Early the next morning came Catharine on a visit of inquiry. Mr. Stanley (whom she had invited expressly to meet Ada) had been so stupid and so unlike himself that she had been several times on the point of going to sleep; and she had half forgiven him, in the belief that he was stupid with disappointment, when he suddenly interrupted a long pause by relating an adventure which had befallen him the day before. There was a beautiful girl in question, and she it was, and not Ada, who had made Mr. Stanley “duller than the fat weed of Lethe.”
Ada then heard his version of their meeting, and Catharine, in the fullness of her indignation, grew so red and angry as she dwelt on the marks of his visible infatuation, that Ada laughed outright. Still she was sufficiently ashamed of the whole affair to have kept it quietly to herself, had the hero thereof been any one but Mr. Stanley. This she now saw was not possible, for in four days the wedding was to take place, and for her own sake the confession must not be withheld.
It was made as briefly as possible, and Catharine was so overjoyed that she scarcely marked the cold and discouraging tone of Ada’s recital. “Just like him,” exclaimed she, “to sprain his wrist in saving the life of a little ragged democrat—it is not the first time he has risked himself for others.” And she was now as loud in praise as she had just been in condemnation.
Ada never doubted for a moment, that Catharine, whose impetuous nature converted life into a series of telegraphic dispatches, would fly off and relate what she had just heard to Charles, Mr. Stanley, and the whole world. She implored her therefore to confine her disclosures to the two former, and to be as sparing as possible of raptures. Catharine promised every thing, for she had just been seized with the humorous idea of saying nothing at all about it, and so of witnessing the effect of Ada’s unexpected appearance upon Mr. Stanley.
Four days are not long in passing, even to lovers—and the wedding-evening came at last. Catharine was as free in step, as joyous in heart as ever. She laughed and talked of her happiness, as she twined her fingers around her glossy curls; and she spoke gayly of her love for Charles, as she gathered up the folds of her veil, and requested Ada to fasten in her hair, so as to make it becoming, as well as emblematic.
Catharine was more than ever an enigma to her friend, for Ada could not comprehend that happiness which wears the form of so much gayety. To the one, happiness was a deep and subdued feeling; to the other she came
“With nods, and becks, and wreathed smiles.”
But the two girls were as dissimilar—as friends usually are.
At length, with heightened color, and eyes dewy with emotion, (for she dearly loved Catharine,) Ada followed the bride; and perhaps she had never looked so lovely as she did to the astonished eyes of Mr. Stanley, when, scarcely believing the evidence of his senses, he recognized the face which for one whole week had visited him in dreams.
His surprise was not to be mistaken, and Ada, overwhelmed with confusion, turned upon Catharine a glance so reproachful, that the glaring impropriety of what she had done instantly flashed upon her. She remembered that Stanley knew her too well, not to be assured that she had poured the history of his adventure into Ada’s ears; and now it seemed as if both had been conspiring to enjoy his surprise—as if poor Ada had been accessary to a joke—a thing for which she had the greatest aversion. Catharine was so displeased with her heedless conduct, that she was unable to detest herself sufficiently; and not possessing Ada’s habitual self-control, her penitence and apologies only made the matter ten times worse.