The ordeal—for it is an ordeal to even the ordinary commonplace bride, with happiness to help her through it—passed, and the party went into the dining-room.
Most wedding breakfasts or lunches are alike, and there was the usual amount of chatter and laughter among the young people, mingled with the clatter of knives and forks, and the popping of champagne corks. Bartley Bradstone sat beside Olivia, making a pretense of eating, and trying to talk and look at his ease; but the bridegroom is not much noticed on these occasions—so utterly disregarded, in fact, that it would seem almost possible to give the play of “Marriage” with the part of the bridegroom left out. But all eyes wandered to the bride, the loveliest and most charming girl in the county; and many a young fellow who had, perhaps for years, cherished somewhere in the bottom of his soul a vague hope that he might win her for himself, felt his heart throb and ache as he looked at her in her pure loveliness and realized that she was lost to him forever.
The servants did their spiriting nimbly, and before very long the bishop, who had been carrying on a dual flirtation of a mild order with Annie and Mary, laughed softly, looked round with a blandly benedictory air, and rose to propose the bride and bridegroom.
No man could do this kind of thing better than his grace, and eyes grew moist and the lace handkerchiefs fluttered, as, in melting tones, he wished the dear and well-beloved child of a beloved and honored parent all happiness in this and the next world.
Bartley Bradstone fidgeted with his wineglass, which he had permitted the butler to fill pretty frequently; but Olivia sat white and impassive as a statue.
Then, after the well-bred cheering had subsided, all eyes were turned upon the bridegroom. His face flushed and went pale by turns as he rose, and for a moment it seemed as if he would sit down without saying a word; but he seized his full glass and drank off the wine it contained, and started, nervously at first, but presently fell into his usual bombastic, self-satisfied tone, and declared his intention of making his wife happy if he spent every shilling in the attempt.
People exchanged glances, the men of cold, critical contempt, the women with a little shudder; but they applauded him as in duty bound, and as he sat down Lord Carfield rose to propose the remaining toast—the health of the squire.
In few, well-chosen words, which in themselves and in the manner of their delivery presented a striking contrast to the last speaker, he spoke of his deep regard and affection for his old neighbor, who was not only the lord of their manor, but of their hearts, and declared that, speaking for himself, he felt that he, too, had lost, like the squire, a well-beloved daughter.
And now for the first time, as the squire just rose and bowed—too moved to speak, his aristocratic, high-bred face working visibly in his attempt to suppress his emotion—for the first time a change came over Olivia’s white face. It seemed to melt as did the Snow Maiden’s, but not into a smile. Her lips quivered and trembled, and as she raised her eyes to the old man’s face, a tear rolled down her cheek. Then Aunt Amelia made a signal to the rest of the ladies, Bartley Bradstone looked at his watch—a silver one, by the way—and said to Olivia:
“There’s just—just an hour and five minutes; don’t hurry—I mean I’ll keep the carriage a few minutes for you.”