54. LIV.
THE MARRIAGE.
The moment had come for the performance
of the marriage-ceremony.
The crowd, filling the drawing-rooms,
the hall, every foot of space, all at once
ceased their uproar. A deep silence followed;
and, in the midst of this silence,
the rustle of satin trains was heard at
the head of the staircase, like a breeze
of summer rustling the long blades of
corn. An instant afterward the imposing
bridal party descended slowly, the
bridesmaids leaning upon the arms of
their groomsmen, the ample trains
sweeping the polished oak of the staircase.
The bride and groom came last.
Honoria was very pale, but quite
calm, and did not seem to require the
arm of Lord Ruthven to support her, as
she scarcely touched it with one of her
little, white, gloved hands. She was superbly
dressed, and wore a profusion of
lace, hereditary in the family, with not
a few jewels of great value. Her air
was collected, and exhibited no emotion
whatever. Lord Ruthven, on the contrary,
evidently labored under very considerable
agitation. He was paler even
than the bride, and the smile which he
endeavored to assume was so plainly
forced that it was painful. Once, while
descending the staircase, he turned his
head quickly, and glanced with a singular
expression over his right shoulder—a
circumstance which was afterward spoken
of, and commented upon in various
ways.
The bridal train entered the large
drawing-room, where the reverend parson
of the parish was standing in his
black gown; and the bridesmaids and
groomsmen, separating, and ranging
themselves in two opposing lines, left an
avenue open for the bride and groom,
who slowly advanced and stood before
the clergyman.
Honoria retained her surprising calmness—a
calmness far exceeding that of
her companion—and the ceremony proceeded,
Colonel Brand giving away the
bride.
At the injunction of the clergyman,
that, if any one knew just cause why the
ceremony should not take place, they
should speak then, or forever after hold
their peace, it was observed that Honoria
half turned her head with a sudden look
of fright, apparently dreading or expecting
some interruption. None, however,
took place; Honoria duly bowed her
head, murmuring inaudibly the responses,
and a prayer ended the ceremony.
Honoria Brand had become the Countess
of Ruthven.
Then commenced the joyous uproar
customary in Virginia upon wedding occasions.
The young lady found her cold,
pale lips saluted by her friends, and this
evidence of regard was bestowed, even
upon the bridesmaids, by all with the
slightest claim, from consanguinity, to
that privilege. Lord Ruthven received
his share of the congratulations of the
company—the low bows and impressive
hand-shakings of the portly old nabobs,
and the good wishes of the dames their
partners—with profound courtesy and
elaborate smiles. But it was plain that
these smiles were forced. When left for
a moment to himself, his countenance
assumed a singular expression of haunting
gloom; and twice he was observed
to cast the strange, furtive glance over
his right shoulder which had already attracted
the attention of the guests.
As the night drew on, and the hour
of supper approached, Honoria was seen
to look more than once toward the tall
clock in the hall, and to glance sidewise
through one of the great windows toward
the lawn without. Her pale cheek
was slightly tinged with blood, and the
eyes, so apathetic throughout the ceremony,
betrayed concealed agitation. At
last her lips were compressed in a manner
which seemed to indicate that she
had formed some resolution; and, turning
to her mother, who was standing
near, she said:
“Mamma, I am somewhat tired from
standing too long. Make my excuses to
any one who inquires for me; I will retire
for a little while, but return soon.”
“Very well, my dear,” said Lady
Brand, who was not unwilling that the
young lady should rest for a short time
from her fatigue; “but do not stay long.
Supper will be ready in half an hour.”
“Yes, mamma, I will be ready.”
And smiling upon the company, who
made way for her, admiring as they did
so her now rosy cheeks, Honoria went
up the broad staircase to her chamber, in
which she disappeared.
The uproar in the great drawingroom
had now become deafening; and
perhaps this circumstance was, in no
slight degree, to be attributed to the frequent
visits of a large number of the
guests to a small room in rear of the
large hall, where stood, on a centre-table,
an enormous punch-bowl, filled with
arrack-punch, flanked by a mighty array
of bottles containing mellow old Jamaica
rum, brandies, and the richest vintages of
sherry and canary. A huge silver ladle
reposed in the punch-bowl, or, rather,
was not permitted to do so for a moment
by the festive visitors, holding out impatient
tumblers; and two attentive
servants, silent, rapid in their movements,
and profoundly deferential, opened
incessantly the wine bottles, and handed
glasses to the old planters, who sipped
in a stately way, and loomed above
the more youthful company, the red
and important old faces rising over
masses of white neck-cloth and ruffles.
In this room the crowd was continuous,
the noise great; when the visitors returned
to the drawing-room they smiled
elaborately, and were communicative in
the highest degree upon any and every
subject.
At last the old major-domo opened
the door of the dining-room a few inches,
and respectfully looked at Lady Brand,
to signify that supper was ready. Lady
Brand looked around for Honoria, but
did not see her; and, saying to Lord
Ruthven, as she passed him, “Supper is
about to be announced, my lord,” she
went into the dining-room, closing the
door.
Ruthven seemed to greet the announcement
that supper was near—that
is to say, that the trying evening was
coming to an end—with deep satisfaction;
and looked around for Honoria, to
whom etiquette required that he should
give his arm. She was nowhere to be
seen; and, thinking that she might have
gone out into the hall, from the great
heat of the immense fire in the drawing-room,
went thither to find her. But Honoria
was not in the hall.
A maid was passing at the moment,
and, supposing that Honoria was in her
chamber, Lord Ruthven directed the
maid to go thither, and inform her mistress
that the company was about to go
in to supper.
The maid hastened to obey, Lord
Ruthven waiting her in the hall; but in
a few minutes she returned with the information
that the young lady was not
in her chamber.
“Not in her chamber?” exclaimed
Lord Ruthven; “where, then, can she
be?”
The great front-door suddenly opened
behind him as he spoke, and a person,
who came in, heard the words. Lord
Ruthven felt a hand laid upon his arm,
and a low voice whispered in his ear:
“Hush, my lord! — and come with
me!”
