CHAPTER XII.
EVELYN'S BRIDAL MORN—FESTIVITIES AT "SUNNYBANK."
. . . "To the nuptial bower
I led her blushing like the moon, all heaven,
And happy constellations on that hour
Shed their selectest influence, the earth
Gave sign of gratulation, and each hill,
Joyous the birds;" —Milton
Such is the glowing description of the appearance of nature on the morn when, in the presence of God and the host of white-robed angels, was celebrated the nuptials of our common ancestors— nuptials whence sprang the ills of our humanity.
Could the fair and beautiful Eve have foreseen the future that to her seemed so promising, would she not have given up to despair and remained aloof from sound of tempting voice?
But God's decree willed it otherwise, and the fair Eve, whose beauty and submissive charms had power to influence her lord and master, became the mother of mankind.
It would be unjust, uncharitable, to intrude upon the feelings of the pair to participate in the present festive ceremony at "Sunnybank."
Evelyn Verne emerges from her boudoir "a thing of beauty." Was ever bride more enchanting, radiant or beautiful? Were ever bridal robes more graceful? Perfect beauty, queenly beauty, dazzling beauty. It is needless to expatiate upon the shimmering train, mist-like veil or conventional orange blossoms. Reader, we will allow your imagination full scope. Let it rest upon the radiant bride until the eye becomes familiar with the minutest arrangement of the elegant costume.
And then the bridesmaids! Five lovely maidens—St. John's fairest daughters. Five bewitching forms with grace in all their movements, claim our attention; and on all sides—"How pretty!" "How sweet!" "How beautiful!"
Two sisters are exquisitely dressed in India muslin and antique lace—one in pale-blue and the other in pink.
Marguerite Verne is radiant in pearl-colored satin and ruchings of delicate pink azaleas.
Two younger girls are becomingly attired in cream lace and soft filmy crepe of the same shade.
Each maiden carries a bewitching basket of flowers, and imparts to the senses the most delightful effect. Indeed, it is seldom that historic Trinity ever witnessed a grander pageant within its sacred walls.
As the handsome and distinguished-looking bridegroom stood before the altar awaiting the entrance of his bride, it were almost sacrilege to utter a word deprecatory or otherwise.
Hubert Tracy supports his friend with an air of interest. He seems more impatient than the other, and has a look of ill-concealed uneasiness upon his slightly furrowed brow. He hears not the remarks of pretty maidens or dignified matrons, else the slight frown would have given place to a smile.
"Mr. Tracy is as handsome as the groom, mamma."
"Handsomer, my dear."
There was still a chance to ensnare the uncaged bird, and this fact was alone in the mind of the anxious mamma. But the entrance of the bridal party put an end to all talk concerning the sterner sex.
"Isn't she lovely?" "What a magnificent dress?" "She is so composed." "Really, Marguerite is as pretty as the bride." "Oh, indeed; fine feathers make fine birds." "If our girls could have all the money they want and nothing to do I bet you they would look better than any one of them." "Well, well. The world is ill divided." "Isn't Miss —— gorgeous in that lovely lace." "If we had some of the money that has been spent upon them dresses we wouldn't have to work any this summer."
Such was a brief outline of the speeches made upon this important event, but they were lost upon the wedding party.
The guests comprised the wealth and beauty of St. John and as each guest was ushered in one could not fail to exclaim: "St. John has wealth, beauty and refinement."
The scene was an imposing one. While the choir sang,
"The voice that breathed o'er Eden,"
a young man entered and took his place among the guests. He had been detained but arrived in time to tender his congratulations to one more important to him than the radiant bride.
Why does Hubert Tracy instinctively cast a glance towards the new comer, and feel a slight shudder through his frame?
It matters not at present. Let him enjoy the benefit of his thoughts while we turn to our old friend.
"Mr. Lawson is growing better looking every day," is our verdict, as with genial warmth we grasp him by the hand.
An intelligent face can never remain long in obscurity, and when a generous soul and kind, true heart are also accompanying graces there is a beauty that is unfading. But it is only the higher side of humanity which can discover this beauty. And perhaps on this festive morn many of the worldly minded would fail to recognize this superior style of beauty.
