WEDDING CARDS.
Returning from the Fountains one day after a pleasant morning spent
half in the garden, half in Mr. Crawford's painting-room, Cecil found
the dowager in one of her worst humours.
"Has any thing annoyed you while I have been away, auntie?" she asked,
gently.
"Has any thing annoyed me, indeed, auntie!" echoed Mrs. MacClaverhouse,
with unusual acrimony. "I begin to think that I was only sent into the
world for the purpose of being annoyed. Do you know that the mail from
Marseilles comes in to-day, Lady Cecil?"
Cecil's downcast face grew first crimson and then pale. The Indian
letters? The very mention of the post that brought them set her heart
beating fast and passionately; and she had no right to be interested in
their coming: she had no right to be glad or sorry for any tidings that
the Indian mail could bring.
"You have heard from Captain Gordon, I suppose, auntie?" she said,
falteringly.
"Yes, I have heard from him," answered the dowager in her most snappish
manner.
"I hope he is well?"
"Oh yes, he is _well_ enough, or as well as a man can be who is such a
fool as to become the victim of any designing minx who chooses to set
her cap at him. What do you think of that enclosure, Lady Cecil?"
The dowager tossed an envelope across the table towards the spot where
her niece was standing, downcast and sad. Cecil knew what the enclosure
was; yes, a little shiver went through her as she took up the envelope,
for she knew only too well what it contained.
A glazed envelope with a crest emblazoned in silver was within the
outer covering, and inside the flap of the glazed envelope was
inscribed the name of Mary Chesham. Two limp, slippery cards dropped
from Cecil's hand as she read the name of her rival; the name which
was hers no longer, for on the larger card appeared the more dignified
title of the matron, "Mrs. Hector Gordon." She put the cards back into
the envelope and laid it gently on the table.
"God grant they may be happy!" she murmured softly.
"Yes," answered the dowager; "and we are to live in Dorset Square all
our lives, I suppose. Upon my word, Cecil, you are enough to provoke
the patience of a saint. You might have married Hector Gordon if you
had liked. Yes, child, you might. I watched the man. I've known him
since he eat his first top-and-bottom, and I can see him eating it,
in my mind's eye, at this very moment; so I think I ought to know his
ways. He was over head and ears in love with you; and if it hadn't
been for some highflown nonsense of yours he never would have gone
back to India to marry that designing minx. He was engaged, forsooth!
and if he was, I suppose he could have disengaged himself! He was in
love with you Cecil, and you know that you might have married him as
well as I do. What was he whimpering about that night, I should like
to know, when you sang him your doleful songs, if he wasn't in love!
No man in his proper senses would moon about all day with two women,
reading poetry and listening to doleful songs, unless he was in love.
However, I've no doubt some nonsensical scruples of yours sent him back
to Calcutta to become the prey of a minx called Chesham. Who _are_ the
Cheshams, I should like to know? It sounds a decent name enough; but I
don't know any Cheshams. Give me the first volume of Burke's _Landed
Gentry_, Cecil, and let me see if there are any respectable Cheshams."
Lady Cecil went into an inner room to look for the volume her aunt
required. She found herself standing before the bookshelves, looking
dreamily at the backs of the books, and wondering what it was she had
come to seek. For some few moments she was quite unable to collect
her thoughts. Was she sorry that Hector Gordon had fulfilled his
engagement? Ah, no! ah, no, no! To have wished his promise broken would
have been to wish him something less than he was.
"Oh, I am proud to think him good, and honourable, and true," she
murmured, in a kind of rapture; "I am proud and glad to think that he
has kept his promise."
Ah, reader, can you not imagine that the pale girl in Mr. Millais'
picture was in the depths of her soul almost glad that her Huguenot
lover refused to have the white scarf tied about his arm? His refusal
would cost him his life, perhaps, but oh, how proud she must have been
of him in that moment of supreme agony!
Lady Cecil carried the volume of Burke to her aunt, and Mrs.
MacClaverhouse set herself to discover the antecedents of Mrs. Hector
Gordon, _nèe_ Chesham.
