 | CHAPTER XII.
WEDDING. Moods |  |
12. CHAPTER XII.
WEDDING.
Sylvia was awakened on her wedding morning by a
curious choking sound, and starting up found Prue crying
over her as if her heart were broken.
“What has happened? Is Geoffrey ill? Is all the
silver stolen? Can't the Bishop come?” she asked, wondering
what calamity could move her sister to tears at such
a busy time.
Prue took Sylvia in her arms, and rocking to and fro as
if she were still a baby, poured forth a stream of words
and tears together.
“Nothing has happened; I came to call you, and broke
down because it was the last time I should do it. I've
been awake all night, thinking of you and all you 've
been to me since I took you in my arms nineteen years ago,
and said you should be mine. My little Sylvia, I've been
neglectful of so many things, and now I see them all; I've
fretted you with my ways, and have n't been patient enough
with yours; I've been selfish even about your wedding, and
it won't be as you like it; you 'll reproach me in your heart,
and I shall hate myself for it when you are gone never to
be my care and comfort any more. And — oh, my dear,
my dear, what shall I do without you?”
This unexpected demonstration from her prosaic sister
from another. It brought to mind all the past devotion,
the future solitude of Prue's life, and she clung about
her neck tearless but very tender.
“I never shall reproach you, never cease to love and
thank you for all you 've been to me, my dear old girl.
You must n't grieve over me, or think I shall forget you, for
you never shall be forsaken; and very soon I shall be back,
almost as much your Sylvia as ever. Mark will live on one
side, I shall live on the other, and we 'll be merry and cosy
together. And who knows but when we are both out of
your way you will learn to think of yourself and marry
also.”
At this Prue began to laugh hysterically, and exclaimed,
with more than her usual incoherency —
“I must tell you, it was so very odd! I did n't mean
to do so, because you children would tease me; but now I
will to make you laugh, for it 's a bad omen to cry over
a bride, they say. My dear, that gouty Mr. MacGregor,
when I went in with some of my nice broth last week
(Hugh slops so, and he 's such a fidget. I took it myself),
after he had eaten every drop before my eyes, wiped his
mouth and asked me to marry him.”
“And you would not, Prue?”
“Bless me, child, how could I? I must take care of my
poor dear father, and he is n't pleasant in the least, you
know, but would wear my life out in a week. I really
pitied him, however, when I refused him, with a napkin
round his neck, and he tapped his waistcoat with a spoon
so comically, when he offered me his heart, as if it were
something good to eat.”
“How very funny! What made him do it, Prue?”
“He said he 'd watched the preparations from his window,
and got so interested in weddings that he wanted one
himself, and felt drawn to me I was so sympathetic. That
means a good nurse and cook, my dear. I understand these
invalid gentlemen, and will be a slave to no man so fat and
fussy as Mr. Mac, as my brother calls him. It 's not respectful,
but I like to refresh myself by saying it just now.”
“Never mind the old soul, Prue, but go and have your
breakfast comfortably, for there 's much to be done, and
no one is to dress me but your own dear self.”
At this Prue relapsed into the pathetic again, and cried
over her sister as if, despite the omen, brides were plants
that needed much watering.
The appearance of the afflicted Maria, with her face still
partially eclipsed by the chamomile comforter, and an announcement
that the waiters had come and were “ordering
round dreadful,” caused Prue to pocket her handkerchief
and descend to turn the tables in every sense of the word.
The prospect of the wedding breakfast made the usual
meal a mere mockery. Every one was in a driving hurry,
every one was very much excited, and nobody but Prue and
the colored gentlemen brought anything to pass. Sylvia
went from room to room bidding them good by as the child
who had played there so long. But each looked unfamiliar
in its state and festival array, and the old house seemed
to have forgotten her already. She spent an hour with her
father, paid Mark a little call in the studio where he was
bidding adieu to the joys of bachelorhood, and preparing
himself for the jars of matrimony by a composing smoke,
and then Prue claimed her.
The agonies she suffered during that long toilet are beyond
the powers of language to portray, for Prue surpassed
bore it patiently as a last sacrifice, because her sister was
very tender-hearted still, and laughed and cried over her
work till all was done, when she surveyed the effect with
pensive satisfaction.
“You are very sweet, my dear, and so delightfully calm,
you really do surprise me. I always thought you 'd have
hysterics on your wedding-day, and got my vinaigrette all
ready. Keep your hands just as they are, with the handkerchief
and bouquet, it looks very easy and rich. Dear me,
what a spectacle I've made of myself! But I shall cry no
more, not even during the ceremony as many do. Such
displays of feeling are in very bad taste, and I shall be firm,
perfectly firm, so if you hear any one sniff you 'll know it
isn't me. Now I must go and scramble on my dress;
first, let me arrange you smoothly in a chair. There, my
precious, now think of soothing things, and don't stir
till Geoffrey comes for you.”
