"Your every-day meals are better than usual wedding feasts," replied Margaret, "and I do not see why one should eat more on such an occasion than any other. You know I care nothing for the good things of this life, though Mr. Regulus may be disappointed."
"Indeed, you are mistaken," said Mr. Regulus, blushing. "I think so little of what I eat and drink, I can hardly tell the difference between tea and coffee."
This was literally true, and many a trick had been played upon him at his boarding place while seated at his meals, with an open book at the left side of his plate, and his whole mind engaged in its contents.
"Mrs. Regulus," said Dr. Harlowe, giving due accent to her new name, "is, as everyone must perceive, one of those ethereal beings who care for nothing more substantial than beefsteak, plum-pudding, and mince-pie. Perhaps an airy slice of roast turkey might also tempt her abstemiousness!"
"Take care, Doctor,—I have some one to protect me now against your lawless tongue," cried Madge, with inimitable good-humor.
"Come and dine with us to-morrow, and you shall prove my words a libel, if you please. I cannot say that my wife will be able to give you any thing better than Mrs. Linwood's poor fare, but it shall be sweetened by a heart-warm welcome, and we will drink the health of the bonny bride in a glass of ruby wine!"
And was it possible that no note was taken of the strange absence of the master of the table? Was it no check to social joy and convivial pleasure? It undoubtedly was, in the first place; but Margaret's exhilarating presence neutralized the effect produced by his absence on the spirits of the guests. The occasion, too, was so unexpected, so inspiring, that even I, sad and troubled as I was, could not help yielding in some degree to its gladdening influence.
After supper I had a long and delightful conversation with my metamorphosed preceptor. He spoke of his marriage with all the ingenuousness and simplicity of a child. He thanked me for having told him, when I parted from him in New York that he had an influence over Margaret that he had not dreamed of possessing. It made him, he said, more observant of her, and more careful of himself, till he ready found her a pleasant study. And somehow, when he had returned to his country home, it seemed dull without her; and he found himself thinking of her, and then writing to her, and then going to see her,—till, to his astonishment, he found himself a lover and a husband. His professorship, too, happened to come at the exact moment, for it emboldened him with hopes of success he could not have cherished as a village teacher.
"How the wild creature happened to love me, a grave, ungainly pedagogue, I cannot divine," he added; "but if gratitude, tenderness, and the most implicit confidence in her truth and affection can make her happy, she shall never regret her heart's choice."
Confidence did he say? Happy, thrice happy Margaret!