That piece of news with which Mr. Pennroyal had killed Sir Clarence was no
more than the truth. He was the betrothed husband of the beautiful
heiress, Miss Battledown; and the three counties, on the whole, approved
the match. It would consolidate two great contiguous estates, and add one
considerable fortune to another. There was a rather wide discrepancy in
ages, Pennroyal being about forty, while Miss Battledown was only in her
nineteenth year; but that mattered little so that they agreed in other
respects. Miss Battledown was generally believed to have very proper ideas
as to her duties and responsibilities as an heiress. Since poor Archibald
Malmaison lost his wits, she had received more than one offer which a
young lady who was weak-minded enough to regard only personal attractions
might have been tempted to accept; but she had needed no elder person to
counsel her to refuse them. In fact, she had at one time allowed it to be
inferred that she deprecated the idea of being married to any one; and
this demonstrated a commendable maidenly reserve; but it was neither to be
expected nor desired that she should adhere to such a resolution in the
face of good reasons for changing it. And Mr. Pennroyal was an excellent
reason. He had passed through the unsteady period of his life; he had
lived down the vaguely discreditable reports which had once been
circulated at his expense; he had shown himself a thrifty landlord; and
the very fact of his being a widower invested him with a certain
respectability not always appertaining to unmarried gentlemen of his age.
Finally, he belonged to a noble and distinguished family, and though there
was no likelihood of his acceding to the title, who was better qualified
than he to illustrate the substantial virtues of an English country
gentleman?
We are without detailed records of the early progress of this charming love
affair. The inference is that it proceeded upon orthodox and unexceptional
lines. Mr. Pennroyal would make known to the widow of the late Colonel the
aspirations of his heart, and would receive from her permission to address
himself to the lady of his choice. After the lapse of a few weeks or
months (as the case might be) of mutually complimentary interviews and
correspondence, the swain would entreat the maid to name the day which was
to make him the happiest of men. She would delay and hesitate for a
becoming while; but at length, with a blush and a smile, would indicate a
date too distant for the lover's impatience, yet as near as a respect for
the _convenances_ of wealthy virginity could permit. And now, all
preliminaries being settled, the preparations would go forward with
liberality and despatch.
It had been at first arranged that the wedding should be solemnized at the
house of the bride; but, for some reason or other, this plan was
subsequently changed, and Malmaison was fixed upon as the scene of the
ceremony. The great dining-hall, which had more than once been put to
similar uses in years gone by, was made ready for the occasion. It was a
vast and stately apartment, sixty feet in length by forty in breadth, and
its lofty ceiling was richly carved in oak; while around the walls were
arranged suits of historic armor, and swords, pikes, and banners, the
relics of ancestral valor. It was on the ground-floor of the most ancient
part of the house, immediately below that suite of rooms of which the east
chamber was one. It had not been used as a dining-hall since the old times
when retainers fed at the same table with their lords; but family
celebrations had been held there; and at the coming of age of the late Sir
Clarence, in 1775, it had been the scene of a grand banquet to the
neighboring nobility and gentry. The floor at the eastern end of the room
was raised some eight inches above the level of the rest; and it was here
that the bride and bridegroom were to stand. A very reverend dean was
secured to pronounce the service; and there were to be eight bridesmaids
and a best man; the latter being none other than poor beclouded Archibald
himself.
This choice created a good deal of surprise and comment. The fact appears
to have been that the post of "best man" had, in the first instance, been
offered to young Sir Edward Malmaison, who, however, declined it. His
reason for so doing was, in the first place, disapproval of the match; he
holding the opinion that the widower of his aunt might as well have
refrained from a second nuptials, and that, at all events, he should have
selected any one rather than her who was to have been the wife of
Archibald. His second objection was a personal dislike to the Honorable
Richard, and an indisposition to encourage his intimacy with the family.
