“It is all in singularly bad taste,” was Sir John Freise’s exclamation, as he surveyed the scene. “It’s very fine, girls, and would do very well if it was all for Neva’s marriage, but it is worse than tomfoolery to invite Sir Harold Wynde’s tenantry and friends to rejoice at the wedding of Sir Harold’s widow to a man not worthy to tie his shoes. I must repeat that it is in singularly bad taste. The tenantry are not Lady Wynde’s; the house is not Lady Wynde’s. What can be done to give distinction to the marriage-day of the heiress, if all this display is made for Lady Wynde?”
Sir John’s sentiment was the general one among the house guests. Some were disgusted, and others privately sneered, but there were some to whom the proceedings of the baronet’s widow seemed eminently proper, and these fawned upon her now.
The wedding breakfast was eaten in the grand old dining-hall, among flowers which, by a rare refinement of taste, had been chosen for this room without perfume. The tables were resplendent with gold and silver plate. Fruits of rare species and delicious flavor, fresh from the hot-houses of Hawkhurst, were nestled among blossoms or green leaves. A noted French cook from London had charge of the commissary department, and the rare old wines from Sir Harold’s cellar were unequalled.
While toasts were offered and drank to the newly married pair in the banquet hall, the tenantry were amusing themselves with their barbecue and ale out of doors, and their hilarity corresponded to the lower-toned merriment within the house.
After the breakfast, Sir John Freise and his family, and several others, all of whom had come out of respect to Neva rather than to compliment Lady Wynde, took their departure. Many guests remained for the ball. Lord Towyn took his leave toward evening, and Neva retired to her own room, whence she did not emerge again that night.
She had tried hard to dissuade Lady Wynde from giving the ball, but her persuasions had not availed. Neva had declined to attend the ball, and Lady Freise had supported her in her refusal. How could she dance in honor of the third marriage of her father’s widow? All day her thoughts had been of India and of her father, and remembering his tragical fate, how could she rejoice at a union which could never have taken place but for his death?
Her step-mother was angry at what she deemed Neva’s obstinacy, and came to her and commanded her to descend to the ball-room. The young girl was sternly resolute in her refusal, and the bride went away muttering her anger and annoyance, but powerless to compel obedience.
There was dancing until a late hour that night in the old baronial hall that traversed the centre of the great mansion, and there was dancing outside upon the terrace and lawn to the music of a brass band. Mrs. Craven Black—Lady Wynde no longer—was the belle of the occasion, full of gayety and brightness. Mrs. Artress, to the amazement of everybody who had known her as the gray companion of Lady Wynde, flashed forth in the sudden splendor of jewels and a trained dress of crimson silk, and Craven Black danced one set with her, and saw her supplied with numerous partners. Mrs. Artress considered that her day of servitude was over, and that it was quite possible that she might make a “good match” with some wealthy country gentleman, for whom, during all the evening, she kept a diligent look-out.
Among the guests were two or three reporters of society papers from London, whom Craven Black, with an eye to the publicity of his glory, had invited down to Hawkhurst. These gentlemen danced and supped and wined, and in the pauses of these exercises wrote down glowing descriptions of the festivities, elaborate details of the ladies’ dresses, and ecstatic little eulogies of the bride’s beauty and connection with the Wynde family, and of the groom’s pedigree, stating the precise value of Craven Black’s prospects of a succession to his cousin, Viscount Torrimore.
The aunt of the bride, Mrs. Hyde of Bloomsbury Square, was not present. She lay indeed at the point of death, a fact which Mrs. Craven Black judiciously confined to her own breast, the news having reached her that morning as she was dressing for her bridal.