ALWAYS A BRIDE.

Evening Star, Issue 11627, 11 July 1902, Page 8

ALWAYS A BRIDE.

[AH Bights Reserved.]

Bt Flounce M. Kiwcsurr (Author of ‘Titus,’ etc.).

The scent of blossoms and the fragrance of newly-cut grass, with vague suggestions of spicy cookery, blended in the warm June wind which shook the broad catalpa leaves ovethead. Across the white furrows of the dusty road blue-ahirted figures appeared and disappeared, rising and failing to the rhythmic motion of the hoe, amid the shining, blue-green ribbons of the com. Butterflies floated softly in the brilliant sunshine; birds warbled melodiously rear and far. It was a pleasant thing to be merely alive and out of doors on a day like this. As Rose Allen drooped her brown head over .the white seam wherein she was setting daintily small, unhurried stitches, she drew a deep Breath of happiness. Rose was healthily alive to the tips of her curling lashes; she was nineteen; a. diamond sparkled on one of the busy fingers; a wedding gown clouded with shimmering tulle trailed mistily through the chambers of her imagination. Somebody was coining at nightfall—the only somebody. Truly it was June!

The sweet silence was broken rnddenly by a voice, plaintive and hesitating—there had been no sound of footfall nor rustle of aarments. “Have yon seen—canyon tell mo—-when George is coming?” The ( girl raised her brignt head with a start “ George,” she echoed, “ why George is coming to-night on the five o’clock train.” • Then a scarlet flush crept over the round cheeks, for her eyes rested upon a stranger.

A tiny, bent figure it was, clad all in rusty b.ack, the pinched face hid deep in an old-fashioned sun-bonnet. The girl straightened her slim figure with a little involuntary thrill of indignation. “ How you frightened me!” she cried. “ Where did yon come from?”

“ I came through the medder, deary,” answered the old woman gently. “I saw you was busy, an’ I didn’t want to bender you. But I jes’ had to fin’ George to-day. It’s moe’ time for the weddin’, von know. I couldn’t think why he didn’t come! To-night—to-night, you say. Are you sttbe ; are you sttbe, deary?” The girl drew back, paling a little. "I I must call aunty,” she said hurriedly, and ran lightly away toward the house, dropping her work in her haste.

The old woman picked up ihe dainty garment, and spread it. out in her lap with, shaking fingers—all filmy lawn and laceedged frills and pink ribbons. “It’s mos’ done,” she whispered, her eyes brightening with pleasure. “ I must finish it in timein time for the weddin’.”

