Marjorie gathered up the lovely things and carried them over to the bed. As Miss Susanna had already walked toward the chest Marjorie laid the dainty articles of the bridal outfit reverently upon the snowy expanse of linen spread.
While she was engaged in the pleasant yet half sad task, Miss Susanna returned to her side. Her eyes directed toward the wedding gown, which was a dream of loveliness, she suddenly felt something falling down over her head and face in misty, transparent folds. She cried out and looked through the delicate transparency to see Miss Susanna smiling at her with untold tenderness.
“It was to have been my wedding veil, Marjorie. I wish it to be yours. Come over to the mirror and let me drape it on you. You are not much taller than I. Thank fortune this veil is yards and yards in length and width. The present-day veils are so very voluminous.”
“This veil is a poem, Goldendede,” Marjorie declared fervently; “a poem in pearls, mist and orange blossoms. Surely, there was never its equal on land or sea!”
She had obediently moved to the great oval mirror of the dresser, standing slim and lovely in her white lawn morning gown. Over her head and flowing down to her feet and far beyond them was the exquisite veil of finest Brussels net, outlined with pearls and caught up here and there with sprays of creamy satin orange blossoms which closely resembled the natural blossoms. The dainty bridal cap formed by the gathering together of the veil was banded with pearls and orange blossoms. Squarely in front and slightly below the pearl band was a star of matched pearls.
“Can this be I?” Marjorie cried jokingly, yet half embarrassed. The mirror told her the story of her own beauty so clearly she felt an unbidden desire to cry over the fact that she was beautiful in the marvelous veil. “Where did it come from, Goldendede?” she asked wonderingly. “It’s not that I am beautiful. It’s the veil. It could transform the plainest person from positive homeliness to beauty.”
“It would go a long way toward it,” Miss Susanna smiled indulgently at the enchanting vision before the mirror. “Still, I must say that I never looked as you do in it, child. And I was a fairly pretty girl, too. Uncle Brooke and I made a voyage to Europe on purpose to order my trousseau. He bought the most expensive piece of net for sale in Brussels. We took it to Paris and had the veil made there with the rest of the trousseau. That is the history of it.”
The old lady stood back to view the effect of the veil upon Marjorie, an absent, meditative look in her bright eyes.
“The days that followed the breaking of my engagement with Gray were hard; hard indeed,” she continued. “His name was Grayson Landor. He was very good-looking. But he did not love me; nor I him. He knew it when he proposed marriage to me. I did not know until after I had steeled myself against seeing him. He was unworthy, child; utterly unworthy. He was in love with a poor young girl, really in love with her, yet he was content to forsake her and marry me for my money, and because I was a Hamilton. I am glad I found him out in time. I realize more and more that I was chosen to carry on Uncle Brooke’s plans, and alone. I regret the years I lost through Alec Carden’s interference.”
The mistress of the Arms sat down on the edge of a chair and folded her hands together. “Yes; I lost so much time,” she said musingly, almost as though she had forgotten Marjorie’s presence.