“Indeed you must,” she answered. “It would be but half a wedding if you were not there.”
“My sentiments,” cried Wentworth. “Without you, John, our wedding would be a fiasco. But it is to be a grand affair. In open church, crowds of guests, Emily in full bridal array, with a small army of bridesmaids, and I in gorgeous toggery, with a retinue of grooms which will astonish your Spartan simplicity. Oh, I tell you, we shall blow out in splendid hymeneal flower, amidst overpowering magnificence!”
“Hear the absurd fellow!” exclaimed Emily, smiling at Harrington, who stood listening half-amusedly, half-pensively, as the gay Richard ran on. “Only listen to him. But it is true, John—we are to have a splendid wedding.”
“I am glad to hear it,” he replied. “You are both splendid, and it is natural and proper for you to put forth splendid rays on such an occasion.”
“Nevertheless, I’ll bet you won’t find Harrington and Muriel flashing out like us, Emily,” cried Wentworth, showing his fine teeth in a brilliant laugh. “I wouldn’t be afraid to wager that you’ll see that young man married in his ordinary clothes, without a rag of a white kid glove, or an ornament of any kind whatever, or wedding cake, or cards, or guests, or anything.”
“Why, Richard, I don’t know,” said Harrington, smiling good-naturedly. “If Muriel were to wish the usual parade I would agree of course. But you are right—my choice would be as little external show as possible. Such simple rites would be more grateful to me than any pomp or display. Marriage to me is so private and spiritual a sacrament that it seems a sort of profanation to make it public—or surround it with factitious embellishments. These flowers for example, this sweet, rich room, Muriel lovely, and clothed as befits her loveliness, I in this plain coat, not very new, but well-fitting and graceful, Mrs. Eastman and you two loving friends here—what more could I desire to decorate my wedding? And less than this—yes, nothing of this—Muriel and I alone in some quiet room, or under the blue sky, or the forest trees, pledging ourselves to each other in spirit and in truth—this of itself would be enough, and would make the most imperial bridals seem gaudy and theatrical.”
“Then you object to our fine fashionable wedding, John,” said Emily, playfully.
“Oh no—not object,” returned Harrington, coloring, with an embarrassed air. “Have I said too much? Have I cast any personal reflections? I hope not, for I did not mean to. I only meant to say that the ideal nobleness and beauty of marriage are not very well expressed by the usual modish and artificial ceremonials and decorations. The thing itself is holy and poetic. Let the rites and adornments be holy and poetic too. That is all.”
Emily turned away, musing, and Wentworth twirled his gay moustache with an abstracted air.
“But where’s Muriel, I wonder?” said Harrington, after a pause.