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Chapter III.

I talk of dreams,
Which are the children of an idle brain,
Begot of nothing but vain phantasy.

—Romeo and Juliet.

I had a dream, which was not all a dream.

—Byron.

St. Paul's Church was crowded, but Flora, as she entered, on her father's arm, failed to recognise a single face among the large assemblage. Where were all the friends she would have wished to witness her happiness? Was she to be deprived of the satisfaction of seeing the evidences of surprise and dismay on the faces of those who never expected her good fortune? Was she not about to realise her dearest wishes, to crown with success the object of her deep scheming and plotting for happiness? How much of the gratification she has hoped for is wanting if she can only enjoy her triumph in solitude despite the crowd!

When she entered, the clergyman was already waiting, and Harry was there to receive her. How her heart throbbed! As the Archdeacon began the marriage service she heard every word of the introductory remarks, and followed to the full the meaning of the language which proclaims marriage to be an honourable estate instituted of God in the time of man's innocence, signifying the mystical union of the church, and commanded not to be taken in hand unadvisedly, lightly, or wantonly; with what page 22 feelings of fear and trembling she listened to the dread summons so generally regarded as only a mere empty form—“If any man can show just cause why they may not lawfully be joined together, let him now speak, or else hereafter for ever hold his peace.” Then came a slight pause, as the clergyman turned towards them to continue the service. But who can measure the depth of Flora's feeling of apprehension during this pause, or comprehend the weight removed from her mind when she heard the next words of the service? Every word of the solemn charge fell with remarkable distinctness upon her ears; but she felt completely secure now, although she heard the clergyman say “That any that are coupled together other than as God's Word doth allow, are not joined together by God, nor is their matrimony lawful.” What cared she now that she was about to steal her sister's lover? What did it matter now if she was not entitled to stand where she did, the answer that would bind her indissolubly to her cousin would soon be spoken, and then she would be safe. Another short pause, as if for mere form's sake, and the words began again—“Wilt thou have this woman to be thy wedded wife, to live together after God's ordinance in the holy estate of matrimony?” Then a voice rang distinct and clear—“Stop!” All eyes but Flora's were turned in the direction whence the sound came, and the further words were uttered in calm but determined tones—“Stop! I forbid this marriage!” Flora had heard enough. Sinking down upon the floor, she fell into a deep dreadful nightmare, from which she seemed to awake after some minutes and find herself alone in the cold quiet church— alone with her great sorrow and disappointment. Then she heard the stillness of the church dispelled by the majestic tones of the organ breaking forth into Mendelssohn's “Wedding March,” following upon which came a joyous page 23 procession clad in garments of gladness moving cheerfully up the aisle towards the altar stairs, where they arranged themselves as if for a marriage ceremony; then another procession followed in the same manner, and Flora was almost horrified to see that the central figure of the latter procession was Lizzie leaning upon her father's arm. Turning her eyes towards the other group, she saw that her cousin was the bridegroom. Her heart beat fast to see the look of satisfaction that lit up his face. She seemed transfixed with dismay, and could not move during the whole of the service that followed; and, although she strove time after time to call out and forbid the marriage, she failed utterly in each attempt to articulate, and was compelled to remain idly by while the ceremony proceeded. Then the company began to file down the church towards the door, and past the spot where Flora stood apparently quite obscured from view; for no one seemed to notice her, or even look in her direction. Presently Harry and Lizzie, now man and wife, just beginning to taste the happiness of which they had robbed her, came by where she was, and stood for a moment almost within reach of her hand; then it was that the whole force of her disappointment and hate took possession of her; the demon they produced was at work within her, and its mad impulse had full sway. At the moment when her sister's joy seemed realised, and she stood within her reach, a happy smiling bride, a wild shriek rang through the church; and with one blow that seemed to bear all the pent-up energy of her feeling, Flora struck Lizzie on the temple and felled her to the floor; then, with a stifled groan, as if her whole being had been exhausted in that one blow, she fell fainting by her sister's side.

After what might have been an infinity of blankness, the sound of the organ filled her ears, and Flora recognised page 24 the awful tones of the “Dead March.” Looking about her in dismal wonderment, she beheld the church all draped in black and white, the altar being pure white. A movement at the door caused her to look in that direction, when there met her gaze the solemn lines of a funeral procession, which, coming closer, revealed to her that her father and Harry were the chief mourners.

The procession moved slowly up the church, and when the service for the dead began, Flora, listening intently, learned that her sister's body was encoffined there—a bride of a few brief minutes, struck down in the very plentitude of her happiness,—mourned by a loving parent and a husband widowed in the first hour of his wedded bliss.

Then the cruel fact came to her that she was guilty of her sister's death; that she had cast desolation upon her father's home, and blighted the life of the man she loved so passionately; that she had stained her soul with the gravest sin which had entered as a curse in manhood's history, and was a murderess. Then she thought the organ caught up the story of her crime, and kept repeating, “See the murderess! There she is! See the murderess!” until, in the monotony of the iteration, there came to her a dull unconsciousness a thousand times preferable to the living agony, through which, slowly reviving, she heard the steady tread as of an officer coming to take her for the crime, and the sound of knocking at the door as he demanded admittance, to lead her forth to pay the penalty that justice demanded.

Gradually awakening, she found herself in her bedroom with the sunlight streaming through the window, at which stood the form of her mother drawing up the blind. Dazed, and still uncertain that the hideous nightmare, not yet faded from her mind, was not a reality, it was some time before she could quite comprehend the scene around her, and she was only restored to calmness of page 25 mind by the warm imprint of a maternal kiss, and the sound of her mother's voice, as she asked her to dress without delay, the breakfast being all but ready.

Making a desperate effort to forget her dream, Flora asked her mother where Lizzie was, and getting the reply that she had been walking in the garden for the last halfhour, made all haste to comply with her mother's request, and get down to breakfast. It was Sunday morning, and already the air of the still, calm day was made musical with the tones of the different church bells. At ordinary times Flora loved to sit silently listening to the clear, full tones of the bells as they called the worshippers to church. She had often spent many pleasant moments drinking in the solemn, soul-satisfying sounds; but on this morning how discordant seemed every tone. Bells which, under other circumstances gave her much delight, to-day grated unmusically upon her unresponsive ear. Music at other times, became mere din and noise now, and she was glad when she could leave her room to go down to breakfast.

It was with difficulty, however, that she could even assume the appearance of composure, and several times during the meal her absent manner required that she should be addressed more than once before she replied—a circumstance which could be passed over lightly, owing to her usually quiet and reserved manner, and did not therefore receive the notice it otherwise would have done.

Who can tell how much of grief might have been avoided by the family had a little more observation been then exercised. The influence of a few words of kindly direction and advice, spoken at the right moment, is sufficient to turn the whole current of our thoughts, and bend our resolutions in the proper direction for good.