But Sir Edward could not so far oppose his mother's wishes as to forbid
the marriage being celebrated at Malmaison; and being obliged to concede
so much, he wisely deemed it most consistent with his dignity to adopt a
manner as outwardly gracious as was compatible with self-respect.
Accordingly, when Pennroyal--whether maliciously, or from honest good-will
toward one who manifested an almost child-like attachment to
himself--chose Sir Edward's brother in his default, Sir Edward offered no
open opposition. If he remonstrated privately with Archibald, his
arguments were void of effect, and would have been, besides, counteracted
by Lady Malmaison's influence. It is needless to say that Archibald was
immensely proud of the compliment (as he considered it), and took care to
celebrate his distinction at all times and places, opportune or
otherwise--seeming, indeed, to think and talk of little else. It is not
probable that he fully comprehended the significance of the matter, as he
was certainly far from perceiving its ironic aspect; nevertheless, his
dull brain received more stimulus from the prospect than from any other
thing that had befallen him, thereby furnishing sardonic humorists with
the criticism, that if the Honorable Richard Pennroyal would keep on
burying his wives, and choosing Archibald as best man for the new-comer,
the youth might in time become approximately intellectual.
The wedding-day was fixed for the 5th of March, 1821--a date which was long
remembered in the neighborhood. Fortunately we have ample accounts of
everything that occurred--the testimony of many eye-witnesses, which,
through varying in some unimportant details (as is inevitable), agree
nevertheless upon all essential points. I shall give the gist of the
narrative as concisely as a proper attention to its more important phases
will allow.
Miss Kate Battledown, with her mother, came to Malmaison on the evening of
the 4th, and spent the night, the ceremony being appointed at eleven the
next forenoon. The young lady spent an hour or so, before going to bed, in
conversation with Archibald, who, in his pleasurable excitement over the
forthcoming event, was much more lively and conversable than usual. As
they walked side by side up and down the great hall, at one end of which
some workmen were still engaged in arranging the decorations for the
morrow, they must have made a handsome picture. Kate was at this time a
lithe and graceful figure, slightly above the medium height, and
possessing a great deal of "style;" in fact, young as she was, she had
been for some time regarded as a model of fashion and deportment by all
the aspiring young women within a radius of twenty miles. She was dressed
on this evening in a gown of some thin, white material, the frilled hem of
which failed by at least six inches to reach the floor, thereby displaying
a pair of arched feet and slender ankles, clothed in open-work silk
stockings. The skirt of this gown began immediately beneath the arms, and
every contour of the wearer's form could be traced through its
close-fitting and diaphanous folds. Miss Battledown's arms were bare, save
for the black silk netted mittens that she wore; her dark curling hair was
gathered pyramidally on the top of her head, and fastened with a black
ribbon; a black velvet band encircled her white throat, and there was a
row of black bows down the front of her dress. Her forehead was narrow and
compact, her large brown eyes were perhaps a trifle closer together than
they should have been, her nose was delicate, her lips blunt-cornered and
rather full than thin; the whole expression of her face spirited and
commanding. As for Archibald, he was a handsome vacancy, so to speak; a
fine physical man wasted for lack of a spiritual man to carry him about
and use him. His regular, finely moulded face, with its healthy pallor and
its black eyes and hair, always had a dim, pathetic look of having
forgotten something. His figure, symmetrical and full of strength, moved
itself awkwardly and unmeaningly, as though ignorant of its own
capabilities, and rather encumbered than otherwise by their redundance.
His smile, which drew his features into their handsomest attitude, was
nevertheless rather silly, and seemed to last on after he himself had
forgotten what he was smiling for. His hands--strong, well-formed hands of
the slender and long-fingered type--hung helplessly at the end of his
arms; or, if he attempted to use them, each finger appeared to have a
different idea of what was to be done, and one and all fumbled drowsily
and shiftlessly at their task. The young man wore the high-collared coat,
short waistcoat, and clinging pantaloons of the period; and his black hair
hung down on his shoulders in natural luxuriance of curls. Poor Archibald
accepted meekly whatever was given him to put on; but he would not let his
hair be cut, or even anointed with the incomparable oil of Macassar.
