I was under Major Egerton’s care. The crowd
round the door was so great that it was with the greatest
difficulty that he could pilot me to the carriage.
Lesbia was following us with another officer, whose
name I did not know. As we took our seats I distinctly
saw Mr. Hamilton cross the road. He was walking
quietly down Hyde Park. As we passed he turned
and took off his hat. I thought it was a strange
thing that he should be in the neighbourhood on Sara’s
wedding-day, and that he should have deigned to play
the part of a spectator after his severe strictures
on gay weddings. I supposed his business in Edinburgh
was finished, and he had an idle day or two on his
hands. I half expected him to call the next day,
for I had given him my address; but he did not come,
and I heard from Mr. Tudor afterwards that he had
gone on to Folkestone.
A FIERY ORDEAL
It is a hackneyed truism, and, like other axioms,
profoundly true, that wedding-festivities are invariably
followed by a sense of blank dulness.
It is like the early morning after a ball, when the
last guests have left the house: the lights flicker
in the dawn, the empty rooms want sweeping and furnishing
to be fit for habitation. Yawns, weariness, satiety,
drive the jaded entertainers to their resting-places.
Every one knows how tawdry the ball-dress looks in
the clear morning light. The diamonds cease to
flash, the flowers are withered, the game is played
out.
Something of this languor and vacuum is felt when
the bride and bridegroom have driven away amid the
typical shower of rice. The smiles seem quenched,
somehow; mother and sisters shed tears; a sense of
loss pervades the house; the bridal finery is heaped
up in the empty room; one little glove is on the table,
another has fallen to the floor. All sorts of
girlish trinkets that have been forgotten lie unheeded
in corners.
I know we all thought that evening would never end,
and I quite understood why Jill hovered near her mother’s
chair, listening to her conversation with Mrs. Fullerton.
Every now and then Aunt Philippa broke down and shed
a few quiet tears. I heard her mention Ralph’s
name once. ‘Poor boy! how proud he would
have been of his sister!’ Uncle Brian heard
it too, for I saw him wince at the sound of his son’s
name; but Jill stroked her mother’s hand, and
said, quite naturally, ’Most likely Ralph knows
all about it, mamma, and of course he is glad that
Sara is so happy.’
Our pretty light-hearted Sara. I had no idea
that I should miss her so much! Indeed, we all
missed her: it seemed to me now that I had undervalued
her. True, she had not been a congenial companion
to me in my dark days; but even then I had wronged
her. Why should I have expected her to grope
among the shadows with me, instead of following her
into the sunshine? Sara could not act contrary
to her nature. Sad things depressed her.
She wanted to cause every one to be happy.
