CHAPTER XVIII.
A HAPPY BRIDE.
Mrs. Venable was a very kind, motherly woman, but there was one inconvenience—in sojourning with a person who knew her antecedents so well—her visitor found.
Colonel Dacre had just hinted at some misunderstanding between Lord Teignmouth and Lady Gwendolyn, and allowed Mrs. Venable to lay it all to the countess; but, of course, knowing how much attached the brother and sister had once been, Mrs. Venable did feel a little curious as to the cause of their breach, and tried hard to find it out without actually putting the question.
Lady Gwendolyn got out of the traps laid for her gallantly, but she began to think Mrs. Venable was playing into her lover’s hand. She would not have put off her wedding-day now on any account.
Colonel Dacre was fully occupied in the intervening days. He had to run down to Borton Hall to attend to some last arrangements there, and this day seemed so terribly long to Lady Gwendolyn that it was quite a revelation to her. It was wonderful happiness to remember that soon they never need be parted, and she would belong altogether to him.
The wedding was to be a very quiet one. Under the circumstances this was very desirable, and, fortunately, it chimed in with the tastes and feelings of both the fiancés.
Lady Gwendolyn was to have two bridesmaids—for form’s sake—one, the Honorable Beatrice Ponsonby, a tried and true friend, of whom Colonel Dacre approved cordially; and the other, Mrs. Venable’s daughter, a pretty child of six years old. The ceremony was to take place at ten o’clock. After that they were to breakfast quietly in Park Lane, then catch the one-o’clock train for Dover, and cross over to Calais at night.
Colonel Dacre had made arrangements to remain abroad until the spring, and then they would return home, and, after spending about a month in town, take up their residence at Borton Hall. This was the program they had drawn up between them, and, unless anything unforeseen should occur to disturb it, it promised exceedingly well.
There was no reason why they should keep away from Borton. Lady Gwendolyn was not ashamed to face her brother or his wife, and Colonel Dacre looked forward to vindicating his darling, and claiming for her the respect and homage that were her due.
If Lady Teignmouth had dared to traduce her—let her beware. He was not bound to spare Reginald, although they had once been friends. His wife’s honor would always be far dearer to him than aught else besides.
On Tuesday evening Colonel Dacre dined in Park Lane, and was gratified to find that Mrs. Venable had the tact to leave the drawing-room for them after dessert.
“My husband likes to have me while he is smoking his cigar, as he is away all day,” was the apology she made, as she took her departure, and the lovers could not help laughing happily in each other’s faces, it seemed so very unnecessary.
Colonel Dacre possessed himself of half Lady Gwendolyn’s couch, and did not seem to notice that it was a tight fit for two.
“Well, my darling,” he said, as he drew her head down on to his breast; “you don’t ask me if everything is ready.”
“With a person of your promptitude and energy such a question is superfluous,” she returned, smiling up at him from the safe shelter which would be hers by divine right on the morrow.
“I suppose you are dreadfully miserable?” he said softly.
“Dreadfully,” she answered, longing to torment him a little, and yet feeling as if she could not. “How do I look?”
“More beautiful than ever,” he answered rapturously.
“Surely my eyes are red with crying.”
He bent down so anxiously to examine them, that she laughed outright.
“Don’t be a goose!” she added sweetly. “I wouldn’t marry you if they were.”
“You are such a will-o’-the-wisp, Gwen. I sha’n’t feel safe until eleven o’clock to-morrow, and so I tell you fairly.”
“But you are not obliged to be safe then,” she retorted saucily. “Wives do run away from their husbands occasionally.”
“If you ever should, as you value your life, go alone,” he answered, with sudden fierceness; and then he cooled down as quickly, and said he had not forgotten her old tricks, “there was nothing she loved better than to tease.”
“Yes; but what did you mean about my going alone?” she asked, so simply that he felt ashamed to have doubted this innocent child, even for a moment, and hastened to change the subject by speaking of his arrangements for her comfort on the morrow.
“Now, Lawrence,” she said at last, “I am not going to be carried about like a piece of rare china, in cotton wool. I am not the least delicate, and I should enjoy roughing it beyond measure, on your arm. Do let us travel sensibly, and mix with people as we go along. I want variety—even adventure—and I mean to dine at the tables d’hôte, instead of in solitary state in our own salon.”
“Under those circumstances you are likely to have the kind of adventure you will hardly care for,” he answered gravely.
“Not under your protection? With that big mustache of yours you look quite terrible, I assure you; and I often think I should be dreadfully afraid of you if I cared for you less.”
“And yet ‘perfect love casteth out fear,’ Gwen.”
“Exactly; I am not afraid of you now, excepting so far as is proper and expedient under the circumstances.”
He looked a little hurt.
“It can’t be proper and expedient in the slightest degree under any circumstances.”
“Well, I mean I should be afraid to flirt.”
“Surely you would find a better reason than that for refraining.”
“Oh, dear, you are so severely literal, Lawrence!”
“‘I must speak by the card or equivocation will undo me,’ as Shakespeare says somewhere.”
And then she pulled down his head, and whispered in his ear so softly:
“You dear old goose! Haven’t you found out yet that I love you?”