A faint flush crept into the white checks. It‘s a sightly place here,” she murmured. “ I c’n smell the roses—pink roses, the kin’ George loves. I had one in my hair the night he tol ! me he loved me, down by the bridge. Somehow it seems a long time —a long time. But it’s Taos’ time for thb weddik’, and George is cornin’ to-night! To-night at five o’clock! Shk said so.” The unsightly bonnet lay on the grass, and the sunshine flickering through the catalpa leaves lay kindly on the bowed Itead. A singularly beautiful head it was, dt spite its meagro outlines. Under the quiet brows shone a pair of vio.et eyes, bright and wistful with undying hope; the smiling month was a del cate bow of promise; pure, shining silver, following youth’s gold, was the rippling, curling hair—that change from glory tc glory which presages immortal youth. “Why, dear Miss Ruth! I’m ever so glad to see you! Come right in the settin’ room, where it’s cool, an’ rest.” • The strange little figure on the grass lifted her blue eyes at sound of these hospitable words. They rested smilingly on the broad, motherly figure of the speaker, then wandered past it to Rose’Allen, who stood looking over her aunt’s shoulder with a mixture of pity and fear on her rosy young face. “ She’s got my sewing, aunty,” murmured the young girl complainingly; “and look! she’s pulled out all the ribbons!" “Yes, yes, deary,” cried the stranger tremulously, “ course I have! ’Tia blue ribbon I ■ want, not pink. George says my cheeks are a sweeter pink than any ribbon in the world ! But where—where Have you seen George, Mis’ Allen?” ” I guess he’ll be along pretty soon, Ruth,” sail the matron pityingly. “We’ll lay the sewing aside for a spell, shall we? Come in an’ have a piece of fresh sponge cake, now do, an’ a glass of cool milk. You always liked my sponge cake, Ruth.” The little figure had risen, and was absently rolling and unrolling the discarded ribbon.. “ I can’t stop now, Rachel,” she said, shaking her head. “I’m in a consid’able hurry this moniin’. You hnoav I’m agoin’ to be married in two days, and Tm pretty busy gettin’ready! So is Rhoda. She’s a-goin’ to have a bridesmaid dress jes’ precisely like mine. An’ George—George is cornin’ at five o’clock, an’ so—an’- so A dress jes’ pro—-cise—4y like mine! Oh, no—no! Mine ought to be a little different—just a little mite different. Don’t you think so, Rachel?” “Whatever way you want it’ll be all right, Ruth. But I guess you’ll come in, won’t you ,an’ rest?” “ No—no! I can’t—l can’t; don’t ask me! In the fall—or in the winter, maybe ; but cot now—while the roses are in bloom! You know I couldn’t. Good-bye, and thank yon kindly, Rachel.” “ Do tell me about her, aunty!” said the firl, as they watched the tiny, bent figure urrying away in the hot sunshine. “ She’s as crazy as a loon, isn’t she? And only see, I must thread in all these ribbons again. I’m in a tremble yet, she frightened me so.” Rose Allen shrugged her plump shoulders petulantly as she spoke, then smiled a little to herself as a stray sunbeam smote scarlet and azure fires from the white stone on her finger. “ I must tell George about It when he comes to-night. Why. I actually told the poor old thing, before I thought, that he was coming at five o’clock. Wasn’t it funny, aunty?” Mrs Allen looked soberly at her niece, a slight shade of displeasure darkening her pleasant eyes. “ Thirty years ago this very month I was making up a white lawn dress with pink rosebuds in it, all trimmed with ribbon bows an’ lace, to wear at her wedding,” she said slowly. “ She was as pretty a girl aa you could find in the whole country, an’ good, too, an’ sweet; too good- an’ sweet an’ self-sacrificin’, I’ve always said. Dear, dear! I’m so sorry she’s back; but I might have known she would be.” Pretty Rose Allen paused in her task of weaving the pink ribbons in and out of snowy lace meshes. ** Why do you look at me so severely, aunty?” she cried. “What have I done?” The older woman heaved a deep sigh. Then the cloud lifted from her broad, goodhumored face. “To be sure!” she cried, beaming, “ what has the little girl done to be looked at severely two days before her wedding? Whatever will aunty do without her pink Rose?” “ There are plenty more in the garden,” said the girl, dimpling. “ And I’ll be coming back to visit, you know. But I want to hear about the crazy old woman who wouldn’t have my poor ribbons because her cheeks were a aweetor pink than ahy ribbon in the world. George never said anything half so pretty to me.” Mrs Allen hesitated. “You'd better otme in and got cooled off before dinner,” she said. “It’s a long a lory—some other day, perhaps.”■ ■No, aunty, I want to hear it, now,” insisted the girl, with the air of a spoiled child- “ •‘Thirty years ago this very month.’ Now go on ; do, please!” “ I told you she was pretty,” began Mrs Allen resignedly. “She was beautiful! Some folks that didn’t know ’em verv well thought her twin jester, Rhoda, was" prettier. To tell the truth, they looked most exactly alike, only Rhoda had black eyes with a snap to ’em, an’ Ruth’s was the color of field violets. Rhoda was a domineerin’ sort of a girl, and she ruled Ruth with a rod of iron. It was always Rhoda who decided ■ what they should wear, an’ where they should go, an’ what they should do It was ‘Now, Ruth, we’ll do this, or that,’ an’ -never on any account ‘ What would you like to do, sister?’ It was Ruth who asked that question a dozen times a day, an’ she seemed to enjoy it. She loved to give np to Rhoda, an’ Rhoda kved to have her own way. “It didn’t make much difference to ’em till one summer when Rhoda took a notion

to go off an* make a visit by herself. She aaid she was tired of being a twin, an’ I fleeing her dresses and ribbons cm somebody else all the while. Ruth cried, and' took on terribly at the thought of being separated from her sister, but that only made Rhoda more determined. She went to Dorchester, to her cousin’s, an’ stayed most all summer. “Well, as. luck would have it, a nephew of Judge Scranton’s, in the village, came to spend a month with his uncle, an’ no sooner bad he laid his eyes on Ruth Benton than he fell dead in love with her. Before many weeks they were engaged' to be married, an’ the day for the wedding set for i the next June. The young man was rich | an’ handsome; his name was Gebrse.” “What was his other name?” inquired the girl in a tone of languid interest “Do you know, aunty, that these ribbons are so frightfully crumpled I believe 1 ought to press them before I nm them in acain.” j

