Old Miss Tremount had come up from Cornwall for the occasion, accompanied
by her poodle, her female toady, and her father confessor. The good lady
had altered her will some years before, on hearing of her favorite
nephew's changed condition, and it was feared she would leave her money to
the Church of Rome, of which she was a member. But on receiving the
announcement of her intended visit, Lady Malmaison had begun to entertain
hopes that Sir Edward might succeed in so favorably impressing his aunt as
to induce her to divert at least some portion of her thousands in his
direction. But it is not likely that Miss Tremount had come to Malmaison
with any such views; in fact, her reason for coming had little or no
connection with the late baronet's family. It was not generally known
that, between forty and fifty years previously, there had been tender
passages between Colonel Battledown and this snuffy old maid, whose soul
was now divided between her cards and her psalter. So it was, however;
they were even betrothed to one another, though the betrothal was kept a
secret, the Colonel then being a comparatively penniless young lieutenant,
and as such by no means a desirable son-in-law from the parental point of
view. An elopement was contemplated so soon as the young lady should be of
age; and it would be difficult to explain the occasion of the trumpery
quarrel between the lovers, which ended in the lady taunting the
gentleman with caring only about her money, and resulted in the rupture of
the engagement. Doubtless it might have been renewed; but at this
juncture the lieutenant was ordered away on active service to the American
Colonies, where he remained for some years. Later, he was stationed in
India; and the next time he met his old love, in London, he was twenty
years older than when she had last seen him, and a major, and with ribbons
on his breast, and a wife on his arm. Miss Tremount never betrayed any
grief or disappointment, except in so far as she remained single all her
life, and latterly waxed religious and became a convert to the Jesuits.
But when the Colonel was dead, and she heard that his daughter was about
to be married, she resolved to make a journey to Malmaison; and who can
tell whether in the bottom of her heart, hidden even from her father
confessor, she may not have cherished a secret purpose of making Mistress
Kate her heir? It is certain at all events that she brought her will with
her in her trunk.
This romance, I say, was known to but few, and as Miss Battledown did not
happen to be among the number, she was less cordial in her behavior to the
old lady than she might otherwise have been. Kate was not constitutionally
a lover of old women, and not herself old enough to be aware that no truly
charitable person should ever be inattentive to seventy thousand pounds,
no matter to how unprepossessing a human being the money might be
attached. Her manner, therefore, was tolerant and patronizing rather than
flattering; and honest Lady Malmaison, though she liked Kate very much,
and would have been delighted to see her inherit seventy thousand pounds
from the Shah of Persia or the President of the United States, was not
quite so unnatural an idiot as to recommend to the young lady a more
conciliating behavior. As for Miss Tremount, she preserved her composure
and kept her counsel perfectly, and never referred to her will even in her
most unguarded moments. She was courteous and complimentary to Sir Edward,
indulgent to Archibald, kind and sisterly to Lady Malmaison, and quietly
observant of everything and everybody. On the wedding morning she
criticised and admired the bride's toilet with a taste and appreciation
that caused the proud young beauty's eyes to sparkle; and just before the
party entered the hall, she pressed Kate's hand affectionately, and said,
in her gentlest tones, that she hoped she would be happy. "I have always
looked upon your mother as one of the happiest of women, my dear," she
added. "May your fortune equal hers!" This good-natured benediction caused
Lady Malmaison a good deal of anxiety; Sir Edward smiled aside at what he
fancied was a subtle stroke of irony; and Kate herself became thoughtful,
and regretted that it was rather late in the day to begin to show Miss
Tremount what a charming elderly lady she thought her.
The great hall looked its stateliest that morning. The March sunshine came
slanting through the tall windows, and lay in bright patches upon the
broad floor, or gleamed upon the ancient swords and breastplates, or
glowed in the festal hangings. Quite a large number of titled and
fashionable persons were collected at the upper end of the room,
whispering and rustling, and dressed in what we should now consider very
wonderful costumes, though they were all the mode then. A few minutes
before eleven the very reverend dean, and an assistant divine, together
with the bridegroom and Archibald, entered and took their places in great
pomp and dignity beneath the canopy which had been constructed for the
occasion, and which, was covered with fresh flowers, whose fragrance
breathed over the gay assemblage like a sacred incense. At eleven o'clock
there was a general hush of expectation; and presently the door at the
bottom of the hall was thrown open, and the bridal procession came in.
Very pretty they looked as they paced, up the long stretch of carpeting
which had been laid down for them to walk upon, and which had been
scattered over with a profusion of flowers. The bride, with her veil and
her orange-blossoms, was supported on the arm of Sir Henry Rollinson (the
good Doctor had been knighted the year before by an appreciative
sovereign), who was to give her away. She looked calm, pale, and
exceedingly handsome. The widow of Colonel Battledown was escorted by Lord
Epsom, the Honorable Richard's elder brother, and wore a very splendid
pink turban, and red eyes. But all these details, and many more, may be
read in the _Morning Post_ of March 7th, 1821, to which I refer the
curious.
The service commenced. As Sir Henry Rollinson was in the act of giving the
bride away, he happened to glance at Archibald, and observed that the
latter wore a very strange expression on his face; and a moment afterward
the young man dropped into a chair that happened to be near him, pressing
his head between his hands, and breathing heavily. No one else noticed
this incident; and Sir Henry, who supposed the youth was going to faint,
was of course unable at the time to afford any assistance. The service
went on. Richard Pennroyal and Catherine Battledown were pronounced man
and wife; and man was warned not to put asunder those whom God had joined
together. The ring shone on the new-made wife's finger. The very reverend
dean gave the pair his blessing. All this time Archibald remained with
his head between his hands, the physician watching him not without
apprehensions, and inwardly cursing the folly of those who were
responsible for the poor half-witted creature's appearance in such a
scene.