Colonel Dacre’s answer is not worth recording; but it was very expressive and impressive, for Lady Gwendolyn looked very red after it, and was not sorry to hide her confusion on his breast, though, perhaps, she was hardly woman enough yet to understand the mighty absorbing passion she had inspired.
At ten o’clock precisely Colonel Dacre loosened his hold on her and said gently:
“Now, my darling, you must go to bed. To-morrow will be a fatiguing day for you, and I shall want to see a few roses at starting. Oh! Gwen, when I think what to-morrow is to be, it seems to me that I must be dreaming. All my own—my very own, ‘to love and to cherish till death us do part.’ It is too much happiness! Give me one kiss—the first I have ever had from you, sweetest—to make it all seem real.”
“No,” she answered shyly, and trembling; “I have always vowed that my husband should have my first kiss.”
“Then I am to wait till to-morrow?”
“Yes, Lawrence.”
“Heaven bless you, my dear life!” he murmured; then kissed both the hands she extended to him, and hurried off.
It seemed a dreadful parting to him, and yet it was only for twelve hours.
Lady Gwendolyn could hardly realize that she was going to be married when she woke in the morning. But when her new maid appeared, her head just visible under an avalanche of white drapery, she began to think it was probable, and that she had better get up at once, and adorn herself to please her master’s eye.
Her master!
Proud as she was, naturally, the term did not humiliate her in connection with Lawrence. Let a woman be ever so haughty, she is ready to be the slave of the man she loves.
Miss Ponsonby arrived in time to arrange the wreath and veil, and was so charmed with the effect that she said, with honest admiration:
“It is a shame of you to have such a quiet wedding, Gwendolyn. I should like all London to see and approve.”
“And I am so altered,” answered the bride, with a tender blush and smile, “that I don’t care for any one’s admiration now except Lawrence’s.”
“You are civil, my dear, certainly,” laughed the Honorable Beatrice.
“Oh! I didn’t mean you, of course, dear. I am glad of your approval; but, then, I always make sure of that.”
“And of somebody else’s, too, I fancy.”
Lady Gwendolyn put her arms round her friend’s neck with the impulsiveness that is always so attractive.
“Beatrice,” she said, with tears of happiness trembling on her black lashes, “I love Lawrence with all my heart, and I would rather be his wife than queen of twenty kingdoms!”
Then she glanced at the clock, and, seeing it wanted only a quarter to ten, began to mold on her gloves.
The carriage drove up just as she had finished, and, taking her bouquet from the maid, she went down-stairs with the sun shining full on her as she went, and yet unable to find a flaw in her beauty or a shadow in her happy eyes.
Colonel Dacre and his best man were standing at the altar as Lady Gwendolyn entered the church on the arm of Lord Denby, Miss Ponsonby’s father, and a very old friend of the St. Maur family. A lovely light and color went over her face as she saw him, and met the glance of loving admiration that welcomed her to his side.
Then she forgot to realize herself as she stood by the steady figure, and listened to the words of the marriage service. She began to understand what a terrible chain matrimony must be when people joined hands without joining hearts; and a thrill of thankfulness ran through her, remembering what perfect union subsisted between herself and her husband.
For he was her husband now. The priest had joined their hands, and had lifted his voice to say: “Those whom God has joined let no man put asunder.”
The warm, firm pressure of Lawrence’s fingers seemed to testify that he was well able to keep what he had won, and the consciousness of his strength soothed and comforted Lady Gwendolyn as nothing else could have done.
She liked his gravity, too, for it showed how thoroughly he felt with her, and realized the deeper and holier meaning of their marriage. There was quite a gathering in the church by the time the ceremony was over; but neither bride nor bridegroom knew much about it. Lady Gwendolyn signed her maiden name for the last time, and then they stepped out into the sunshine together.
Happy, beautiful, and young, the world seemed a lovely place to these two; and they felt as if they had one smile, as well as one heart, between them, as each looked into the other’s eyes, and saw reflected there the happiness of his and her heart.
There was not much time to spare when they got back to Park Lane; but Lord Denby made a pretty little speech during the breakfast, which sounded as if it had been inspired by Veuve Clicquot’s best champagne, as it was so frothily graceful; then Colonel Dacre looked at the clock and touched his wife’s arm.
“I am afraid we shall miss our train, Gwen, if we don’t start soon.”
She rose directly, and in a very short time returned in a traveling-dress, which was of brown cashmere, trimmed with silk of a darker shade.
Lady Gwendolyn was not one of those brides who like to advertise themselves. To steal quietly through the crowd, unrecognized and unobserved, was all she asked; and she knew her husband’s refined tastes would be offended, as well as her own, by any display. But that he approved of the brown cashmere, and the quiet, but elegant, little hat of the same color, was evident from his eyes as he took a survey of her dainty figure ere he handed her into the carriage.
On their way to the station Colonel Dacre held his wife’s hand; but he did not attempt any further demonstration, and she was thankful for the self-denial, which gave her time to recover a little from the confusion of her position.
But once in the coupé he had engaged, and on their way to Dover, all his pent-up passion seemed to break forth, and he crushed her against his breast as he murmured:
“Now for my kiss—the one you have kept back for your happy husband, love.”
And as she shyly approached her lips to his it seemed to both as if their very souls mingled in that long, glad, passionate embrace.