"Did I, Isabel? Cease this sobbing, and you shall have the feather; do, my love. You shall wear a plume, only be tranquil; as many feathers as you please, Isabel, only cease weeping." Mr. Boscawen drew his sobbing wife upon his knee, and fondled her, like an infant in the arms of its nurse.
"I only wish for two feathers, Mr. Boscawen; one to play easily, and a long thing to droop."
"You shall have them, Isabel; now lay down your little head on my shoulder."
Isabel sank upon her husband's shoulder like a wayward child fatigued with its own efforts; her sobbing gradually subsided, and a low murmuring noise succeeded, which again softened into sighs. Christobelle quitted the Boscawens to return into the drawing-room. Isabel had gained her point, and the feather was won.
How Christobelle's young heart gloried in the scene which presented itself to her view the eventful morning of her sister's marriage! A large and well-dressed company filled the great drawing-room to overflowing; and Christobelle's eye traversed the apartment, resting upon each group, as they offered themselves to her attention. She saw Anna Maria pale as when her heart pined under love unrequited, hanging upon her father's arm, while her lover stood near her, even more red-faced and happy than in his day of acceptance. Julia sat composed between her bridesmaids, Miss Wycherly and Miss Spottiswoode. Lady Ennismore was standing immediately behind her, leaning on her son's arm. Isabel, bright and sparkling, was closely attended by Mr. Boscawen; the plume so long coveted, waving gracefully in her blue silk hat. Mrs. Pynsent was there, full of happy importance, evidently taking command of all proceedings, and untired with gazing upon Tom, her only son, now on the point of leaving England, full dressed for his journey—large, loud, and good-looking. The Tyndals were grouped with the Kerrisons and Clara. Sir Foster stood silent and absent, winking his left eye with a nervous motion, which produced an extraordinary effect.
Lady Wetheral glided among her guests with an ease and grace of manner truly bewitching. No one could have supposed her heart was swelling with triumph at the events which were shortly to deprive her of the society of two children, or that her present attention was deeply fixed upon Clara and Sir Foster Kerrison. Every turn of the baronet's countenance was eagerly noted by her acute eye; and though, to common observers, Sir Foster was looking stupidly before him, winking his eye, and tapping his leg with a cane, her keen perception drew conclusions from impossible things, and it added increased graciousness to her insinuating manners.
Far less satisfied was Sir John Wetheral's mind, as he glanced from Tom Pynsent to the effeminate figure of Lord Ennismore, and thought of Julia's futurity with a man whose mind appeared to be as imbecile as his person was unmanly. Christobelle could trace his thoughts in the expression of his eyes, now gazing with pleasure upon Anna Maria, and anon resting mournfully on his beautiful Julia. Christobelle was too young to sorrow with him, or understand the deep feeling of his mind; but the remembrance of his expressive emotions often came over her in after-life, when experience had enlightened her in suffering, and when the bitter pangs of parental disappointment were more clearly understood.
There was a pause of some moments, after the general hum of a first meeting had subsided, as though all parties awaited a summons to the chapel, which in Wetheral Castle still remained untouched by the hand of time, since the days of the seventh Henry. It was a large, and generally well-filled pile of building, many of the nearer neighbours preferring to attend Wetheral Castle for its accommodation in point of distance, and perhaps with reference to the gay luncheons which awaited their return into the great hall. The deep silence was broken by Mrs. Pynsent.
"Here, hallo! what are we waiting for? John Tyndal has been in his canonicals this half hour. Now, Sir John Wetheral, will you lead Anna Maria? Tom, you be hanged; not so fast, stupy; take Miss Spottiswoode. There you go! Hoy, Charley Spottiswoode, leave Pen, and trot by the side of Mistress Boscawen."