Old Martin Brown swelled up into a person of enormous importance, as being the nearest relative of the bridegroom; he was looked upon as an oracle, and his remarks listened to with intense interest at the nightly tobacco parliament at the Shepherd’s Bush.
The carriers took fabulous reports of what was to happen at World’s End all over the district, and scores of honest people made up their minds to trudge to Bury Wick Church.
Aymer was no longer knocked up at five in the morning, as was the custom, to breakfast at six. He was undisturbed. No more jeers and contempt—he was treated with deference. “My nevvy” was a success; Martin spoke of his “nevvy” as if the connection did him honour.
I hope among the readers of this history there will be many ladies who can remember their feelings on the approach of the marriage-day. Let them kindly recall those moments of wild excitement, of trepidation lest some accident should happen, of a half-hesitation, of a desire to plunge at once and get it over—and approximately they will understand Violet’s heart.
Even yet Fortune had not exhausted her favours. On the morning of World’s End Races, just one short week before the day, there came a letter in an unknown handwriting, addressed to Aymer Malet, Esq, enclosing five ten-pound notes from an anonymous donor, who wished him every felicity, and advised him to persevere in his art studies.
This extraordinary gift, so totally unexpected, filled Aymer with astonishment. It seemed as if it had dropped from the skies, for he had not the remotest suspicion that Lady Lechester was watching him with interest.
At last the day came. Violet was awake at the earliest dawn, and saw the sun rise, clear and cloudless, from the window. It was one of those days which sometimes occur in autumn, with all the beauty and warmth of summer, without its burning heat, and made still more delicious by the sensation of idle drowsiness—a day for lotos eating. The beech trees already showed an orange tint in places; the maples were turning scarlet; the oaks had a trace of buff. The rooks lazily cawed as they flew off with the acorns, the hills were half hidden with a yellowy vapour, and a few distant fleecy clouds, far up, floated in the azure. A dream-like, luxurious day, such as happens but once a year!
Violet was up with the sun—how could she rest? Miss Merton was with her, chatting gaily. Oh, the mysteries of the toilet! my feeble pen must leave that topic to imagination. All I can say is, that it seemed as if it never would be completed, notwithstanding the reiterated warnings of Jason that the time was going fast.
There came one more pleasant surprise.
A strange man on horseback was seen riding up to The Place. This was so rare an event that Violet’s heart beat fast, fearing lest even at the eleventh hour something should happen to cause delay. She waited; her hands trembled. Even the delicious toilet had to be suspended.