But proudly Phillip Lawson stands with the consciousness of having tried to act well his part and live in obedience to the dictates of his God.
It was only when the guests had assembled in the spacious drawing- room at "Sunnybank" that our friend found opportunity to have a short conversation with Marguerite, who with sunlit face took no pains to conceal her delight. She chatted with Phillip Lawson with a familiarity that led the calculating mother to think that she had no further troubles from that source.
And Cousin Jennie's presence heightened the effect of this illusion.
Clad in draperies of soft nun's veiling Jennie Montgomery was, if not pretty, quite interesting, and her bright, fresh face was refreshing as the air of her native vales.
As in truth every wedding boasts of the time-honored conventionalities, toasts and speeches, that of "Sunnybank" formed no exception, and we will not weary you with the endless list of compliments and amount-to-nothing-in-the-end talk which is current at such times.
It was only when the hour for departure had arrived that a sense of loneliness crept over Marguerite.
The elegant presents had been inspected, luncheon served, and the bride, attired in a superb travelling costume, stood in the doorway awaiting the carriage.
Montague Arnold wears all the necessary smiles that are expected of him, and as he takes his place beside his bride a new responsibility dawns upon him.
A large number of the party accompany the newly-wedded pair to the
Fairville Station, and Marguerite is assigned to Mr. Lawson and
Cousin Jennie.
The latter is cheerful and witty and strives, under cover of her remarks, to divert her cousin from the sadness that is common to such occasions.
Phillip Lawson sees with gratitude the girl's kindness and thanks her in a way that is tenfold more valued than the counterfeit everyday thanks passed around in common life. If the young barrister could have seen the true state of Cousin Jennie's feelings towards him he would have fallen on his knees and thanked God for such a friend.
But Phillip Lawson was not a mind reader. He could not divine the thoughts that were passing through Jennie Montgomery's ready and active brain. But one thing he did know, that in this warm-hearted girl he had a true friend.
When Marguerite returned to her home a vague, undefined feeling took possession of her, and gladly would she have given herself up to this feeling, and indulged in a good, old-fashioned, time-honored cry.
She felt a sudden pang of remorse. She thought of the lost opportunities when she might have had a stronger hold upon the sympathies of her elder sister.
"Poor Eve," murmured the girl, "she was less to blame than I. We have never had each other's confidence. I hope she will try to love Montague as a woman should love her husband. How I should like to ask mamma what she thinks; but what is the use. She will say it is one of the best matches of the season, and no doubt she will end by advising me as to her anxiety—on my behalf. Oh, dear! why cannot we live in a state of blissful oblivion?"
The miniature bronzed clock on the mantel-shelf caused Marguerite to look up.
"Four o'clock—dear me; I wish this afternoon was over. The house seems as if a funeral had left it. Poor Evelyn."
"You naughty Madge, where are you?"
The speaker was Jennie Montgomery. She had been busy over the arrangement of a number of bouquets for the dinner-table, and assisting Mrs. Verne in many ways, and now made a hasty transit towards Madge's favorite retreat—a pretty boudoir adjoining her mamma's dressing-room.
"Just as auntie said, you old offender. A pretty time for day-dreams when everybody is head over ears in business."
"I have not been here an hour, Jennie," said Madge, in an apologetic manner, putting her arms caressingly around her cousin's waist.
The latter, though apparently preoccupied, could not fail to admire this quaint and pretty nook—just such a spot as one could sit in and dream their life away; a sort of lotus bed, where one inhaled the beguiling odors, and cast all worldly cares to the shores left behind.
And little wonder cousin Jennie gazed in admiration.
The walls were of the most delicate rose color, tinged with gold; the carpet, a ground of white velvet pile bestrewed with delicate roses; the furniture of delicate pink satin, with setting of quaintly carved ebony.
But the "seat of state," as Jennie termed it, was the crowning feature in this pretty retreat.
