CHAPTER XXI.

Te Aroha News, Volume VII, Issue 415, 30 October 1889, Page 4

CHAPTER XXI.

JtOW THE WKDOINU-DAY EM>ISI>. Suk replaced the desk in the trunk, and walking to the window, drew back the curtain and louked out. Over emerald lawn and coppice, tall trees and brilliant llovvcre;, the October sun shone gloiioufly. No fairer day ever smiled upon old earth. She stood tor an instant — then turned blowly away and walked over to a mirror — had her night's vigil made her look wan and sallow V she wondered. No— she looked much as usual — a thought paler, perhaps, but it ih appropriate for brides to look pata No use even thinking of a morning nap under the circumstances — she would sit down by the window and wait for them to come She could hear the household astir already —she could even see Sir Victor, away in the distance, taking his morning walk. How singularly haggard and nan he looked, like anything you please except a happy bridegroom about to marry the lady he lo\es above all on earth. Sho watched hkn with a gravely thoughtful face, until at last he disappeared from view among the trees. Seven o'clock ! Eight o'clock ! Edith's tespite was ended, her solitude invaded at last. There was a tap at the door, and Lady Helena, followed by jNJiss Uarrell's maid, entered. Had they all kept vigil ? Her ladyship, in the pitilesP, searching glare ol the morning sun, certainly looked much more like it than tho quiet bride. She was pale, nervous, agitated beyond anything tho girl had e\er seen. ' How had Edith slept ? How was her cold ? How did she feel ?' 'Never better,' Miss Darrell responded smilingly. ' The sore throat and headache are quite gone, and 1 am ready to do justice to tLe nice breakfast which I &.ce Emily has brought.' She sat down to it — chocolate, rolls, an omelette, and a sa\oury little bird, with excellent and unromantic appetite. Then the &er\ ice was cleared away, and the real business of the day begun. She was uuder the hands of her maid, deep in the mysteries of the wedding-toilette. At ten came the bridef maids, a brilliant bevy, in sweeping trains, walking visions of silk, tulle, laces, perfume, and flowers. At half-past ten Miss Darrell, ' queen rose of the rose-bud garden of girls,' stood in their midst, ready for the altar. She looked beautiful. It is an understood thing that all brides, whatever their appearance on the ordinary occasions of life, look beautiful on this day of days. Edith Dairell had never looked stately, so queenly, &o handsome in her life. Just a thought pale, but not unbecomingly s>o — the rich, glistening white silk sweeping far behind her, set off well the tine figure, which it fitted without flaw. The dark, proud face shone like a star from the misty folds of the bridal veil ; the legendary orange blossoms crowned the rich, dark hair ; on neck, ears, and arms glimmered a priceless paruro of pearls, the gift, like the dress and veil, of Lady Helena. A fragrant bouquet of spotless white had been csent up by the bridegroom. At a quarter of eleven she entered the carriage and was driven away to the church. As she lay back, and looked dreamily out, the mellow October sunshine lighting the scene, the joy-bells clashing, thelisble&s apathy of the past few days took her again. She took notes of the trifles about her — hoi mind 1 ejected all else. How yellow were the fields of stubble, how pictiuesque, gilded in the sunshine, the village of Chesholm looked. How glowing and iosv the faces of the people who decked out in their holiday best to gaze at the bridal pageant. Was it health and happiness, or soap and water only 1 wondered Uie bride. These were her wandering thoughts — the&e alone. They reached tho little church. All the way fiom tho carriage to the stone 1 poich the chaiity child ion s tiered bet path with flowers and Bang (outot tune] a bridal anthem. She smiled down upon their vulgar, admiring iittle faces as she went by on the Earl ot Wroafcmore's arm. The church was tilled. Was seeing her married worth all this trouble to the,->e poor people? she wondered, as she walked up the aisle, still on the arm of tho Right Honoi able the Earl of Wroatmore. There was, of course, a large throng of invited guests. Lady Helena was there in pale, flowing filka, tho bridesmaids, a billowy crowd of white- plumnged birds, and the bridegroom, with a face whiter than the white waistcoat, standing waiting for his bride. And there in surplice, book in hand, stood the rector of Chesholm and his curate, i*eady to tie the untieable knot A low, hushed murmur ran through the church at sight of the silver-shining figure ol the bride. How handsome, how stately, how perfectly self po&sessed and calm. Truly, if beauty and high-bred repose of manner be any palliation of low birth and obscurity, this Ameiican jounglady had it. An instant passes — sho is kneeling by Sir Victor (Jatheron's side. ' Who giveth this woman to be married to this man ?' say the urbane tones of the rector ot Chesholm, and the Right Honourable the Earl of Wroatmore comes forward on two rickety old legs and gives her. 