"And so you are glad, Archie?" said Mistress Kate, continuing their talk.
"Oh, glad! yes, glad!" replied Archie, nodding his head slowly and
solemnly.
"You don't regret me, then, at all?"
"Oh, regret, no!" said Archie, shaking his head with the same sapience and
gravity.
"Why do you always repeat what a person says, without seeming to know what
it is? There used to be a time, sir, when regret would have been far too
mild a word for you. Have you forgotten all that? Have you forgotten Lord
Orville and Evelina?"
"Forgotten, yes; all forgotten!"
"Come, now, I wish you to remember. You understand that I am to be married
to Richard Pennroyal tomorrow--to Richard Pennroyal!"
"Uncle Richard, dear Uncle Richard. I love Uncle Richard!"
"Do you love no one beside him? don't you love me?"
"Don't love you, oh, no!"
"Archie, have you forgotten how we were married in the back garden, and how
you used to say I was your little wife; and you wanted to fight a duel
with Richard because he had taken me on his knee and kissed me?"
"See how pretty!" exclaimed Archie, whose attention had been fixed during
this speech upon two of the workmen who were unrolling between them a
piece of crimson cloth appertaining to the hangings.
"What a creature!" muttered Kate to herself. To have her romantic souvenirs
ignored even by this simpleton vexed her a little. Perhaps, too, she had
another reason for regretting her companion's witlessness. She could
remember when she had cared for him--or for something called him--more
than she cared now for the man she would wed to-morrow. Why was he not the
same now as then? His face, his hands, his figure--these were the same, or
rather they were handsomer and more manlike than formerly. Why could not
the soul, or whatever may be that mysterious invisible motive-power in a
man--why could it not have stuck to its fortress during these seven years
past? Here were five feet eleven of well-sculptured living clay, that had
been growing and improving for more than one and twenty years; and for an
inhabitant, nothing but a soft foolish child, destitute of memory,
intelligence, and passion. Such reflections may have passed through the
mind of the young heiress; and then she may have thought, glancing at him,
"If my Archibald were here, to-morrow might see another spectacle than
that put down in the programme." She might have thought this; she did not
and of course would not on any account have uttered such a sentiment
aloud. But it would be unjust to her taste and sensibility to suppose
that, apart from worldly and politic considerations, she should have
really preferred a sharp-featured, thin-haired, close-fisted gentleman of
forty to a conceivable hero of half that age, dowered with every grace and
beauty, not to mention Miss Tremount's seventy thousand pounds. Is she to
be blamed if she sighed with a passing regret at that hero's mysterious
disappearance? Yes, he had disappeared, more mysteriously and more
irrevocably than old Sir Charles seventy years ago. Where in the heavens
or the earth or under the earth, indeed, was he? Did he still exist
anywhere? Might she dream of ever meeting him again--that hero?...! Bah!
what nonsense!
"Pretty!" repeated Archie, who, in the subsidence of his other faculties,
had retained an appreciation of color.
"Poor boy--poor thing!" said Kate; "you lost a great deal when you lost
your wits; between being a groomsman and a bridegroom there is a very wide
difference. And you don't even care--perhaps that's your greatest loss of
all--ha, ha! Come, Archie, it's time for little fellows like you to be
asleep."
"Kate--" began Archie; and paused.
"What?"
"Do you love anybody?"
She met his look of dull yet earnest inquiry with a contemptuous smile at
first, but afterward her smile died away and she answered soberly:
"I did once."
"I did once, too!" rejoined Archie, with a sort of sluggish eagerness.
"You did--when?" demanded she, with the beginning of a heart-beat.
"I think I did--once--when I was asleep."
She laughed shortly and turned away. "Yes, sleep is the best thing for you,
Archie; you had better sleep all the time now; it will be too late to wake
up to-morrow. Good-night, Archie."