Stories with a Vengeance — page 106: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

102 OB BUNS YOUR MIND ON ANOTHER LOVE? “The darling fellow!” said Lucy. “Just to think of recollecting even that passmg wish of mine! I cannot disappoint him— can J, mamma ?—for I feel quite sure he has already made arrangements to suit the time he speaks of. And yet if it were any other day of the week, I should run the risk. ‘Crosses,’ with him beside me, would be easily borne; but ‘crosses,’ and the loss of his love, perhaps— now, there, mamma, I dare not venture to name Friday!” So Wed nesday was substituted; and in dué time the exultant bridegroom arrived, with Lord Marston. Lucy and her lover found each other more charming than even memory painted ; but his lordship was fairly amazed at the bride’s grace and beauty, and thought his friend most fortunate to have discovered such a treasure. She reminded him of a blush-rose with the dew still on it; of sunset among the Alps; of Claribel’s bright, pathetic songs ; of all things exquisite, and fragile, and tender. ° Looking at her, he felt himself a forlorn old bachelor, and for once wished certain bygones could return from the grave of the past. He would have hked to do something desperate for her sake; and, oblivious of the fact that Lady Clare had not yet seen this vision of youth and loveliness, once more mentally called his sister an old fool for ever thinking of Sir Clyfie as a possible husband for herself. Never was so beautiful a wedding seen in the old cathedral as Lucy’s; and in her snowy robes, and the bridegroom’s gift of diamonds, she resembled an exquisite vision rather than an ordinary creature of flesh and blood. The party, although not large, numbered some of the oldest noblesse in France— nearly all relatives of the Belfort family. The church was crowded in every corner,. even the humblest peasant being anxious to see the last of their dear young lady, and catch a glimpse of ‘‘ Sir Dashwood,” as the local journals called him. : In conformity with custonf, twelve young p-or children walked two and two behind the cortége to the altar, and thence preceded the bride, strewing roses in her path: while the grand organ pealed the «Wed. ding March,” and joyous carillons rang out from the ancient tower, the bells of which had in their time announced revolutions and all the horrors of bloody war. It goes without saying that the déjeiner was perfect; and Lucy duly cut the cake— Google that curious Christian survival of the ancient heathen usage of brides sacrificing cakes to Diana. With tears running down her sweet face, Lady Dashwood took leave of the Countess, who felt: heartbroken, but would have almost suffered anything rather than dis- tress her child by showing how deeply she mourned her loss. ‘“‘ Now, mother,” said Sir Clyffe, embrac- ing the Countess affectionately, “recollect we hope very soon to welcome you to dur home, which will always be happier for us. when you are there.” The chariot waiting for. the newly-mar- ried pair was bright orange, with six gray horses and three green-jacketed postal- hons, in high boots and cocked hats. Sir Clyffe’s valet and Lucy’s maid occu- pied the rumble; but the former turned up his nose at what he considered a want of style im the whole affair. The related dukes and duchesses, and counts and countesses, launched from the dvorsteps a volley of satin slippers, and rice, and roses, and “bon voyages,” and “ God bless you’s ” after the travellers; and then, the excitement being over, the old Countess gave her heart leave to ache tall the tears came; while Lord Marston suddenly felt everything so weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable, that nothmg but civility kept him from starting for Eng- land without an hour’s delay. CHAPTER VI. AFTER a short but delightful tour in Italy and Switzerland, the happy couple arrived at Clyffe Castle in one of the finest Octobers that had been seen for years. The bride’s grace and beauty created quite a furore in the county, and the slight quaintness of her mode of speech rather increased than otherwise the spell of her fascination; for, although a fairly good English scholar, Lucy’s idiom and accent were unquestionably foreign. Sir Olyffe was, if possible, more de- voted than ever, and accidentally dis- covered, one day, that in Lucy’s favourite dress of bronze-green velvet, she bore a striking resemblance to his celebrated French ancestress, Lady Mabel Dashwood, whose portrait hung in the great gallery, and who was considered the most beautiful woman in England, being named by the Court gallants “ La belle des belles.” Lord Marston and his sister were very intimate at the Castle, the former, in spite of his anti-matrimonial proclivities, bem too ardent an admirer of beauty not fo enjoy keenly the society of the only woman > a JOO S CO)