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Saves Dg Sis Die. A Complete Story. A GRAND country wedding. Everything was in preparation. One week from that day, and Constance Pierrepoint, the belle of the county, and the only daughter of one of the wealthiest farmers in Devonshire, was to join hands, for better or worse, with young Adam Gray, Squire Gray’s only son. Adam had graduated at Cambridge with fair honours, studied law with an uncle, and then, after two years or more careful reading and practising in London, had established himself at Exeter. One week, and he would claim his bride—the beautiful, idolised maiden, the first and only love of his life, to whom he had been solemnly betrothed'ever since the halcyon days of childhood, when the curly-headed boy and tender-eyed maiden first learned to conjugate the verb Amo—amo, amave, amavi, amcitum —under an apple-tree, with the sun playing hide-and-seek among the leaves, little robin redbreast hopping from bough to bough, and adding another melody to the glorious tune the young hearts were rapidly learning, a situation most likely to result in ardent demonstration ; but unlike most early lovers, it proved itself a lasting sentiment, and both looked forward with the fondest anticipations to the time when the great affair of their lives should be consummated. Constance was passionately fond of her country home, and the thoughts of it pained her more than she cared to have those about her know; but her parents had promised to spend the greater part of the winter with her, and she and Adam were always to pass their summers at the old home, so the separation would not be so very terrible after all; but, strange to say, the maiden’s eyes were always ready to overflow. In some mysterious manner, Constance commenced to* feel homesick before leaving the parental roof. If I didn’t know how well you loved Adam Gray, my child, I should think you wanted to back out of this business,’ said Mr. Pierrepoint, drawing his daughter to his knees, and attempting to look under the drooping lids. Constance tried to smile, but broke down completely. ‘ I am foolish, father, and don’t pet mj any more. I wonder if every girl feels so sadly ab leaving her home. Sometimes I fancy it musb be more than that. Perhaps it’s a foreboding of evil. ‘ Coming events cast their shadows before,’ and this may be one of the shadows.’ ‘Nonsense, Constance! Never give way to superstitious delusions. It would be very strange if you were not thoughtful, and even sad, in anticipation of this event. You are about to take a man, with all his failings—remember that, Constance; how many, you can form no idea, because it is just as true as your life that a couple may court a hundred years, and yet not become acquainted with the defects in the secret springs that keep the strange machinery moving. The watch always looks bright and nice, ever apparently in good running order—neither too fast nor too slow ; but you don’t know the tittivating that article undergoes when it is out of your sight, in order to keep it all right for the short time it is in your company. Don’t look so vexed, Constance ; it is no more than you have done yourself. Courting is deceitful business, and it is, perhaps, a wise thing that it is so. There are not too many marriages now, Heaven knows, and if the veil were always torn aside before the ceremony I fancy. there would be less. Adam never saw you cry and pout because I thought you had silk dresses enough without the last expensive one you had set your heart upon buying. You never heard Adam abuse his tailor for a misfit, or * scold because a button was missing. Oh, no 1 As long as you’ve been at it, you don’t know much more in re- . gard to each other’s real nature than as if one ha& been in London and the other in Australia, and corresponded; yet I firmly believe Adam wants, needs, and must have you for his wife. You’ll find he’s got failings you never suspected, and he’ll discover that his little wife is not as perfect as his fancy has painted her. Marriage naturally strips off all disguises, and I don’t believe there are many married people but have been obliged to pocket a considerable amount of dissatisfaction. It may not be so in your case, child.’ Constance commenced to sob. v 1 ‘I think you love one anotheryefy fondly* my child, and love, which il» boundless charity, covers a multitude of sins.’ \ It had been, in accordance with an> old Devonshire superstition, th.e custom in Mr. Pierrepoint’s family to make the bride-cake at home, and the bride in expectancy always took part in its manufacture, by doing some part of the stirring-up of the materials of which the cake was composed. On this occasion the old custom was not departed from. 1 A few days previous to the wedding "day 'Aunt Betsy’ had arrived and assisted in the making of the cake, and while she was busy in the production of the most important piece Of
confectionery which is offered to the wedding guests at the eventful breakfast, she observed to her sister, Mrs. Pierrepoint r ‘ I have always heard it said that if the bride wished for good luck during her .married life, she would help to stir her own cake.*