“ Well, I would,” replied Mrs Allen with alacrity. “Suppose* 1 stop just where I be. I’d ought to go in anyhow an’ see to the pies. Maria’s sure to bake ’em too long.”. “ No; I want to hear the rest. His name was George, and they were to be married in June., Isn’t it odd? And her name was Ruth, and my name is Rose. I’m glad I haven’t a twin as pretty as I—or prettier. 1 should, think that would be awfully unpleasant.” , “When Rhoda came home, - ’ resumed Mrs Allen, with a little frown, “ an’ found out what, had been going on, she wasn’t very well pleased. But she could be sweet when she wanted to, whether she felt so or not. It wasn’t long before die was going around with George an’ Ruth as gay as a butterfly. The Judge’s nephew was mightily pleased with her, and vowed he was the luckiest fellow in the world to win such a lovely wife an’ such a handsome sister.

“Yes; that was just the difference between ’em. Ruth was lovely—clear through; an’ Rhoda was handsome—on the outside. But, land! men never can see through a pink an’ white skin. I don’t know as the Lord meant they should. There’d be fewer marriages if they took to doing it, I reckon, an’ fewer an’ humbler folks in the world. The Judge’s nephew wasn’t any smarter than men-folks nowadays, and Rhoda’s cunning ways completely took him in. I’ve always had a notion that he thought those brown eyes of hers were a little brighter than Ruth's soft blue ones. It was George this, an’ dear brother George that, until everybody but little innocent Ruth could see that Rhoda was dead in love with the man that had promised to marry her sister. As for what he thought, nobody knew, though I had my suspicions, then an’ since.

“ When it came time for the wedding—lovely June weather it was, just like this, with the roses all a-bloom in’ in the frontyards—most everybody was invited to the ceremony. Rhoda, she was to be bridesmaid. Ruth wanted she would wear pink; but no, white she would have, an’ every pucker an’ bow of it to a dot like Ruth’s. “ I remember how surprised we all were when tho bridal couple came in alone, the bride with the veil drawn over her face, her head hanging. FoTcs whispered to one another that they suspicioned Rhoda was too jealous to ,stan’ up an’ see ’em married. The ceremony went on, an’ the minister pronounced ’em man and wife, but the words were scarcely out of his month when there was a strange little sound. Everybody looked round, an’ there, a-standin’ in the door, was another bride! She looked exactly like the one who waa now a wife, veil an’ aIL