This seat of state was a raised dais, curtained with costly lace and surmounted by a canopy of pretty workmanship. In this alcove was an antique chair or fauteuil, and beside it a small cabinet, inlaid with mother of pearl, while opposite stood an ebony writing desk, strewed with fragments of exquisitely perfumed note paper.
It was evident that Marguerite had been penning down some stray thoughts, for the pen stood in the inkstand, and traces of ink were to be seen on her fingers.
This seat of state was just such a place as our sweet-faced Marguerite looked to advantage, not as a queen upon her throne, but as a type of the spirituelles—of the pure-minded maiden with a slight shade of melancholy, giving interest to the soft, fair face.
"You remind me of a madonna, my saint-like cousin," said Jennie, placing her bright red cheek against the purely transparent and more delicate one of her companion.
"What a contrast, Madge. Just look at your country cousin—a blooming peony, and you, my most delicate blush rose. Ha! ha! ha!"
Cousin Jennie's laugh was one of the genuine ring—untrammelled by affectation or repressed by pain or languor. She gave vent to her feelings and exercised such influence upon Cousin Madge who now joined in with a clear silvery peal of laughter, sweeter than the most bewitching music. Nor was this "sweetness lost upon a desert air."
Mr. Verne had been engaged in his apartments for some minutes. He had entered unobserved in company with a friend and a few minutes later a gentleman bearing some legal looking documents entered and without ceremony was ushered in. It was while the latter was taking leave that the well-known tones of Marguerite Verne's voice rang out its silvery sweetness and caused the listener to start. But it matters not who the latter was—suffice, a man
"of soul sincere,
In action faithful, and in honour clear;
Who broke no promise, served no private end,
Who gained no title, and who lost no friend."
"Come with me Madge and see what I have done. Indeed, I am not going to put my light under a bushel. Everyone must see my good works," exclaimed Jennie, drawing her arm through that of her cousin and leading her out to the supper room where a sight worth seeing presented itself.
The tables were arranged with an eye to the beautiful. Everything that art and taste could suggest was there.
Epergnes costly and rare almost overpowered the senses with the exhalations of their gorgeous exotics. It was a difficult matter to determine from what source came the most assistance, the caterer or the decorater, but all harmonized and all made up one perfect adaptation.
"Jennie I am ashamed of myself," cried Marguerite, standing before an exquisite combination of roses, heliotrope, lilies and smilax which occupied a central place on the supper-table, "you can do anything. How I envy you."
"Beware my little coz, I have read a little line somewhere throughout the course of my extensive reading—
'Praise undeserved is scandal in disguise.'
Now be governed accordingly and escape the fearful condemnation."
Marguerite smiled at the bright cheery girl and wondered if it were possible that such a life might ever feel the weight of care. She was thinking might it be possible that the girl would give her heart to the whole-souled friend who always seemed brighter in her presence.
Is it possible that jealousy finds a lurking place within so fair a soul—that it may take root and grow and bloom and scatter the noxious weeds peculiar to its growth?
Ah no, pure minded Marguerite. We accord thee a higher mission upon earth. Thy nature is too exalted, too ethereal, too much of the divine.
"I verily believe if I were not here to arouse you, Madge, that you would be off in another dream in less than no time. I believe some day in the not very far future if one happened to stray as far as Boston that on looking over the Herald the first notice that will greet us is:—
"Madame Marguerite DeCoeur—Clarivoyant. Predicts past, present and future. Much attention given to maidens seeking a husband. For particulars see circular. Advice sent on receipt of postage stamps. No. —— Court Street, Boston, Mass."
"What's all the fun about, I'd like to know?" chimed in none other than Master Fred. Verne with an eager curiosity common to his youth.
"Some time you may feel interested my young man, then you may consult your big sister," was the reply of Cousin Jennie.
Four hours later Marguerite Verne was, as Cousin Jeanie said a perfect picture—a being born to be admired and loved. Never had she appeared more bewitching and as the clear-headed Jennie watched the effect produced upon a pair of thoughtful grey eyes she felt a sudden relief, murmuring "he will love but one 'my Marguerite.'"