God sends happy thoughts when most they are needed, and a vision arose of two young people laughing happily as they passed from the room.
“We pulled off that scene, old boy,” he said. “Fairly brought the house down.”
CHAPTER XII
THE FINAL CURTAIN
A keen eye would have failed to detect Eliphalet Cardomay’s real feelings during the last week of his last tour. Outwardly he presented the appearance of a man at ease with his conscience and at peace with the world.
A lucky public holiday added a couple of really good houses to the week’s receipts, and the thirty sovereigns that arose therefrom he presented to Mornice as a wedding gift.
With many thoughtful considerations he helped her purchase a trousseau and fixed up details with Ronald’s father. These two elderly gentlemen discussed marriage and contracts with the cordial gravity such important matters demand.
The entire company was at the wedding, and very smart indeed was the appearance they presented. Eliphalet had given the ladies the Redfern gowns and added permission for them to be worn at the church. He himself was most spruce, a white gardenia in his buttonhole and his silk hat (it had been treated with stout the night before to flatten the nap) reflected the sunshine like a mirror.
He gave away the bride with a nobility that kings might have envied, and at the reception which followed, the little speech he made was full of the happiest moments. He actually allowed a waiter to pour him out a glass of champagne, but although the glass was certainly emptied, there was a strong rumour running that an aspidistra close at hand received the wine.
The wedding took place the day before the final performance, and the happy pair departed in a shower of confetti and a great draught from waved handkerchiefs, to reappear on the two succeeding nights at the theatre.
“I want to say good-bye to you and Ronald to-morrow over a little dinner,” Eliphalet whispered to the bride. “It will be easier than in the theatre. It is going to be rather hard to lose you altogether.”