At the Hall an early breakfast was spread; but the young bridegroom, the hero of the day, was late.
‘Poor boy,’ said his sister, ‘no doubt he is anxious and excited with so much happiness before him.’
It was a well-bred family, and the disparity of age was not allowed to be even hinted at. The marriage was to be considered a love-match on both sides: that was the social fiction, though everybody knew what was said and thought. Lady Dunquerque had got the boy off her hands very well: there was an excellent establishment, and a good position, with a better one to follow; as for love—here girls looked at each other and smiled. Love was become a thing no longer possible, except for heiresses, of whom there are never too many. Fifty years of age and more; a harsh voice, a hard face, a hard manner, an unsympathetic, exact woman, wrinkled and gray-haired,—how, in the name of outraged Cupid, could such a woman be loved by such a lad? But these things were not even spoken,—they were only conveyed to each other by looks, and smiles, and nods, and little movements of the hands.
‘I think, Robert,’ said Lady Dunquerque, ‘that you had better go up and call Algernon.’ Sir Robert obediently rose and departed.
When he came down again, his face, usually as placid as the face of a sheep, was troubled.
‘Algernon will not take any breakfast,’ he said.
‘Nonsense! the boy must take breakfast. Is he dressed?’ Lady Dunquerque was evidently not disposed to surrender her authority over her son till he had actually passed into the hands of his wife.
‘Yes, yes,—he is nearly dressed,’ stammered her husband.
‘Well, then, go and tell him to come to breakfast at once, without any nonsense.’
Sir Robert went once more. Again he came back with the intelligence that the boy refused to come down.