Too tired to care what happened just then, Sylvia sat as
she was placed, feeling like a fashion-plate of a bride, and
wishing she could go to sleep Presently the sound of steps
as fleet as Mark's but lighter, waked her up, and forgetting
orders, she rustled to the door with an expression which
fashion-plates have not yet attained.
“Good morning, little bride.”
“Good morning, bonny bridegroom.”
Then they looked at one another, and both smiled. But
they seemed to have changed characters, for Moor's usually
tranquil face was full of pale excitement; Sylvia's usually
vivacious one, full of quietude, and her eyes wore the unquestioning
content of a child who accepts some friendly
hand, sure that it will lead it right.
“Prue desires me to take you out into the upper hall, and
when Mr. Deane beckons, we are to go down at once. The
rooms are full, and Jessie is ready. Shall we go?”
“One moment: Geoffrey, are you quite happy now?”
“Supremely happy!”
“Then it shall be the first duty of my life to keep you
so,” and with a gesture soft yet solemn, Sylvia laid her
hand in his, as if endowing him with both gift and giver.
He held it fast and never let it go until it was his own.
In the upper hall they found Mark hovering about Jessie
like an agitated bee, about a very full-blown flower, and
Clara Deane flapping him away, lest he should damage the
effect of this beautiful white rose. For ten minutes, ages
they seemed, the five stood together listening to the stir below,
looking at one another, till they were tired of the sight
and scent of orange blossoms, and wishing that the whole
affair was safely over. But the instant a portentous “Hem!”
was heard, and a white glove seen to beckon from the stair
foot, every one fell into a flutter. Moor turned paler still,
and Sylvia felt his heart beat hard against her hand. She,
herself was seized with a momentary desire to run away and
say “No” again; Mark looked as if nerving himself for
immediate execution, and Jessie feebly whispered —
“Oh, Clara, I'm going to faint!”
“Good heavens, what shall I do with her? Mark support
her! My darling girl, smell this and bear up. For
mercy sake do something, Sylvia, and don't stand there
looking as if you'd been married every day for a year.”
In his excitement, Mark gave his bride a little shake. Its
effect was marvellous. She rallied instantly, with a reproachful
glance at her crumpled veil and a decided —
“Come quick, I can go now.”
Down they went, through a wilderness of summer silks,
black coats, and bridal gloves. How they reached their
places none of them ever knew; Mark said afterward, that
the instinct of self preservation, led him to the only means
of extrication that circumstances allowed. The moment
the Bishop opened his book, Prue took out her handkerchief
and cried steadily through the entire ceremony, for
dear as were the proprieties, the “children” were dearer
still.
At Sylvia's desire, Mark was married first, and as she stood
listening to the sonorous roll of the service falling from the
Bishop's lips, she tried to feel devout and solemn, but failed
to do so. She tried to keep her thoughts from wandering,
but continually found herself wondering if that sob
came from Prue, if her father felt it very much, and when
it would be done. She tried to keep her eyes fixed timidly
upon the carpet as she had been told to do, but they would
rise and glance about against her will.
One of these derelictions from the path of duty, nearly
produced a catastrophe. Little Tilly, the gardener's pretty
child, had strayed in from among the servants peeping at a
long window in the rear, and established herself near the
wedding group, looking like a small ballet girl in her full
white frock and wreath pushed rakishly askew on her curly
pate. As she stood regarding the scene with dignified
amazement, her eye met Sylvia's. In spite of the unusual
costume, the baby knew her playmate, and running to her,
thrust her head under the veil with a delighted “Peep
a bo!” Horror seized Jessie, Mark was on the brink of a
laugh, and Moor looked like one fallen from the clouds.
But Sylvia drew the little marplot close to her with a warning
word, and there she stayed, quietly amusing herself
staring at the Bishop.
After this, all prospered. The gloves came smoothly off,
the rings went smoothly on; no one cried but Prue, no one
laughed but Tilly; the brides were admired, the grooms
envied; the service pronounced impressive, and when it
ended, a tumult of congratulations arose.
Sylvia always had a very confused idea of what happened
during the next hour. She remembered being kissed till
her cheeks burned, and shaken hands with till her fingers
tingled; bowing in answer to toasts, and forgetting to reply
when addressed by the new name; trying to eat and drink,
and discovering that everything tasted of wedding cake;
finding herself up stairs hurrying on her travelling dress,
then down stairs saying good by; and when her father
embraced her last of all, suddenly realizing with a pang,
that she was married and going away, never to be little
Sylvia any more.
Prue was gratified to her heart's content, for, when the
two bridal carriages had vanished with handkerchiefs flying
from their windows, in answer to the white whirlwind
on the lawn, Mrs. Grundy, with an approving smile on
her aristocratic countenance, pronounced this the most
charming affair of the season.
| CHAPTER XII.
WEDDING. Moods | |