University of Virginia Library

48. XLVIII.
WHAT OCCURRED AT THE WEDDINGDINNER.

The morning of the day fixed on for
Honoria's marriage came at last. All
night the snow had been falling—the
fields, forests, and mountains, were enveloped
in a white shroud—and now,
when the storm had ceased, a freezing
wind had succeeded, howling around
the gables and in the spectral trees, and
driving the light snow before it in blinding
gusts.

Despite, however, the forbidding nature
of the weather, the wedding-guests
began to arrive at an early hour, curious
to witness the ceremony of the wedding
of a young lady of the quiet country
neighborhood with a real nobleman.

The invitations had been almost universal—no
one with the slightest pretensions
to good society having been omitted;
but there had been a species of
distinction made by the proud Colonel
Brand. While a countless number were
invited, as we now say, to “the ceremony,”
which was to take place at night,
invitations to dinner had been confined
to a select few of the most prominent
personages of the vicinity. These now
arrived; but unfortunately, as the reader
will perceive, there mingled with them
some others, who, liberally regarding an
invitation as an invitation, made their
appearance in the forenoon, bent on
dinner.

Colonel Brand received every guest,
however, with the formal politeness habitual
with him; and general conversation
ensued in the great drawing-room, where
the motley throng warmed their chilled
limbs before the mighty fire of roaring
hickory. As yet, the ladies had not
made their appearance, and the company
separated itself into groups instinctively
—the grand old nabobs, in powdered
wigs, silk stockings, and ruffles, conversing,
ore rotundo, with stately dignity, to
themselves; the plainer planters, with
waistcoats buttoned to their chins, and
hair tied in plain knots behind, meanwhile
exchanging in a coterie, some feet
distant, observations on the approaching
ceremony.

As the forenoon passed on, guests
continued to gather, and at last a movement
of all heads in the direction of the
window indicated the arrival of a personage
of importance.

This personage proved to be Lord
Ruthven. He descended, wrapped in
heavy furs, from his chariot, whose four
horses were smoking and covered with
foam, from the rapidity of the arduous
journey through the snow, and entered
the mansion, on the threshold of which
Colonel Brand was ready to receive him.

“Welcome to Rivanna, my lord!”
said the colonel, with stately dignity,
and bowing low, as, with outstretched
hand, he greeted the bridegroom. “I
had hoped for your earlier arrival, but
the roads are, no doubt, most difficult.”

Lord Ruthven bowed low in turn, uttered
a few words in response to his
host's greeting, and was ushered into the
drawing-room where the assembled company
was presented to him, one after
another. He replied, in every instance,
by a simple bow, and seemed entirely
unaware of the fact that he was the centre
of all eyes. All were struck with
his pallor, and the settled gloom of his
expression; and it was afterward remembered
that, as he entered the room, he
had looked around him in a most singular
manner, growing paler than before. Another
unusual circumstance also attracted
attention. When, after the general introduction,
some one spoke to him, he
would suddenly rouse himself with a
start from his species of reverie, gaze
with a fearful expression at the speaker,
and, even while replying in a few brief
and constrained words, would glance
over his right shoulder in a very unaccountable
manner, as though he suspected
the presence of some danger, against
which it was necessary for him to be
upon his guard.

It was impossible that these very unusual
circumstances, in connection with
Lord Ruthven's appearance and demeanor,
should not excite surprise, and occasion
subsequent comment, on the part of
the guests; but his lordship was quickly
shown to his chamber, whither the silent
and attentive Fergus had seen his travelling-trunks
borne, and the door of the
drawing-room closed abruptly, erecting
an impassable barrier between the pale
nobleman and the curious company.

Nearly two hours then passed, when
the door opened, and Lord Ruthven
was again ushered in by the stately
Colonel Brand. He had changed his
travelling-dress, and had donned a dark

costume of the richest and most elegant
description. It was impossible not to be
struck by his air of high breeding and
distinction; but, as before, it was the
singular face of the young nobleman
which riveted all eyes. He was, if possible,
paler than ever, and entered the
room in sepulchral silence—a walking
shadow. During the few moments which
followed his entry he did not utter a
word, but stood like a statue amid the
crowd of guests, who unconsciously drew
back.

The appearance of the ladies afforded
a welcome diversion. Lady Brand, accompanied
by her daughters and her
lady-guests, entered, and greeted her
visitors. But she attracted attention for
an instant only. All eyes were fixed
upon Honoria, who was as pale as Lord
Ruthven, and who resembled, in her
white dress and with her whiter cheeks,
a ghost, rather than a human being.

