle was in a subdued state of excitement, whilst a lawyer from London arrived, who was to remain till the completion of the ceremony and see to all the needful papers. But with these things Bride felt little concern, and went about with a tranquil face, thankful to be spared the bustle of preparation which would have been needful under ordinary circumstances, but which was quite superfluous now.
A bridal dress and veil were, however, quickly provided, and Bride was content that it should be so, knowing that her white would be pleasing to the eye of the sick man. She herself was calmly and tranquilly happy, spending much time beside the patient, and the rest in earnest musings and meditation, or in visits to the poor, amongst whom so much of her life had been passed.
It was a clear, sunny morning toward the end of January when Bride awoke with the consciousness that it was her wedding-day—though so quiet and uneventful a wedding as was to be hers perhaps no Duke’s daughter had yet known. Even her name would not be changed, as Eustace had playfully told her, nor would she leave the shelter of her father’s roof. All the change that would take place would be that she and her husband would take up their quarters in a suite of rooms specially prepared for them, with Bride’s nurse and Eustace’s man for their especial attendants. But the young wife would continue to take her place at her father’s table when he took his meals, waiting upon her husband and sharing his at different hours, such hours as were prescribed by his medical man. Although all this sounded strange to outsiders, who heard with amaze that Lady Bride was going to marry her father’s heir while he was still crippled and helpless, it did not seem strange to her. Others said it was an obvious marriage of convenience and diplomacy, but never had been a marriage of purer and truer affection. Bride robed herself with a happy heart and a serene face, and was not surprised to receive a message at the last that Abner would much like a few words with his young mistress, if she could spare them for him.
He was in the great conservatory when she went down—the place where so many talks had taken place between them, and where Bride pictured Eustace lying in comfort and pleasure before very long, surrounded by sweet scents and beautiful blossoms. Abner held in his hand a beautiful bouquet of white flowers, and Bride thanked him with one of her sweetest smiles as she took it from his hands.
“I did want to see yu my own self, my Ladybird,” he said in a voice that shook a little, “to wish yu every joy and a blessing on your new life. I know there will be a blessing on it, for there’s One above as has yu very near His heart; but yu’ll let an old man as has loved yu ever since yu were a babe in the nurse’s arms give yu his blessing to-day.”
Bride held out her slim white hand, which the old man took and carried very tenderly to his lips; and her voice shook a little as she said, “Thank you for that blessing, Abner. I feel my heart the warmer for it. We know that this world’s happiness is but a small thing compared to the glory that is to be revealed; but yet we must be thankful when it does come to us, and take it as God’s best gift. I think that your heart is at peace now, and that your worst trouble is laid at rest.”
“Bless the Lord—it is so indeed. My boy died with His name on his lips. I couldn’t ask more for myself.”
Bride could not linger. Mr. St. Aubyn had already arrived and wished to speak with her alone. She found him pacing the room with slow and thoughtful mien, but his eyes were very bright and glad.
“My child,” he said softly, “I wished to speak with you a few moments before we go upstairs. I have just been seeing him you are to wed. My dear, I think I need not say all that I feel about the change I find in him since first I knew him. I can pronounce the benediction of holy matrimony over you two with a glad and thankful heart. In the sight of man and of God such a union as yours must be holy indeed.”
Bride’s eyes were softly bright.
“I know we love one another,” she said softly, “but I think that the love of God comes first—indeed, I trust it is so.”
“I believe so truly,” he answered; “and, my child, I have been talking to-day to Eustace. He has long been hindered by sickness from the ordinances of the Church—the most blessed ordinance instituted by our Lord for His faithful people to follow until His coming again. Before that, as you know, he was something slack and doubtful, and did not avail himself of the Christian privileges in their fullest measure; and it is long since he has partaken of the bread and wine blessed in the name of the Lord. And he wishes now that he may receive this Holy Communion with you—his newly wedded wife—so soon as you are made one. I indeed have thankfully and joyfully assented to this, and even now the room is being prepared for the simple ceremony which shall make you his, and then you can together partake of that Body and Blood—the sign and symbol of the Ineffable Love. I am sure, my child, that your heart will rejoice, as mine does, over this return of the lost sheep to the fold. We have known for long that that son has been turning homewards, and that the Father has gone forth to meet him. Now we shall see him at the Father’s table, partaking of the mystical feast which it is our Christian privilege to enjoy. ‘Do this in remembrance of Me.’ It will, I know, be a joyous thing for you that the following of this gracious and simple command shall be the first act of your married life.”
Tears were standing in Bride’s soft eyes. She put out her hand and laid it on Mr. St. Aubyn’s arm.
“I am too happy to talk about it,” she said; “it is the one thing to make the day complete; but oh! Mr. St. Aubyn, I have so often wanted to thank you for what you said to me that day long ago about the lost son and the returning home. It was such a help. It was that which made me begin to pray in hope for Eustace, instead of naming him only in a sort of faithless despondency. I was in danger of being like the elder brother, and looking upon him and many others as altogether beyond the pale of the Father’s love. After that I could always pray in hope; and I think—I believe, that my prayers did help him. You know what you said about that being God’s way of leading to Him some one who would not yet pray for himself.”
The clergyman smiled tenderly upon the girl.
“God bless you, my child,” he said softly. “I think you will be your mother over again as the years go by. Such faith as hers I have never seen in any one else, but I think I shall live to see it in you.”
“I have received so much,” answered Bride softly, “I should not be able to doubt even if I wished.”
Only a few minutes later, and Bride entered the room where Eustace lay, leaning on her father’s arm, her face shaded by her veil, but not so concealed that its serene beauty and composure could not be seen. Some dozen of the old servants of the castle, and two or three old friends, were present to witness the simple ceremony; but Bride only saw Eustace; and none who caught the glance that flashed from one to the other ever forgot it. The room was decked with flowers, everything was perfectly simple, yet perfectly appropriate, and Mr. St. Aubyn’s rendering of the holy words was doubly impressive from the peculiar circumstances of the case. Bride’s vows were spoken with a steady sweetness which brought tears to many eyes; all the faltering was on Eustace’s part, and was made through the depth of his emotion. It was a strangely simple yet strangely impressive wedding, never forgotten by those who saw it. When all was spoken that was needed to make them man and wife, Bride stooped and kissed her husband, without a thought of any who stood by, and they heard the passionate intensity of love in the voice that responded—
“My Bride—my wife!”