Pauline's wedding day dawned clear and bright, meet for the happy
event it was to chronicle. The ceremony was to be performed in
church, at an early hour, to enable the newly married pair to leave
on the morning boat, and the building was crowded with the numerous
friends assembled to witness the rites. The minister stood within
the altar, and, after some slight delay, Mr. Mortimor led Pauline
down the aisle. Dr. Hartwell and Mrs. Lockhart stood near the altar.
Mr. Lockhart's indisposition prevented his attendance. Satin, blond,
and diamonds were discarded; Pauline was dressed in a gray traveling
habit and wore a plain drab traveling bonnet.
It was a holy, a touching bridal. The morning sunshine, stealing
through the lofty, arched windows, fell on her pure brow with
dazzling radiance, and lent many a golden wave to the silky,
clustering curls. Pauline was marvelously beautiful; the violet eyes
were dewy with emotion, and her ripe, coral lips wreathed with a
smile of trembling joyousness. Perchance a cursory observer might
have fancied Mr. Mortimor's countenance too grave and thoughtful for
such an occasion; but though the mouth was at rest, and the dark,
earnest eyes sparkled not, there was a light of grateful, chastened
gladness shed over the quiet features. Only a few words were uttered
by the clergyman, and Pauline, the wild, wayward, careless, high-
spirited girl, stood there a wife. She grew deadly pale, and looked
up with a feeling of awe to him who was now, for all time, the
master of her destiny. The vows yet upon her lips bound her
irrevocably to his side, and imposed on her, as a solemn duty, the
necessity of bearing all trials for herself; of smoothing away home
cares from his path; and, when her own heart was troubled, of
putting by the sorrow and bitterness, and ever welcoming his coming
with a word of kindness or a smile of joy. A wife! She must be brave
enough to wrestle with difficulties for herself, instead of wearying
him with all the tedious details of domestic trials, and yet turn to
him for counsel and sympathy in matters of serious import. No longer
a mere self-willed girl, consulting only her own wishes and tastes,
she had given another the right to guide and control her; and now
realizing, for the first time, the importance of the step she had
taken, she trembled in anticipation of the trouble her wayward,
obstinate will would cause her. But with her wonted, buoyant spirit
she turned from all unpleasant reflections, and received the
congratulations of her friends with subdued gayety. Beulah stood at
some distance, watching the April face, checkered with smiles and
tears; and, looking with prophetic dread into the future, she saw
how little genuine happiness could result from a union of natures so
entirely uncongenial. To her the nuptial rites were more awfully
solemn than those of death, for how infinitely preferable was a
quiet resting-place in the shadow of mourning cedars to the lifelong
agony of an unhappy union! She looked up at her quondam guardian, as
he stood, grave and silent, regarding his niece with sadly anxious
eyes; and, as she noted the stern inflexibility of his sculptured
mouth, she thought that he stood there a marble monument, recording
the misery of an ill-assorted marriage. But it was schooltime, and
she approached to say "good-by," as the bridal pair took their seats
in the carriage. Pauline seemed much troubled at bidding her adieu;
she wept silently a minute, then, throwing her arms around Beulah's
neck, whispered pleadingly.