Good Mrs. Brantwell, as mistress of the ceremonies, had a very busy time of it for the preceding two weeks. Milliners and dressmakers from the city filled the upper rooms, and cooks and confectioners the lower regions. To her lot it fell to purchase dresses, laces, jewels, etc., for the use of the bride—who, with her characteristic indifference to all such things, would, if left to herself, have committed the unpardonable sin of being married in her simple white robe of India muslin, instead of her splendid silver brocade, frosted with seed-pearls, which the sumptuous taste of that worthy lady had selected.
Among the many guests invited to the "wedding-feast" we may mention our old friend, Mrs. Tom. Poor little Mrs. Tom! Since the loss of little Christie she had never been the same bright, brisk, breezy, chirruping body she had been before, and though still active and bustling as ever, her cheery laugh was far less seldom heard. Mr. Carl Henley, too, was to be present; and made his appearance on the eventful morning in a long blue "swaller-tail," brilliant with brass buttons, his boots and hair shining with lard, and his round, full-moon face wearing a look of sublime beatification, serene in the blissful consciousness of a new suit of clothes and a pair of white gloves, every greasy hair in his head breathing "peace on earth, good will to man.'
Two young girls from Westport were to be bride-maids, and a young Englishman, whom they had met abroad, together with a cousin of Mr. Drummond's were to be groomsmen. Captain Campbell, as her nearest relative, was to give the bride away.
Early in the morning, the first carriages began to arrive, and soon the lower hall and drawing-room were crowded with guests, waiting to accompany the bridal party to church.
In her room, before a full-length mirror, Sibyl Campbell, so soon to be Sibyl Drummond, stood, whiles half a dozen girls, headed by Mrs. Brantwell, arrayed her for bridal.
Magnificently beautiful she looked as she stood there, her rich robe of sheeny silk floating about her regal form, her queenly brow clasped by a tiara of finest diamonds, her gauzy veil of costliest lace enveloping her like a cloud of mist—her dark cheeks flushed with excitement, her magnificent eyes outflashing the jewels she wore.
"Beautiful! glorious! radiant!" broke from the lips of her attendants, as they stepped back to survey the effect.
"Yes, beautiful indeed!" mentally exclaimed Mrs. Brantwell, "beautiful beyond compare looks my peerless Sibyl in her bridal robes."
And just then the door was thrown impetuously open, and one of the bride-maids, a vivacious little lady, with twinkling brown eyes, burst in, exclaiming:
"Girls! girls! aren't you ready yet. Oh, my goodness! Sibyl, how splendid you look. But do hurry! That happiest of mortal men, Mr. Willard Drummond, is waiting, with all the rest of the folks—a hundred and fifty if there's one—down stairs. Hurry!"