"There's a letter from Mrs. Lochiel on the table there," she said,
without looking up from her book, "with an account of this fine
wedding. You can read it if you like."
The dowager was an inveterate gossip, and kept up a correspondence with
a dozen or two other dowagers, who took a benign interest in all the
births, marriages, and deaths that came to pass within their circle.
Perhaps if Mrs. MacClaverhouse had not been soured by the bitter
disappointment and mortification which had befallen the pleasant castle
she had built in Hyde Park Gardens at her nephew's expense, she might
have been a little more merciful to poor Cecil's wounded heart. But it
must be remembered that she did not know how deeply the girl's heart
was wounded.
Cecil read Mrs. Lochiel's letter. Is it necessary to say that she read
every word of that gossiping epistle more than once, though the reading
of it gave her exquisite pain? There are poisoned arrows for which
some women bare their breast--there are tortures which some women will
suffer unbidden. There never was a woman yet, in Lady Cecil's position,
who was not eager to be told what finery her rival wore, and how she
looked in the wedding splendour.
Mrs. Lochiel was very discursive on the subject of millinery.
"Dear Mary Chesham looked very _sweet_," she wrote. "She is not pretty,
but remarkably _interesting_, fair, with soft blue eyes, and a very
_winning_ expression. I know you will be pleased with her when Captain
Gordon brings her to England, and they _do_ say that his regiment will
be ordered home next year. I am sure you ought to be proud of such a
nephew, for he is one of the most popular young men in Calcutta, and
one meets him at all the best houses. Every one says that Mary Chesham
has made a wonderful match, and of course there are _some_ people who
_insinuate_ that her brother manœuvred very cleverly to bring about the
marriage. But I have met Mr. Chesham, who seems a very superior young
man, and not at all the sort of person to manœuvre.
"The wedding was one of the gayest affairs we have had in Calcutta
this season. Mary had six bridesmaids, some of the nicest girls in the
city; and of course the military and civil service mustered in full
force. The bride wore white glacé, made with a high body and short
sleeves, and trimmed with bouillonnées of _tulle illusion_, and a
large _tulle_ veil, which covered her like a cloud. The dress was very
simple, and certainly _inexpensive_, but _quite Parisian_ in style.
Mary has a very lovely arm,--those pale, insipid girls, with fair
hair, generally have lovely arms,--and she wore a _very superb_ pearl
bracelet, given her by her uncle, Colonel Cudderley, who is, I believe,
expected to _leave her money_. So you see your nephew has not done so
_very badly_ after all, though people here say he might have made a
_much better match_. However, I am told that he is quite devoted to
Mary, and I'm sure his manner when I have seen them together, has been
_most attentive_."
Lady Cecil laid down the letter. Was this jealousy, this cruel pang
which seemed to rend her heart asunder, as she read of her rival's
bliss? Oh, surely not jealousy! Had she not with her own lips bidden
him to fulfil his promise? and was she grieved and wounded now to find
that he had kept the spirit as well as the letter of that promise? Had
she expected that he would marry the girl who loved him, and yet by his
cold indifference bear witness that he loved another? Surely she could
never have thought he could be base enough to do that.
"What did I want?" she thought; "what did I expect? I told him to go
back to her; and yet my heart aches with a new pain when I hear that he
is happy by her side. Could I wish it to be otherwise? Could I wish him
any thing but what he is--good, and true, and noble--a royal lover--a
tender husband?"
Alone in her own room, in Dorset Square, Cecil Chudleigh knelt long and
late that night, praying for resignation and peace of mind. But even
amidst her prayers the face of Hector Gordon, looking down upon her
with melancholy tenderness, came between her and her pious aspirations.
"Oh, I wish that I had never seen him," she cried passionately; "what a
happy thing it would have been for me if I had never seen him!"
The day came when Lady Cecil had need to utter this cry with a wilder
meaning; the day came when she had reason to think that she would have
been a blessed creature if she had died before Hector Gordon came to
Fortinbras.