Seven o'clock! Eight o'clock! Edith's respite was ended, her solitude invaded at last. There was a tap at the door, and Lady Helena, followed by Miss Darrell's maid, entered.
Had they all kept vigil? Her ladyship, in the pitiless, searching glare of the morning sun, certainly looked much more like it than the quiet bride. She was pale, nervous, agitated beyond anything the girl had ever seen.
"How had Edith slept? How was her cold? How did she feel?"
"Never better," Miss Darrell responded smilingly. "The sore throat and headache are quite gone, and I am ready to do justice to the nice breakfast which I see Emily has brought."
She sat down to it—chocolate, rolls, an omelette, and a savory little bird, with excellent and unromantic appetite. Then the service was cleared away, and the real business of the day began. She was under the hands of her maid, deep in the mysteries of the wedding-toilette.
At ten came the bridemaids, a brilliant bevy, in sweeping trains, walking visions of silk, tulle, laces, perfume, and flowers. At half-past ten Miss Darrell, "queen rose of the rose-bud garden of girls," stood in their midst, ready for the altar.
She looked beautiful. It is an understood thing that all brides, whatever their appearance on the ordinary occasions of life, look beautiful on this day of days. Edith Darrell had never looked so stately, so queenly, so handsome in her life. Just a thought pale, but not unbecomingly so—the rich, glistening white silk sweeping far behind her, set off well the fine figure, which it fitted without flaw. The dark, proud face shone like a star from the misty folds of the bridal veil; the legendary orange blossoms crowned the rich, dark hair; on neck, ears, and arms glimmered a priceless parure of pearls, the gift, like the dress and veil, of Lady Helena. A fragrant bouquet of spotless white had been sent up by the bridegroom. At a quarter of eleven she entered the carriage and was driven away to the church.
As she lay back, and looked dreamily out, the mellow October sunshine lighting the scene, the joy-bells clashing, the listless apathy of the past few days took her again. She took note of the trifles about her—her mind rejected all else. How yellow were the fields of stubble, how picturesque, gilded in the sunshine, the village of Chesholm looked. How glowing and rosy the faces of the people who flocked out in their holiday best to gaze at the bridal pageant. Was it health and happiness, or soap and water only? wondered the bride. These were her wandering thoughts—these alone.
They reached the little church. All the way from the carriage to the stone porch the charity children strewed her path with flowers, and sang (out of tune) a bridal anthem. She smiled down upon their vulgar, admiring little faces as she went by on the Earl of Wroatmore's arm. The church was filled. Was seeing her married worth all this trouble to these good people, she wondered, as she walked up the aisle, still on the arm of the Right Honorable the Earl of Wroatmore.
There was, of course, a large throng of invited guests. Lady Helena was there in pale, flowing silks, the bridemaids, a billowy crowd of white-plumaged birds, and the bridegroom, with a face whiter than the white waistcoat, standing waiting for his bride. And there, in surplice, book in hand, stood the rector of Chesholm and his curate, ready to tie the untieable knot.