'If anyone here present knows any just cause or impediment why this man should nob be married to this woman, I charge him,' etc., but no one knows. The solemn words go on. ' Wilt thou take Edith* Darrell to be thy wedded wife ?' ' 1 will,' Sir Victor Catheron responds, bub in broken, inarticulate tones. It is the bride's turn. 'I will !' the clear, firm voice is perfectly audible in the almost painfully intense stillness. The ring slips over her finger ; she watches it curiously. ' I pronounce you man and wife, 1 &ays the rector. • Whom God hath joined together, let no man pub asunder.' It is all. over ; she is Lady Catheron, and nothing has happened. •They enter the vestry, they sign their uacies in the register, their friends flock round to shake hands, and kiss,, and congratulate. And Edith smiles through it all, and Sir Victor keeps that white, haggard, unsmiling face. It is a curious fancy, but, if it were not so utterly absurd, Edith would think he looked at her as fhough he were afraid of her. jQn her husband's arm — her husband's ! — &he walks down the aisle out of the churph. They enter t\}& carriages, and arp driven' back to Pqwyss Place. They eit down to breakfast — eyory face looks happy apd bright, except tjio fac,o, tliAt should

look happiest and brightest of all — the bridegroom's. He seems to make a great eliort to be cheerful and at ease ; it is a failure lie tries to return thanks in. a speech ; it is a greater lailure still. An awkwaid silonco and constraint creep over the party. What is the matter with Sir Victoi V All eyes are fixed curiously upon him. Surely not ropenting his mesalliance so speedily. It is a relief to everybody when the breakfast ends, and the bride goe3 upstairs to change her dress. The young baronet has engaged a special train to take them into Wales. The newmade Lady Cathuron changes her shining bridal robes for a charming travelling coatumo of pales t grey, with a gossamer veil ot the same shade. She looks as hand-t-omo in it as in the other, and her cool culm it-, a marvel to all beholders. Sho shakes hands gayly with hor lriends ;md guests ; a si?iilo is on her fare as sho takes hor bridegroom's arm and enters the waiting can iage. Old shoes in a shower are flung after thorn ; ladies wave their handkerchiefs, gentlomen call good-bye. She leans forward, and waves her groy-ulovt.d hand in return — the cloudless smile on the beautiful face to the last. So they see hor —as not one of all who stand there will over see her on earth again. The house, the wedding-guests arc out o* sight- the carriage rolls through tho uates of Fowj-ss Place. She falls buck and look* out. They are Hying along Che-holm high eticet. ; tho tenantiy shout lustily ; tho joybells still clash fo'itli. Now they are at the station- -ten minutes more, and, ao last as steam can convey them, they are whirling into Wale?. And all this time j biideand biidegroom have not exchanged a word ! That curious fancy of Edith's has come back suioly Sir Victor is ufmid of hor. How strangely he looks — how stiangely he keeps aloof — how ttranycly he is silent — how fixedly he gazes out of the railway carriage window — anywhere but at her ! Has his brain turned? she wonders; is Sir Victor going mad ? She makes no attempt to arouse him ; let him be silent if he will ; she rather prefers it, indeed. Sho sits and looks sociably out of the opposite window at the bright Hying landscape, steeped in the amber glitter of tho October afternoon sun. She looks acioss at the man she has married — did ever mortal man before on his wedding-day wear such a stony face as that ? And yet he has married her for love — for lovo alone. Was ever another bridal journey performed like this — in profound giavity and silence on both sides? she wonders, half inclined to laugh. She looks clown ab her sinning wedding-ring —is itaciiclet that means nothing? How is her life to go on alter this gruesome