"But you can escape by marriage;" suggested Ida, who perceived that the girl was suffering, and pitied her, while she trembled at her frenzy.
"Say that again, and I will murder you!" retorted Josephine, in the white heat of concentrated passion. "You will make me remember that our old scores are not quite settled yet."
"I have no scores against you;" said Ida, firmly. "The past cannot return—why refer to it?"
Josephine regarded her fixedly. "You are wise!" she said, presently, breaking into a contemptuous laugh. "To another, you would preach repentance—you know I never repent!" and with this strange speech, she quitted her.
Now that he had broken the matter to his daughter, the bridegroom used the utmost celerity in the despatch of preliminaries. The house was filled with workmen, upholsterers and cooks, whose din destroyed the quiet of Ida's chamber, the only one left unaltered. Josephine adhered to her resolution not to move a finger in the preparations for the detested intruder's reception. She would not go to the marriage, which took place at the bride's father's, in the country. Mr. Read did not insist; he was secretly pleased to be free for this evening—conscious that he could acquit himself more creditably, if her eyes were not upon him. The wedding party was to be at his house, the next night but one. The supper was in the hands of the profession; Mr. Read being too prudent to risk the probability of a grievous mortification, by entrusting the most trifling arrangement to his filial mar-plot.
It was dark when the bridal party arrived. The girls were dressed, and in the drawing-room. Ida's picture of the bride, drawn from Josephine's representment, was of an overdressed, forward country girl, who had wheedled and flattered a man of treble her age, into an offer of his hand and fortune; and she was puzzled by the elaborate toilette of the step-daughter. If her aim was to outshine the creature she had described, she had certainly over-estimated the labor its accomplishment required. She swept into the apartment with a hauteur, that made her diminutive form appear two inches taller; her jetty hair, almost an incumbrance from its length and profusion, dressed partly in ringlets, partly in braids—instead of, as she usually wore it at parties, and as her father liked to see it—in natural curls floating upon her shoulders. This style gave her a juvenile air, pleasing, heretofore—discarded by the full-fledged woman she acted to-night. Her robe was of white satin; the falling shoulders and proud swell of the throat exhibited to fine advantage by the low bodice. Ida was dressed in a silver-grey silk, with a berthe of rich black lace; the throat-latch and cuffs of black velvet and jet, making her extreme paleness more striking. Her figure and expression of repose had its opposite in the impersonation of splendid inquietude, which trod the rooms impatiently, rustling and gleaming in the blaze of the chandeliers.
"They have come!" said Ida, with a pitying accent, she could not repress, as Josephine turned deadly pale at the sound of wheels. "We must meet them," and she took her hand. Hers was fiercely thrown off. Repellant, defiant, she disdained support. The bride's brother and bridemaids had accompanied her; but Ida scarcely remarked their muffled-up figures, as "Miss Murray—" "Miss Arnold"—were named. Her eyes and thoughts were for the new Mrs. Read. Josephine's aversion had hood-winked her. Ida subscribed to her "cool and bold," as the solitary clause of the description that had the slightest resemblance to the reality; and "bold" was too coarse an epithet for the polished indifference of a woman of the world. She was not more than three-and-twenty, handsome, even in her travelling apparel—not "baby-faced"—and went through the introductions with a nonchalant grace; touching Josephine's cheek with her lips; extending to Ida, the tips of her fingers,—and bestowing a fashionable nod upon the group of servants in the hall; then, escorted by her husband, led the way, up-stairs. Josephine's face was balefully dark, as she resumed her walk. It was a part of her retribution, although she would not see it,—that as she had slighted, and thrust aside others, whose rights were equal with hers,—she was to take a secondary place where she had ruled so long.
The company were assembled, before the happy pair made their entry. Charley was with Ida—he was seldom far off—"November and June!" exclaimed he, aside. "Its enough to cause a man to forswear your sex, to see such a being a voluntary victim upon the altar of mammon."
Ida caught his arm; and seeing that she was fainting, he seized a bottle of cologne-water from the mantel, and dashed a handful into her face, so quickly and dexterously, that his nearest neighbors did not understand the movement. The powerful perfume recalled her scattering senses. Charley put her in the corner of a sofa; and placed himself in front of her, to screen her from observation, until her agitation should subside. It was quickly over; and only remarking—"You cannot get through the crowd just yet—sit still!" he continued fanning her, and chatting, as if her illness were the most natural thing imaginable,—a matter of no moment. His eyes were as busy as his tongue; and in their apparently aimless rovings, no group escaped scrutiny. He was fairly at fault; and opposed as the conclusion was to the premises he had assumed, was compelled to refer her attack to physical causes. Once, he fancied he saw an imploring agony in her eye, which entreated for help or comfort; but while he looked, it disappeared, leaving a serenity that rebuked his suspicions.