Ethel Churchill/Chapter 51
CHAPTER XVI.
THE CHURCH.
The altar, 'tis of death! for there are laid
The sacrifice of all youth's sweetest hopes.
It is a dreadful thing for woman's lip
To swear the heart away; yet know that heart
Annuls the vow while speaking, and shrinks back
From the dark future that it dares not face.
The service read above the open grave
Is far less terrible than that which seals
The vow that binds the victim, not the will;
For in the grave is rest.
Soon—how soon it appeared to come!—the day appointed for Miss Churchill's marriage arrived. With a faint shudder, she looked from her window. The whole garden was bathed in sunshine; a light wind stirred the branches, which seemed filled with singing birds: she turned away; the light and the music were painful to her. Who has not felt this exaggeration of the sick heart, which reproaches inanimate nature with its lack of sympathy, which turns from the golden light of day, from the cheerful sights and sounds that fill the open air with rejoicing, as if the gladness only mocked their misery! Passively, she allowed her grandmother to hurry her toilet, who would not see how wan and ill she looked. When all was complete, she turned away from the glass as she had turned away from the window, with a deeper feeling of desolation. It was a relief to glide away unperceived; and almost mechanically she sought the open air, and entered the summer-house, from the habit of turning her steps thither, rather than from any will on her own part. She was not permitted to remain there long; and Mr. Trevanion, accompanied by Mrs. Churchill, conducted her to the apartment where the guests where assembled.
All the Jacobite gentry of that part of the country were collected together; though, it must be confessed, their appearance and their usual after-dinner conversation were rather at variance. Now they looked calm and comfortable, with as little the appearance of conspirators as possible; then they were (by their own account) the most oppressed of individuals, and the most devoted of partisans, ready to die, so that their wrongs were redressed, and the rightful king restored. There was a great show of gaiety; for the neighbourhood, being a dull and scattered one, any thing that wore the semblance of festival was doubly welcome.
Again Ethel felt how little sympathy was there with her sadness. A thousand wild plans of escape even now flitted across her mind; but they were vague and confused fancies, which she lacked the energy, even if she had had the power, to execute. A dull sense of suffering weighed upon her heart. She heard voices, she saw faces, but they produced no impression upon her; and she allowed herself to be handed into the carriage, almost without knowing what she did. The long and slow procession, at length, reached the church; and it took up almost as much time to range the different friends in their appointed and proper places. An old gentleman, a distant, and yet their nearest connexion, led Ethel forward, filled only with the idea of the important situation he himself held, in having to give away the bride. There she stood, her large blue eyes dilated far beyond their usual size, fixed on vacancy. There was not a tinge of colour on a cheek usually so blooming—nay, her very lip had lost its crimson: she looked as white as her dress.
Mrs. Churchill watched her anxiously: perhaps, now that it was too late, she repented having urged the match so peremptorily, as more than one doubt crossed her mind of the future happiness of her gentle and affectionate child. She saw her there—wan, wasted, broken in spirits,—a victim, rather than a bride! but such misgivings were now in vain.
The clergyman had taken his place at the altar, when the attention of the party assembled was attracted to loud and unusual sounds in the churchyard. There was the galloping of horses, the clang of heavy steps and spurs, and the jingle of swords. The suspense was brief: for the next moment an officer, accompanied by a magistrate, with some half-dozen soldiers following, entered the church. In another instant the warrant was produced, and James Trevanion was arrested on a charge of high treason. All now was rage and confusion; and some of the younger among the bridal guests shewed symptoms of resistance.
"Gentlemen," said the magistrate, calmly, "the door is surrounded by troops: opposition to my disagreeable duty can only bring fatal consequences to yourselves. Remove the prisoner at once. Madam," continued he, addressing Mrs. Churchill, "I am sorry to say that there are suspicious circumstances in which you are implicated. In consideration of your age and high respectability, I have ventured to take upon myself to answer for you; but, at present, I must request that you will accept the hospitality of my house.
Mr. Trevanion advanced forward; but the magistrate interposed.
"I can feel," said he, "for a gentleman in your circumstances; but it is my duty to see that no communication takes place between yourself and the ladies involved in the suspicion of treasonable practices. Your farewells must be made in my presence."
And how did Ethel feel?—like a wretch, under sentence of death, who, at the very scaffold, receives a reprieve. She was only alive to the joy of her release: for a moment, she thought of nothing but her own escape.
"Thank God!" exclaimed she to the utter dismay of the two bridesmaids within hearing; and, throwing herself on her knees, she hid her face in her hands, and uttered a hurried and passionate thanksgiving.