“‘George!’ she cried out, an’ tore her veil aside. It was Ruth! Across the room under the wedding wreath stood Rhoda. with tier stolen husband. Poor Ruth gave one loud shriek, then she threw up her hands an’ fell down in a dead faint. ■ “It was plain erongh how ihe wicked Rhoda had brought it "about. She, an’ no one else, must dress the bride, so she insisted. She, an’ no one else, jhoold conduct her to the waiting bridgroom. The rest was easy. She had shut the bride into the room, telling her it lacked half an hour of the lime for the ceremony, an’ while the poor girl waited, dreaming of the future, her lover was being taken from her for ever.” “ But why—why did he not refuse-—surely the marriage was not legal !” cried Bose, her brown eyes brimming over with indignant tears. “It was legal enough, chi]’. Yet he might have ppt the mischief maker awav. He did not, however. Rhoda clung about hu* neck, crying: * Forgive me, George, I loved you so!’ And perhaps—perhaps—who can tell what he thought? Men can forgive strange things in the woman thev love.” “ And Ruth,” demanded Rose. “ What became of the poor girl?” “You saw ber to-day, my dear,” answered Mrs Allen, with a keen glance into the girl’s flushed face. “ When she awoke from the long rwoon it was only to fall into another more death-like. When at last she regained her senses it was seen that something was gone. She has lived from, that day to this always looking for her lover, always expecting her marriage. For days an’ months at a time she will sew diligently an’ contentedly on any bit of cloth she can pick up, but with tie first rose that- blows she is up an’ awav searching for her promised husband. She is perfectly harmless, an’ seldom appears aa excited as you saw her to-day.” “ But the others—the wicked sister and “They went away, deary. They never came bark, even when there were "fun’rals in the family. Ruth stayed on at home till her father an’ mother died. They didn’t leave much, but it was enough to supply her simple wants. A cousin on her mother’s aide looks after her. She’s been away for nish on six months now, but June always finds her roaming the country over. They never try to keep her dose; she’s happier free.” The good woman rose abruptly as she spoke the last words. “Land, they’ll be here by this time come to-morrow!” was all she said, as her ample skirts disappeared behind a dump of blossoming shrubs. Pretty Rose, left to herself, smiled as she set the last stitches in her work. Her own happiness shone all the brighter for this dim shadow of the past which fell beside it. Two days later the Allen homestead wore an air of unwonted festivity. The lawns were fresh shaven, the gravel newly raked, the flower beds immaculate; strings of gavcolored Interns hung from tress and shrubs, and outlined the bread verandahs. Within the spacious, old-fashioned rooms shone with neatness and good cheer. From everv coign of vantage young men and girls fastened fringy garlands of green—(ool ferns from the deep-bosomed wood, tall white lilies and masses of roses—-pink, yellow, and red—fill mantels and tables. A wedding bell of ponderous dimension, wroughtall of white buds by the willing fingers of the swings from the arched doorway. A country wedding in the heart of June, what festival can surpass it!

In the rosy twilight all the countryside, it would seem, gathered to the Joyous solemnities. In the wide, low-ceiled chamber over the parlor stands Rose Allen, clad all in her bridal snows. She is eyein or her bunch of creamy roses with eyes that see not; her maids busily arrange and rearrange the folds of her veil—her gown. Just outside the half open door the eager blue eyes of her bridegroom seek the lovelv downcast face.

Of what is the almost wife thinking as she stands at the very verge of the new, strange life? Curiously enough, of that other woman whom Fate had set apart, always a bride, yet never a wife. The dark, dissatisfied' face of her lover’s mother, the dispirited droop of his father’s tall form, also arise before her in this moment of reverie. Life is manifestly no honeymoon with them. Would George' love her when wrinkles came? Would she love him when his broad shoulders were bent and his hair whitened! She realises with a little shock of terror that her thoughts have been busying themselves with things —things—things! With frills and ribbons, with sleeves and trimmings, with furnishings and plenishings, with jewels and cases of silver. Half forgotten words sound solemnly _ above the merry tumult about her. “ Life— Lite consisteth not in the abundance of things!” How foolish she has been—nay, how foolish she is—to allow all these gloomy thoughts to obtrude themselves like so many thorns among her roses. And now rim is stepping daintily down

ti»e broad rtair. How George’s arm trembles I And the people, bow many there ore; them many colored gowns form the; narrow aisle through which they ate pres- j ently passing. There are words now in tits | silence, deep and slow; solemn questions; I faint answers-—tremulous heart-beats of speech; a new ring, joining its shining fellow on her fingt#; a prayer; a pause. Then a deepening hum. of wonder—a parting of the crowd to admit a strange, piteous figure, clad all in yellowed white and, covered with a tattered veil t “George!” The word rang through the silence in a long, quavering shriek. That cry forced its ocho from the lips of the yevng wife and from the pallid, dark-eyed woman who : stood in the shadow of the wedding bell. This woman turned to meet the horror-stricken eyes of the man at her side. “It is Ruth,’ she faltered, in a ghastly whisper. “She las mistaken our son for you! It is retribution.” When they lifted the little worn figure, in its faded wedding finery, they found that she had quite escaped the misty terror that had held her during the alow years. The tired heart had ceased to beat, but the faint, smiling lips were-still a bow of promise; the shining glory of silver hair crowned the quiet brow'where.-rested tLo ineffable peace which the world neither gives nor takes away. “It is I, Rhoda! Oh, Ruth, forgive, forgive!” sobbed the woman who knelt in a frenzy of grief and remorse beside the quiet form. It was sweet Rose who drew her away at the last, whispering in her car a wise, wise word which had somehow crept into , her innocent heart: “She loved much; she has forgiven all.”