Lord Ruthven had advanced quickly
and bowed low, with stately courtesy,
over the hands which Lady Brand and
the young ladies held out. Honoria's
was extended toward him in an abrupt
and convulsive manner, and he found it
as cold as ice. For an instant their eyes
met—the sunken eyes of the girl wore a
strange expression—but she preserved
her self-possession, seemed unconscious
of the scrutiny to which she was subjected,
and seemed to regard with apathetic
indifference the whole scene around
her.

Everybody felt relieved when the
door opened, and the old, gray-haired
major-domo, Robin, with a silver waiter
under his arm, looked respectfully toward
Colonel Brand, thus announcing that
dinner was served.

Lord Ruthven offered his arm to Lady
Brand, who stood near him; the company
entered the great dining-room,
blazing with lights in silver candelabra
—for night was near—and took their
seats at the broad board whose rich blue
china and old plate sparkled in the flood
of light.

The grand dinner went on its way in
a stiff and stately manner, little relieved
by conversation. Honoria sustained the
glances of all without change in her apathetic
expression, and sent away course
after course nearly untasted. The only
indication of her feelings was her frightful
pallor; and this became at times so
unnatural that Lady Brand was, more
than once, upon the point of rising, and
leading her from the room, under the
apprehension that she was about to faint.
Nothing, for some time, however, occurred
to mar the festivity—if such it
could be called. On the contrary, the
stiffness of the scene gradually gave way
before the rich wines; the awe felt for
the ceremonious Colonel Brand, by a
portion of the company, melted, and
the dinner promised to terminate more
cheerfully and cordially than it had commenced.

But the fates were adverse. The
heady wines had done their work. Ceremony
was lost sight of by some of the
honest old fellows who had construed
their general invitation to the wedding,
into an invitation to the wedding and
dinner; and two of these old neighbors
now began to discuss the approaching
ceremony.

The conversation of these worthy
country gentlemen, now warmed by the
colonel's canary, was not precise or formal,
as will be seen; and a portion of it
will account for what followed.

“Strange enough,” said one of them
to his old neighbor. “And beats the
story-books all hollow, eh?”

“All hollow,” replied his friend.

“It was honorable in our friend
Brand, though, to record it in the court
of probate,” continued the first speaker.
“If what they say is true, young Innis
tore up the will, and swore he wouldn't
take the property.”

“Did he do that?”

“I'm told so, and it's like his father's
son; his father was as honest a gentleman
as ever hunted a fox.”

“A gentleman before he was born!
So Ned Innis tore up the will?”

“Yes, neighbor, and they say it was
all on account of the boy's love for little
Miss Honoria; and if so, I say it's a thousand
pities he can't get her instead of
this `my lord,' who looks like a block of
ice, with a handful of snow for a face!”

“Ha! ha! That's good, neighbor!
A block of ice, ha! ha! A good thing!
Yes, it's a thousand pities!”

“And I'm told—hold your ear close,
neighbor.”

“Yes—”

And the other drew nearer.

“I'm told the little lady loves him
better—a thousand times better—than
her fine lord and master to be.”

“Loves Ned Innis?”

“Yes.”

“That's a pity—a sad pity, neighbor.
Loves the boy, did you say?”

“Better than she loves herself. I
drink your health, neighbor.”

“Your good health! So this match
is hard on her.”

“Look at her; you can see that it is
killing her!”

“So it is—hum! hum!”

“Such cheeks! Was any thing ever
as white?”

“As white as a sheet.”

“Look! I think she's going to faint.
There is Lady Brand getting up to take
her out of the room!”

“Yes—no! She is down again. A
sad business, neighbor—a sad business.”

And, overcome by grief, the worthy
gentleman poured out a large glass of
canary, passing the decanter to his neighbor,
who imitated him. In the half an
hour which followed, this ceremony was
repeated several times, and the worthies
began to talk thick.

“And this will you told me of—
where did they find it?”

“In a desk where Colonel Seaton
kept his private papers.”

“You are wrong there, sir,” suddenly
exclaimed a red-faced worthy next to
the speaker. He had evidently partaken
in large quantities of the canary, and
spoke fiercely. “You are wrong! The
will was found in a chest of drawers—
not a desk.”

“You are wrong, sir! 'Twas a
desk!” was the retort of the first
speaker.

“I am not wrong, sir!” exclaimed
the other, with drunken severity, “and I
am not in the habit of stating what I
don't know—do you hear, sir? If you
doubt my word, sir, I'll soon show you
whether I'm talking sense!”

And, raising his voice to a pitch
which drowned the conversation of the
rest of the company, the red-faced speaker
called out:

“Colonel Brand!”