‘ Well, I don’t know what under the sun is the matter with Constance,’ replied Mrs. Pierrepoint; ‘ but I can’t persuade her to do anything.’ ‘Now, that’s very strange, and not at all like Constance,’ responded Aunt Betsy, 1 Between you and me, I don’t like the way she mopes. Now, there’s Polly Martin, who’s to be married to-morrow, she’s as bright as a cricket. Constance, Constance, Constance,’ she suddenly screamed, as she caught sight of the young girl passing the doorway. ‘‘Now I want you to come here and stir ycur own cake. It’s a very bad sign to let somebody else mix it;’ and aunty placed in her hands the dish containing the butter and sugar. ‘ I’ll whip the eggs as light as a froth, while you keep at that until it is just the consistency of cream,’ she continued. Constance gave the materials a few very unscientific turns ; and then, without a word, pushed the pan on one side, and hastily left the room. ‘ Now what do you make of such conduct as that?’ inquired her mother, in evident distress.
‘ Lor a mussy, I don’t know; /but it don’t mean any ’good, anyhow. I’ve heard mother tell about our sister Susan, that carried on just so for all the world. She got married nt last, and they went on a wedding tour to London, where his folks lived, and you know she has never been heard of from that day to this.’ ‘I think it’s the going away from home that troubles Constance. I fancy she would be lively enough if it wasn’t for that idea,’ returned Mrs. Pierrepoint, whipping the newly-laid eggs until she had formed huge pyramids of snow foam, and aunty stirred away at the cake briskly, exercising her tongue in a similar manner; and by-and-by it was ready for the big brick oven. Aunty waited in considerable perturbation .to see if the little trial-cake was just as rich and just as black as her fastidious taste required. Yes, it was a success. The day of the wedding arrived — bright, crisp, and clear —one of those glorious autumn days just before the leaves, so gorgeously coloured, commence to fall.
The evening preceding Adam and Constance had spent together, and were both under a cloud. He had a nervous headache, and consequently was not talkative ; and she, with his head in her lap, pressing both little hands against the aching temples, allowed many a silent tear to fall.
‘ Don’t be worried about this stupid pain in my head, darling,’ said Adam, noticing her distress. ‘ I shall sleep it off,’ and Constance bade her lover good-night for the tact time —tomorrow the husband; and for the first time in her life she left him sobbing. Aye, that was a lovely picture—the bridal toilette was faultless, but Constance’s roses had all paled. The last exquisite touch had been given to the orange-blossoms and veil, and Adam was called to salute Miss Constance for the last time. He, too, was as pale as death, and walked forward very slowly and with apparent difficulty. Constance, with head bowed, gave him both her little white kidded hands to press. For a moment they stood quietly ; then, in a tone so strange, so deep, so unearthly as to cause all present to gaze at him with astonishment, as he caught her in his arms, pressing her tightly to his heart, Adam said : ‘ Kiss me, darling, quickly; I am dying,’ and sank into a chair. A moment more, and the loving heart seemed to palpitate, and the dreadful truth overwhelmed the anxious friends—Adam Gray was dead 1
No mortal imagination can depict tjie scene that followed. Constance would not leave the chamber. Her grief was of a character impossible to describe—not a tear, or a sob. She seemed entirely lost to all external surroundings. There he lay, with a smile on his beautiful features, dressed in his bridal clothes, awaiting now pnly the last sad funeral rites. What a change! Nothing could induce Constance to leave the room. She would not listen to entreaty or command. Sometimes for an hour or more she would lie perfectly quiet, with her head on his shoulder—that cold, dead shoulder, which the very thought of at any other time would have paralysed her. Twenty-four hours passed in this manner. Preparations were being made for the burial. The long narrow •coffin was brought in ; but Constance protested that he should not be placed in it until the very last moment. The shades of night came on again; still Constance kept her watch. Aunt Betsy was sent in to reason with her. Constance always liked her aunt. ‘ Come away, Constance, darling, and go to bed,’ she exclaimed tearfully. 1 1 will remain here all night if you wish me. You are making yourself very ill.’ ‘ I shall remain.’ That was all, • Well, so shall I,’.said poor auntie, alarmed lest the intellect of Constance was permanently injured. ‘ Aunty,’ suddenly cried Constance, with a strange excitement, ‘ go downstairs into the store-room and bring me a bottle of brandy.’ ‘ That sounds something horrible,’ muttered aunty, with a terrified look. Then, with a sigh, she added ; ‘ She’s
beginning to feel faint, I daresay, poor child 1 How my heart aches for her! Law, I shall always believe in forerunners after this. A little brandy will perhaps make her sleep.’ * Shall I give you some, Constance ?’ she said, on returning. ‘Yes; make it part water. Quick, quick 1 aunty. Now give me a napkin.’ Aunty, horrified, watched her making preparations to feed poor lifeless Adam.