wedding-day ? They icach Wales. The sun is setting redly over mountains and sea. The carriago is awaiting them : she enters, and lies back wcaiily with closed eyes. She io dend tired and depressed ; she is beginning to feel the want of last night's sleep, and in a weary way i* glad when the Carnarvon cottage is reached. Sir Victor's man, my lady's maid, and two Welch servants came forth to meet them; and on Sir Victor's arm she enters tho house. She goes at once to her dressing-room, to rest, to hathe her faco, and remove her wraps-, pei forming those duties herself, and dismissing her maid. As she and Sir Victor separate, he mutters some half-incoherent words — he will take a walk and smoke a cigar before dinner, while she is resting. He is gone even while he says it, and she is alono. Sho removes her gloves, hat, and jacket, bathes her face, and descends to the little cottage drawing-room. It is quite deserted —sleepy silence everywhere reigns, She throws herself into an ea«y-chaii beside the open window, and looks listlessly out. Buby, and purple, and golden, the sun is setting in a radiant sky— the yellow sea cieeps up on silver eands — old Carnarvon Castle gleams and glows in the rainbow liffht like a fairy palace. It is unutteiably beautiful, unuttcr.ibly drowsy and dull. And, while she thinks it, her heavy eyelids sway and fall, her head sinks back, 1 and Edith falls fast asleep. Faht asleep ; and a mile away, Sir Victor Catheron paces up and down a stiip of tawny sand, the sea lappinir softly at his "feet, the bhd^ singing in the branches, not a human soul far or near. He is not smoking that before dinner cigar — ho is studing up and down more like an escaped Bedlamite than anything else. His hat is drawn over his '. eve«, his brows are knit, his lips are set tight, his hands are clenched. Presently he pauses, leans against a tree, and looks, with eves full ot somo haggard, horrible despair, out over the red light on sea and sky. And, as ho 100k 1 ?, he fulls down suddenly, as though some inspiration had seized him, upon his knees, and lifts his clasped hands to that radiant sky. A prayer that ?eems frenzied in its agonised intensity bursts from hi& lips— the sleeping sea, the twittei ing birds, therustling leaves, and He who innde them alone are to hear. Then he falls forward on his face, and lies like a stone. Is hemad ? Surely no sane man ever acted, or looked, or spoko like this. He lies soprostrate, motionless for upward of an hour, then slowly and heavily he rUes. His face is calmer now ; it irf the face ot a man who has toughtsomo desperate fight, and gained some desperate victory— one of those victories more cruel than death. Ho turns and goes henco. He crashes through the tall, dewy grass, his white face set in a look of iron resolution. He is ghastly beyond all telling ; dead and in his coilin he will hardly look more death-like. He reaches the cottage, and the lirsb sight upon which his 1 eyes rest is his bride, peacefully asleep in the chair by the still open window. She looks lovely in her slumber, and peacotul as a little child — no very terrible sight suroly. But as his eves fall upon her, he recoils in sonio great horror, as a man may who has roceived a blinding blow. 1 Asleep V his pale lips whisper ; ' asleep — as she was !' He stands epell-bound for a momentthen he breaks away headlong. He makes his way to the dining-room. The table, all blight with damask, silver, crystal, and cut flowers, stands spread for dinner. He takes from his pocket a note-book and pencil, and sbill standing, writes rapidly down one page. Without reading, he folds the sheet, and slowly and wifch dragging steps returns to tho room whore Edith sleeps. On the threshold he lingers— he seems afraid — afraid to approach. But he doea approach at last. He places the note he has written on a table, he draws near his sleeping bride, he kneels down and kisses her hands, her dress, her hair. His haggard eyes burn on her face, their mesmeric light disturbs her. £jhe murmurs and mpves restlessly in her sleppi In an instatifc he is on his feet ; in I another, he is out of the room and the house; in another the deepening twilight takes hira, and he is gone. A train an hour later passes through Carnarvon on its way to London. One passenger alone awaits it at the otation— one passenger who enters an empty first-class compartment and disappears. Then j* goes sleeking on its way, bearing wit|) if) the bridegroom, Sir Victor Catheron. ( To bp Continued. )