The ring was slipped on, the hands of the pair were joined, the bishop delivered his little address, and pronounced his blessing in his well-known manner—a mixture of sacerdotal dignity and sweetness—and Esmeralda walked down the aisle the wife of the Marquis of Trafford.
There was a crowd in the vestry, for every one was anxious to inscribe his name in the registry, or at least witness the ceremony of signing.
The duke was the first witness, and when he had written his name rather shakily, he turned to the bride and kissed her, and they all saw that there were tears in his eyes.
Every one thronged round her, and she felt her hand pressed, and sometimes her lips, in a kind of whirl; but through it all she was conscious of Trafford’s nearness, and the words, “My husband,” were singing in her heart.
“I wish you a long and happy life, Lady Trafford,” said the courtly bishop, taking her hand in his soft one and smiling benignantly at her; “and, with God’s blessing, I think my wish, and the wish of many, will be fulfilled.”
There was a large crowd outside, and as the bride emerged upon her husband’s arm, it cheered vociferously, and some children from Belfayre, who had been brought to London, scattered flowers upon her path.
Esmeralda looked at the bright, rosy faces, and for the first time her eyes filled; but the tears were those of happiness, and did not fall.
The wedding-breakfast—for the old-fashioned feast was kept—was a very great success, and the guests, unusual as was the hour, did not despise the spread. Esmeralda, as she sat by her husband in the center of the side of the table, was pronounced the loveliest bride that had been seen for the last ten years: which is a long time in the annals of beauty; and the men looked from her to Trafford with generous envy.
Esmeralda was rather bewildered at first by the number of the guests and the proportion of strangers, and sat for a time with her long lashes sweeping her cheek, but presently she looked around, and the first face she saw was that of Norman Druce. He was seated almost opposite her. She very nearly started. She had not seen him in the church or in the vestry, and had very nearly forgotten him.
He was not pallid or downcast, as the rejected rival is generally represented; on the contrary, his handsome face was flushed, and he was talking and laughing with what looked like an utter absence of embarrassment; but Esmeralda felt, rather than saw, that he avoided her eyes, and that he carefully looked away from her. It was a brilliant party, and there were many beautiful women present beside the bride. Lady Ada’s delicate, ethereal loveliness looked its best in her bride-maid’s dress, and Lilias seemed more petite and mignonne than ever in her virginal white and lace. Lady Wyndover was now indeed in her seventh heaven of happiness, and, a marvel of artistic make-up, looked little more than a girl as she beamed under the compliments of Lord Selvaine.