‘Good Heaven, Constance dear!’ she cried, in a tone of amazement and fright, ‘ I can stand almost anything, but pouring brandy into a corpse is going a little too far and 1 shall call your father !’ ‘ Oh, aunty, aunty 1’ shrieked Constance, wildly, ‘ rub his hands and feet with something hot, instantly 1 Help me to lift him off this dreadful table 1 Don’t you see how his countenance has changed ?’ ‘ Heaven preserve us, yes 1’ replied aunty, trembling with terror. ‘ Don’t you know that you are acting a very wicked part ? But what do you think the undertaker will say to such behaviour? The girl is raving distracted 1’
Then aunty ran to call someone, as she saw Constance attempt to change his position. ‘ Constance, for Heaven’s sake, what is this aunty is telling me ? You must have gone stark mad 1 Poor child 1’ cried Mr. Pierrepoint, bursting into the room, with tears streaming down his face. ‘ Will you come here, father, and see for yourself ? There is a cold perspiration on my darling’s face. Give me the brandy, quick, quick, aunty 1’ Her aunt passed it mechanically.
‘ Go for the doctor—someone run quickly! I tell you he is alive! Adam, Adam, Adam ! ‘open your eyes, darling!’ / To the utter astonishment of her father, and the consternation of poor trembling aunty, and to that of Mrs. Pierrepoint, who had now appeared on the scene, Adam slowly lifted up his eyelids, smiled faintly, and by the time the doctor arrived the pulse, although feeble, was quite regular, and life and consciousness had entirely returned. The terrible paraphernalia of death was removed, and Constance, worn out with her long watching and fast, was carried to her room in a swoon. When Adam revived sufficiently to speak, he informed his anxious questioners that he had been keenly conscious all the time, and had suffered the most terrible mental agony for fear Constance might be induced to leave him ; but the noble, loving girl, acting on an impression stronger than the human wills by which she was surrounded, defied them all, and saved her darling’s life. The next day the wedding came off, but in an entirely unexpected manner. Constance, radiant with sweet content,'and this time with a healthy colour on her cheek and lip, stood by the side of the couch, and in the presence of a few friends, vowed to love, honour, and cherish him in sickness and health, until death did them part. Ah ! Constance had walked within the shadow of death, and the vow came spontaneously from an earnest soul. Adam’s ‘ I will !’ was firm and tender. Ho knew that the woman who stood by his side was staunch and true —true to life, true in death —his then, his always. There was not a dry eye in the room. Even the minister broke down. Adam recovered rapidly, and there is no happier couple to-day in Exeter city than Mr. hnd Mrs. Adam Gray. The End.
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Bibliographic details
Golden Bay Argus, Volume VII, Issue 67, 12 September 1901, Page 3
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2,340Back To Life. Golden Bay Argus, Volume VII, Issue 67, 12 September 1901, Page 3
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