Her voice had declined to a hoarse whisper, and her limbs relaxed, and she sank, rather then fell, to the ground. The little girl ran terrified from the lodge to seek for help. When the neighbours whom she summoned returned thither, they found the old woman huddled together in a heap upon the floor. They raised her up, but life had departed: she had rejoined her daughter, Margaret Trevethlan.
CHAPTER XVII.
O blisful ordre, O wedlock precious,
Thou art so mery, and so virtuous,
And so commended, and approved eke,
That every man that holt him worth a leke,
Upon his bare knees oughten all his lif
Thanken his God that him hath sent a wif;
Or elles pray to God him for to send
A wif to last until his lives end.
Chaucer.
Odious are town-weddings. To our fancy there is something appalling in the splendour with which the ceremony is invested. And it seems to defeat its object; for the festivities which follow the departure of the new-married pair are proverbially dull. But the train of carriages, the cloud of bride-maids, and all the rest of the pomp and parade, appear to us more fitted to gratify the taste of the mob on the pavement, than to show the refinement of the nineteenth century. A solemn rite is converted into a theatrical entertainment. What should be a scene of deep and heart-felt joy becomes a laborious piece of acting. The bridal wreath is sullied by the incense which rises round it. To be sure if there is no heart in the business, if the gist of the union is to be found in the settlements, and the promise to love, honour, and obey is made as a matter of form, then the scenic character of the accessaries is perhaps in keeping, and may serve to throw a decorous veil over the sacrifice. But the village-church is the proper shrine for matrimony. The rustics who make a holiday of the occasion, and come in their Sunday raiment to take respectful leave of their squire's daughter, form a much more seemly retinue, than the gamins and idlers who throng the portico of the London church, staring with rude wonder, and eager for vulgar satire. And is it a childish desire that would fain invest the spot where our fondest hopes were crowned, with a little romance? May we not look forward to future pilgrimages to the altar where we were made the happiest of men? And who could dream of so revisiting St. George's? Nay, even the bells, inaudible in the metropolis, but in the country proclaiming our happiness, will thereby require a new charm in our ears, and their music will awake a new sympathy amidst its many dear and holy associations.
There would, however, as the reader will readily suppose, be little or no display at the re-marriage of Randolph and Mildred. It was fixed to take place at the church belonging to the district in which Mrs. Pendarrel resided. There at the appointed hour, the little party met; and the union, which was before furtive and irregular, received the sanction of Heaven at the hands of Polydore Riches. The ceremony was, perhaps, more impressive than usual, for more serious emotions accompanied its celebration. When it was over, the company returned through a gaping crowd to their carriages, and were driven home to May Fair. And from thence in no great time the bride and bridegroom, after many fond leave-takings, departed to travel by a circuitous route to Trevethlan Castle.
For it had been arranged that Helen, under the chaplain's safe-conduct, should precede them, and be ready to welcome her new sister to the old gray towers. And she carried with her a certain tender reminiscence; for when the time to part approached, Rereworth's love at last over-flowed. A select circle of friends was assembled at Mrs. Pendarrel's to celebrate the event of the day. They were all strangers to Helen, and thus Seymour was able to appropriate her to himself. Even this little party was a novelty to her, and served to prolong the excitement caused by the ceremony of the morning. In the midst of a rapid and animated conversation, some allusion to the happiness of the married couple, which reached Seymour's ear, threw him completely off his guard.
"Happy!" he exclaimed. "Oh, dearest Miss Trevethlan, may not a like happiness be mine? May not I also—"