“Meda, tell Mrs. Vivian about it,” said the languid beauty, scarcely lifting her long lashes.
And the waiting-woman respectfully telegraphed the lady, and preceded her into the adjoining chamber, where upon the bed was laid the magnificent bridal costume of white brocaded satin, the superb veil of Honiton lace, and the beautiful chaplet of orange flowers.
Mrs. Vivian beckoned Rosalie, and when the child stood by her side, they examined it together, and the mother tried to make the daughter understand how elegant, how costly, how recherché was this costume.
“And to think,” she said, “that India is so indifferent about a trousseau that would have turned my head when I was a girl. I don’t believe it is indifference either; I believe it is affectation.”
“No, it is not, mamma. She is really indifferent to all this. There is something troubles her. She was not resting when she sat so still. I saw her lips tremble and her eyelids quiver.”
Mrs. Vivian cast a scrutinizing glance at the girl, thinking, “How is it that in some things she is observant?” But Rosalie, almost unconsciously, was repeating to herself the refrain of the song she had been reading:—
“All that’s bright must fade.”
“Rosalie, have done with that sentimental melancholy; it disturbs me; and it is untrue, besides. The best things are most enduring. And it is all nonsense, besides, to suppose that anything more serious than indolence troubles India. And now, my dear, do you know the programme of these bridal festivities and tour, as we arranged it yesterday?”
“No,” said the young girl, trying to be interested.
Mrs. Vivian dropped herself into an easy chair at the side of the bed, and Rose sank upon the cushion at her feet, and laid her head in the lady’s lap; and while Valeria ran her fingers caressingly through the soft ringlets of the child, she said—