It was Sybilla Silver, gorgeous in golden silk, with her black eyes lighted with cruel, inward exultation, and who glared almost fiercely upon the beautiful bride.
My lady, magnificent in her superb disdain of all these childish proceedings, stood by and acknowledged in her heart of hearts that if beauty and grace be any excuse for folly, her son had those excuses.
Lovely as a vision, with her pure, pale, passionless face, her clear, sweet eyes, Harriet Hunsden swept up the aisle in her rich bridal robes, her floating lace, and virginal orange-blossoms.
The bridegroom's eyes kindled with admiration and pride as he took his place by her side, he looking as noble and gallant a gentleman as England could boast.
It was over—she was his wife! They had registered their names, they drove back to the rectory, the congratulations offered, the breakfast eaten, the toast drunk. She was upstairs dressing for her journey; the carriage and the bridegroom were waiting impatiently below.
Mrs. Green hovered about her with matronly solicitude, and at the last moment Harriet flung herself impetuously upon her neck and broke out into hysterical crying.
"Forgive me!" she sobbed. "Oh, Mrs. Green, I never had a mother!"
Then she drew down her veil and ran out of the room before the good woman could speak. Sir Everard was waiting in the hall. He drew her hand under his arm and hurried her away. Mrs. Green got down-stairs only in time to see her in the carriage.
Then the bridegroom sprung lightly in beside her, the carriage door closed, the horses started, and the happy pair were off.
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