passion. “How dare you!”
“Pray don’t be cross, mamma,” said the bride, quietly. “She could not help crying. The marks will soon pass away.”
“They will not,” cried her ladyship, angrily. “Sir Grantley Wilters is coming, and her nose is as red as a servant girl’s, while your eyes are half swollen up. After all my pains – after all my anxiety – never was mother troubled with such thankless children.”
“Poor old girl!” said Tom, taking a good sip of brandy-and-seltzer.
“Anthony!” cried her ladyship, “you must not touch her. You are crushing her veil and those flowers. Oh, this is madness.”
Madness or not, before she could check the natural action, the earl had taken his elder daughter in his arms, and kissed her lovingly, patting and stroking her sweet face, as, regardless of wreath and veil, she flung her arms round his neck and nestled closely to him.
“Bless you, my darling. I hope you will like India,” he said, “Rather warm, but they make delicious curries there. I hope you will be very very happy;” and the tears trickled down his furrowed countenance as he spoke.
“I’ll try to be, papa dear,” she whispered, making an effort to speak firmly.
“That’s right, my dear. The trains are very comfortable to Brindisi, and Tom says that Goole isn’t such a very bad fellow.”
“Anthony, are you quite mad!” cried her ladyship, wringing her hands till her diamonds crackled. “Are you all engaged in a conspiracy against me? Such a display is perfectly absurd. The child will not be fit to be seen at the church.”
“Yes, yes, mamma dear,” said the girl cheerfully. “There, there, Maude will put me straight in a few moments. Kiss me, dear, and I’ll go upstairs again; it must be nearly time.”
For the sake of the dresses of herself and daughter, her ladyship did not let the bride come too close, but brushed the cheek lightly with her lips; and then the girl turned to her brother, holding out her hands.
He took them, gazing at her at arm’s length with mingled pride and sorrow. Then the bridal dress was once more forgotten, and brother and sister were tightly locked in each other’s arms.
Her ladyship uttered a wail of dismay, but it was not heeded, as Tom said in a low tone —
“Keep up your pecker, Di, old girl. It’s all nonsense about love and that sort of thing. It’s duty toward your mother, catechism fashion, and you’ve done it. You’re sold into bondage, eh?”
“Yes, Tom dear,” she said, cheerfully. “I shall not mind.”
“With all Goole’s money to play with I should think not.”
“I did not mean that, dear,” said the girl, gravely. “I seem to be going right away from you, but there is Maude; don’t let her be married like I am, Tom.”
“What can I do?”
“I don’t know; only try to help her and papa. Be more at home for both their sakes – and Tryphie’s.”
Tom started, and looked sharply in his sister’s face.
“I will, Di, I will,” he said, earnestly. “I know I’ve been a reckless sort of beast, but I will try now.”
She smiled her thanks and kissed him again. Then Lady Maude of the red eyes and nose, took her sister’s hand, coming up like a pretty tug to tow off some beautiful craft that had been shattered by a storm in her upper rigging, and bore her off into port for repairs.
Chapter Two.
No Cards
The crossing-sweeper, in a special uniform of rags turned up with mud, had made liberal use of his broom wherever it was not wanted, and now stood in front of Lord Barmouth’s house in an attitude as if to draw attention, like a label, to his work – as if in fact morally writing fecit.
Everything had been done to give éclat to the proceedings, while in addition to the presents which had been on view, fair Italia sent music to lend a charm to the wedding; for Luigi Malsano, the handsome dark performer upon the last newly-improved organ, stood at the edge of the pavement and ground, and smiled – smiled till his fine white teeth glistened in the midst of his great black beard, and every now and then took off his soft felt hat, displayed his long black curls, and rolled his eyes at Dolly Preen, the fair, fresh, country lassie – the young ladies’ maid; for Dolly was looking out of the window in company with Justine, her ladyship’s attendant, to see the return of the carriages, and the latter exclaimed —
“Elles sont bêtes ces choses là!” and then as Luigi ground and smiled, and raised his hat, Justine uttered a contemptuous —
“Canaille!”
While Dolly Preen sighed and thought the dark Italian very handsome. She had indulged in the same thought before.
“Voilà!” exclaimed Mademoiselle Justine, as the carriage with its four greys dashed up, and after a little manipulation at the side of the organ, Luigi Malsano rested a well-formed and dirty hand upon the green baize cover of his instrument, and turned out the old ballad —
“’Tis hard to give the hand where the heart can never be.”
For after a great deal of scheming the work of the Countess of Barmouth was crowned. She had secured for her daughter a husband in the shape of the British Resident at the court of the Maharajah of Bistreskin, and to herself of selfs she had whispered like the revengeful gentleman in the French romance —
”ÀONEÙ!”
For it was all over.
The carriages had nearly blocked the street, and the crowd had completed the block. The church had been well filled by friends and those curious people who always attend weddings. The ceremony had been performed by a dean, assisted by a canon, and an honorary chaplain to Her Majesty. The bride looked lovely and calm as a statue, though the six bridesmaids in pale blue had sobbed softly, and mourned like so many doves, as they moistened their lace handkerchiefs with a briny dew of pearls, almost as bright as those of the handsome lockets they wore – all alike, and the presents of the bridegroom. They were bouquets of the choicest exotics inside the church, and without, for the servants were as liberally supplied as they were with favours; and at last the bridegroom’s barouche with four of Newman’s best greys had borne the happy pair back to the paternal mansion in Portland Place.
There had not been a single hitch, and even her ladyship had held up with a fine Niobe-like expression upon her noble features all through the service. Certainly she had turned faint once at the “I will,” but by the help of strong aromatic salts she had recovered herself, and smiled sadly round as if to lend sweetness to the flowers. And now the large party were back in the drawing-room, and preparing to descend to the wedding breakfast.
The fashionable pastry-cooks had been ordered to do their best, and this they had done. There were more of those ghastly sugar plaster edifices on the table than usual; more uneatable traps for the unwary; more hollow mockeries, goodly to the eye, but strange to the taste – preparations that society considers to be de rigueur at a wedding. Still in addition there was all that money could procure; fruit and flowers flourished amidst handsome glass and family plate; the servants were in new liveries, and with plenty of aides stood ready;
