“Then, indeed, love, thou shalt have thy way in all particulars.”
After this Lady Fareham was in haste to return to the house in order to choose the wedding gown; and here in the panelled parlour they found the two gentlemen, with the dust of the road and the warmth of the noonday sun upon them, newly returned from Aylesbury, where they had ridden in the freshness of the early morning to choose a team of plough-horses at the fair; and who were more disconcerted than gratified at finding the dinner-parlour usurped by Mrs. Lewin, Madame Hortense, and an array of finery that made the room look like a stall in the Exchange.
It was on the stroke of one, yet there were no signs of dinner. Sir John and Sir Denzil were both sharp set after their ride, and were looking by no means kindly on Mrs. Lewin and her wares when Hyacinth and Angela appeared upon the scene.
“Nothing could happen luckier,” said Lady Fareham, when she had saluted Denzil, and embraced her father with “Pish, sir! how you smell of clover and new-mown grass! I vow you have smothered my mantua with dust.”
Father and sweetheart were called upon to assist in choosing the wedding gown—a somewhat empty compliment on the part of Lady Fareham, since she would not hear of the simple canary brocade which Denzil selected, and which Mrs. Lewin protested was only good enough to make his lady a bed-gown; or of the pale grey atlas which her father considered suitable—since, indeed, she would have nothing but a white satin, powdered with silver fleurs de luces, which she remarked, en passant, would have become the Grande Mademoiselle, had she but obtained her cousin’s permission to cast herself away on Lauzun.
“Dear sister, can you consider a fabric fit for a Bourbon Princess a becoming gown for me?” remonstrated Angela.
“Yes, child; white and silver will better become thee than poor Louise, who has no more complexion left than I have. She was in her heyday when she held the Bastille, and when she and Beaufort were two of the most popular people in Paris. She has made herself a laughing-stock since then. That is settled, Lewin”—with a nod to the milliner—“the silver fleurs de luces for the wedding mantua. And now be quick with your samples.”
All Angela’s remonstrances were as vain to-day as they had been on the occasion of her first acquaintance with Mrs. Lewin. The excitement of discussing and selecting the finery she loved affected Lady Fareham’s spirits like a draught of saumur. She was generous by nature, extravagant by long habit.
“Sure it would be a hard thing if I could not give you your wedding clothes, when you are marrying the man I chose for you,” she protested. “The cherry-coloured farradine, by all means, Lewin; ’tis the very shade for my sister’s fair skin. Indeed, Denzil”—nodding at him, as he stood watching them, with that hopelessly bewildered air of a man in a milliner’s shop—“I have been your best friend from the beginning, and, but for me, you might never have won your sweetheart to listen to you. Mazarine hoods are as ancient as the pyramids, Lewin. Pr’ythee show us something newer.”
It was late in the evening when the two coaches left the Manor gate. Hyacinth had been in no haste to return to the Abbey. There was nobody there who wanted her, she protested, and there would be a moon after nine o’clock, and she had servants enough to take care of her on the road; so Mrs. Lewin and her ladyship’s woman were entertained in the steward’s room, where Reuben held forth upon the splendour that had prevailed in his master’s house before the troubles—and where the mantua-maker ate and drank all she could get, and dozed and yawned through the old man’s reminiscences.