Mrs. Oakley had no time to regard the manner of this reply. She felt a little uneasy at the absence of Catharine, more because it would delay an exculpation of her lover, than from any doubt of her willingness to accept the compliment she had extended in the invitation.
“Well, well, it is no matter,” she said, talking pleasantly to herself, as Jane disappeared with the garments she had been directed to have ready for the bridesmaid. “Of course, she will be confident that all is right, or it would not have come to this. I wonder what dear, proud mamma will say to my choice of a bridesmaid. At any rate, she must admit her a lady in everything. Nothing but her refinement and gentle goodness have made those old people regard her as a daughter of the house.
As the bride was arranging things thus cheerfully in her mind, the lady mother came in, her purple silk rustling as she walked, and a cluster of marabout feathers trembling like a handful of snowflakes, where it fastened the frost-like lace of her elaborate headdress.
As Mrs. Judson came into the room, the chambermaid stole quietly out, cautiously keeping her back toward that lady.
“Not ready yet,” cried the stately dame, drawing on her own white gloves with deliberate gravity. “I have brought my maid to help you, child. Come, come, begin at once, or you will be flushed, the most vulgar thing that can happen to a person in your position. Be active,” she continued, speaking to a woman who had followed her into the room, “do Mrs. Oakley’s hair at once; I will stand by and direct you.”
Smiling and blushing a little, the bride placed herself in a seat, and taking out her comb, allowed her raven tresses to fall in a torrent over her shoulders. The toilet now commenced in earnest. Braid after braid of those glittering locks was wreathed around her shapely head, as she sat, with a rose-tinted dressing-gown gathered over the snow of her bridal garments, while the woman adorned her person; and Mrs. Judson gave directions, making herself more than usually gracious.
At length the lady’s maid had completed her work. Around that coil of raven braids lay a garland of white roses, and as the bride stood up, allowing the dressing-gown to fall in rosy masses around her feet, a cloud of misty lace, touched as it were with traces of early frost, rippled in transparent waves down the folds of her moire dress, sweeping to the snow of her satin slippers. Thus the bride stood, lovely as a dream, beneath the proud smile of her mother.
“But the bridesmaid! where is she?” questioned the elder lady, looking at a clock upon the mantelpiece. “It is nearly time.”
“She will be here, I dare say,” answered the bride, stepping before the dressing-glass, with a faint blush at her own exceeding beauty. “You will like her, I am sure, mamma. She is so sweet and lady-like.”
“But you have not told me who she is, daughter?”