She had made herself splendid in her best frock, a flaming scarlet merino; for Nichola has never lost her Italian love of colour. On her head she had a marvelous cap of the kind that she can fashion at a moment’s notice from a linen pillow case and a bit of string. And she too bore a tray, a tray of that which had detained her below stairs fashioning it for a surprise, a tray, in short, heaped with tiers and tiers of pie-crust Guinea goats.
On these Hobart Eddy seized with an ardour that was beautiful to see. Nichola, frowning terribly, stood back half minded to break into shrill upbraidings. And while I was trying between my tears and smiles to make her know what it was all about, her whole herd of goats was sold off at a price which she afterward told me, privately, was as high as the Pope in the Vatican could expect for his pie crusts.
They swept the pile of crisp notes and shining coin into a hat and thrust it in the hands of Nichola, who stood nearest; and that old woman at their bidding crossed the slippery oaken floor and poured the treasure in the lap of little Bonnie, while the daughter of the Hittites sobbed on the first shoulder, which chanced to be that of her ancient enemy, the housekeeper.
Nichola’s presentation speech was brief and to the point.
“Here,” she said, “get marrit.”
Bonnie, dear little maid in muslin and rosebuds, stood up with Karl, both pink and white to see; and they bowed, and laughed through their tears. Ah, there were tears in the eyes of others of us too as we looked; and Madame Sally Chartres and a very gay and magnificent Mrs. Dane-Orvil and the cook formed one group and impartially smiled at one another. Some way, a mask had fallen.
With Nichola’s words still in our ears the clock chimed quarter after ten, and in the moonlight of the open door appeared on a sudden the eager, concerned face of the Reverend Arthur Didbin, come to keep his appointment with Pelleas and me.
At sight of him Pelleas fairly beamed.
“Why not?” he cried out; “what do these two young people say? Why shall they not be married now?”
Why not, indeed? The proposition was met with acclamation. They hardly waited for the frightened, ecstatic nod of star-eyed little Bonnie before they had the supper table pushed aside—indeed, I do not remember now whether it was the railway president and Mr. Dudley Manners who did most of the work or the Scotch butler and the footmen, for they all helped together. And Bonnie and Karl stood up in the door of the salon, and so did the daughter of the Hittites, and Hobart Eddy insisted on being joint best man with the Scotch butler, and the Reverend Arthur Didbin married the two young lovers then and there. I have always held that the license demanded in some parts is unromantic nonsense.