The words rang out clearly, and instantly
attracted everybody's eyes toward
him who uttered them. The colonel,
who was at the moment uttering a ceremonious
compliment to a dowager seated
on his left, suddenly turned his head,
and frowned slightly.

“Colonel Brand! I say, Colonel
Brand!” came again from the impatient
worthy.

“Did you address me, sir?” said the
host, with crushing dignity.

“Yes, sir! I did. My word has
been doubted, and I call on you to say
if I know what I'm talking about or
not!”

Colonel Brand scowled at the rudeness
of the speaker.

“Being ignorant of the subject of
your conversation, sir,” he said, “I am
naturally unable to afford you the information
which you are good enough to
demand so loudly of me, sir!”

But the colonel's interlocutor was
beyond the point where hauteur makes
any impression. The worthy only comprehended

that Colonel Brand meant to
ask information, and cried:

“I said that old Colonel Seaton's
will—his last will in favor of young Innis's
mother—was found in a chest of
drawers, and not in a desk. This statement,”
added the worthy with drunken
dignity, “has been doubted!—and I call
on you to say if I know what I'm talking
about!”

Colonel Brand felt the blood rush to
his face, and an angry shot from his
eyes. He controlled his rising wrath,
however, and replied with intense hauteur:

“I should prefer not discussing my
private affairs at the dinner-table, sir!”

“Well, that's just as you choose!”
was the reply of the red-faced guest,
whose wrath rose to meet that of his
host. “You can talk or not talk, just as
you like, but I say that the will was
found in a chest of drawers; and, moreover,
that young Innis was a fool to tear
it up, and let you have his property!”

“Sir!” gasped the colonel, flushing
crimson and glaring at the speaker, “are
you aware that you are in a gentleman's
house!—at my table!—in the presence
of ladies!”

“I know where I am!” growled the
worthy, “and that—”

“This is a vulgar intrusion, sir!—I—
I—!”

The colonel gasped for breath; but
his ire flew off harmless from the canary-heated
guest.

“Vulgar, am I?—an intruder, am I?”
exclaimed that worthy; “and only because
I say what everybody is saying!
I'm not to be frowned down, Colonel
Brand, if you are marrying your daughter
to a lord, who's no better, in my
opinion, than any other man!”

“Will you—have the goodness—!”

Colonel Brand began thus, and we
are sorry to say, ended with a violent
oath, which produced no effect, however,
on his valorous opponent.

“Don't be swearing at me!” was
the wrathful response. “I'm not your
slave, sir! If you only knew it, everybody
has his opinion of your marrying
your daughter against her will to this
foreigner, when she loves young Innis—
he loves her too, and gives up his whole
property to the man who's come to take
away his sweetheart!”

A low cry followed the words, and
Lady Brand caught Honoria in her arms.
The girl had fainted, and was borne
from the apartment in the midst of a
scene of the utmost agitation and confusion.
Above this scene towered the
wrathful form of Colonel Brand; and it
is impossible to say what might have
occurred, had not his drunken opponent
been borne almost forcibly from the
room, and soon afterward to his home.

For some moments the colonel stood
silent, flushed with rage, and drawing
long breaths. He was evidently struggling
against his rage, and succeeded in
controlling himself. But the attention
of all was more particularly directed to
Lord Ruthven. His expression was full
of the deadliest menace, and he resembled
a tiger about to spring. Those who
had looked at him during the utterance
of the vulgar insults of the drunken
guest, said afterward that his hand had
silently glided to his side where the Highland
dirk is generally suspended, and
that his glaring eyes betrayed a positive
thirst for the offender's blood.

Colonel Brand's voice all at once made
itself heard in the turmoil. In stern and
gloomy tones, he said:

“I pray those who have done me the
honor to assemble at my board, to forget,
if possible, this offensive intrusion
of this vulgar person. Such accidents
must occur, when persons unfamiliar
with the commonest rules of good-breeding,
are invited to mingle in the society
of gentlemen. I disdain to reply to this
man's insults; and Mr. Innis—my young
friend and kinsman, now undisputed owner

of the lands of Rivanna—would be
the first to express his disgust at this vulgar
insolence!”

The colonel resumed his seat, and the
dinner went on its way, but the festivity
was all hushed. The meal ended in ominous
silence, and the company rose and
returned to the drawing-room.

At the same moment the great hall-door
was thrown open. A newly-arrived
personage, wrapped in a huge cloak,
stamped to cleanse the snow from his feet
—and this personage, coming into the
circle of light, revealed the squat and
powerful figure, the long, gray hair, and
piercing eyes of Dr. Vandyke.