Sir George had conceded—arranged everything, even to the details of the marriage ceremony.
It was to be soon—at once.
Before dying, he desired to see his daughter bestowed and under protection.
If he had not chosen the arms that were to protect her, he no longer opposed her choice.
He had now sanctified it by a free formal approval. His future son-in-law was no more a stranger-guest in the mansion at Sevenoaks, Kent.
The nuptials were not to be celebrated there. Not that Sir George would have felt any shame in such celebration; but because he did not deem it opportune.
He knew that ere long sable plumes would be seen waving there, with a black hatchment upon the wall. He wished not that these funereal emblems should so soon fling their blighting shadow over the orange blossoms of the bridal.
It could be conveniently avoided. He had a sister living in Kensington Gore; and from her house his daughter could be married.
Besides, the old parish church of Kensington was that before whose altar he had himself stood, some twenty years ago, with Blanche’s mother by his side.
The arrangement would be altogether appropriate.