“We will talk about it after breakfast.”
Accordingly, there was a serious passage-at-arms in the library after breakfast. George left the house a conqueror, but the conquered had no sort of intention of abandoning the campaign after a Bull Run defeat. In fact, war had only just been declared. It must not be supposed that it was a war the movements of which could be followed by the acutest military observer; the batteries were all masked, but the gunpowder was there. I felt confident that George would carry everything before him, and he did. He brought Miss Van over to spend the evening, and we had the pleasantest time imaginable. He would not allow his mother to say a word against Miss Van, and made a fair show of proving that the latter had, not only better blood, but also better breeding and a truer sense of propriety than my mother-in-law, that is, “when it came to the scratch,” as George said. “But who would give a snap for a young woman who can’t throw aside the shackles of conventionality once in a while, and be herself?”
Miss Van was her own jolliest, sweetest self at this time. Her beauty had never been so noticeable: joy is an excellent cosmetic, and love paints far better than rouge or powder.
As soon as Mrs. Pinkerton had recovered from her defeat, and when the engagement had become an acknowledged fact which all the world might know, the wedding began to loom up before us, and I could not help wondering if St. Thomas’s Church was to be the scene of as fashionable and grand a display as on the occasion when Bessie and myself were made one.
I felt reasonably certain that Mrs. Pinkerton would make an effort to that end, and I was curious to see how George would look on it.
Bessie, I think, would have been glad to see the marriage take place with as much pomp and show as possible. She was intensely interested in what Clara should wear, and every visit from that young woman was the occasion for a vast deal of confidential and no doubt highly important tête-à-tête consultation.
Mother-in-law sailed into the library one evening with unusual celerity of movement.
“George, dear,” she said, “this cannot be true! You would not permit such an eccentric, uncivilized proceeding. Surely you will not offend our friends by—”
“Avast there! Our friends be hanged!” cried George wickedly. “Yes, it’s true, too true. The ceremony will be private, and no cards. You can come, though! Next Wednesday, at two o’clock, sharp!”
This was cruel. I could see his mother almost stagger under the blow. She attempted to remonstrate, but it was too late. George assured her that “it was all fixed,” and that Clara had agreed with him regarding the details.