The register was now brought forth, in which the happy couple and their
friends were to inscribe their names. The principal personages signed
first. It came to Archibald's turn. It had previously been ascertained
that he knew how to string together the requisite letters upon paper.
There he sat, with his head in his hands. Sir Henry touched him on the
shoulder.
"Now, then, lad--Archie! wake up! Come! you're wanted!" He spoke sharply
and imperatively, in the hope of rousing the young fellow out of his
stupor, and at least getting him decently out of the room.
Archibald raised his face, which was deadly pale and covered with sweat,
and looked at the persons around him with a kind of amazed defiance. He
started to his feet, oversetting his chair as he did so, which rolled down
the steps of the dais and fell with a crash on the stone floor below.
"I came in by the staircase door!" he said in an excited voice, which
startled every one who heard it, so different was it from his usual tones.
"If you thought it locked, you were wrong. How else could I have come?...
When did you bring me here? This is the great hall! What have you been
doing? How came _you_ here?"
There was a dead silence. Every one felt that some ugly thing was about to
happen. Several women began to laugh hysterically. It seems to have been
supposed, at first, that Archibald had exchanged his inoffensive idiocy
for a condition of raving madness. The old physician was probably the only
one present who had a glimmering of what might be the truth. The
Honorable Richard Pennroyal had none. He pushed between the venerable
knight and his "best man," and relying upon his oft-proved and established
influence over the latter, he took him firmly by the arm, and looked in
his face.
"Don't make a fool of yourself, Archie," said he, in a low distinct voice,
in which was a subdued ring of menace. "It's all right. You're my best
man, you know. You are to sign your name as one of the witnesses of the
marriage--that's all."
"I have witnessed no marriage," replied Archibald, returning with surprise
Richard's look. "Who are you?" he continued, after a moment. Then he
exclaimed, "You are Richard Pennroyal--I didn't know you at first, you
look so old!"
"Oh, the fellow's quite mad!" muttered Richard, turning away with a shrug
of the shoulders. "I should have known better than to run the risk of
having such a lunatic here. We must have him moved out of the room at
once."
Young Sir Edward overheard this latter sentence. "Pardon me for reminding
you that my brother is at home in Malmaison," he said gravely.
"Oh, as you please, of course," returned Richard, frowning.
Meanwhile Archibald had caught sight of Kate, and recognized her at once;
and breaking away from his mother and Sir Henry Rollinson, who were
endeavoring to quiet him, he came up to her and planted himself in front
of her, just as Richard was approaching to take her off. Archibald took
both her hands in his.
"Kate, I have never seen you look so beautiful," he said. "But why have you
got this white veil on?--and orange blossoms! It's like a wedding. What
were they saying about a wedding? ... is it to be our wedding?"
"The wedding has already taken place, my dear Archie," interposed the
bridegroom, offering his arm to the bride, and smiling with no very good
grace. "This lady is now Mrs. Pennroyal. Stand aside, like a good boy--"
Archibald grasped Richard by the padded sleeve of his coat, and with an
angry movement of his powerful arm threw him backward into the embrace of
his new mother-in-law, who happened to be coming up from behind.
"You are under my father's roof, or I would tell you that you are a liar,"
said the young man, grimly. Then turning to the bride, who had said not a
word since this scene began, but had kept her eyes constantly fixed upon
the chief actor in it, "He shall not insult you again, my dear. But all
this is very strange. What does it mean?"
"It means.... It is too late!" replied the girl, in a low, bitter voice.
What could she have meant by that?
Richard, white with fury, came up again. There was a general murmur and
movement in the surrounding assemblage, who expected to see some deed of
violence committed.
"Mrs. Pennroyal," said he between his teeth, "I am obliged to request you
peremptorily to take my arm and--and leave this house where guests are
insulted and outraged!"
Archibald turned, his face darkening. But Kate held up her hand
entreatingly; and Archibald caught the gleam of the plain gold ring on her
finger. At that sight he stopped abruptly, and his arms fell to his sides.
"Is it true?" He asked in a tone of bewilderment.
Here Sir Edward interposed again, with, his cool courtesy: "Mr. Pennroyal,
and my friends, I trust you will find it possible to overlook the behavior
of my brother. You may see that he is not himself. When he has had time to
recover himself, he will ask pardon of each and all of you. Mr. Pennroyal,
I entreat you and your wife to forget what has passed, and to reconsider
the heavy imputation which has been cast upon my house. Let the shadow
pass away which has threatened for a moment this--most auspicious
occasion!"
If the last words were ironical, the irony was too grave and ceremonious to
be obtrusive, Pennroyal was fain to return Sir Edward's bow with the best
grace he could muster. The rest of the company accepted the apology, as at
least a formal way out of the difficulty. An effort was made to resume
indifferent conversation, and to act as if nothing had happened. Sir
Edward, with admirable self-possession and smiling courtesy, marshalled
the guests out of the hall, to a neighboring room in which the wedding
breakfast had been set out. Archibald remained behind, and the Doctor and
old Miss Tremount remained with him. He stood still, with his arms at his
sides, his glance fixed upon the floor. The Doctor and Miss Tremount
exchanged a look, and then the latter went up to him, and took one of his
hands between hers.
"Do you know me, my dear?" she said.
Archibald looked at her, and shook his head.
"I am your aunt, Ruth Tremount. My dear, I am so sorry for you."
"Can you tell me what is the matter with me? Am I mad?"
"On the contrary," put in the Doctor, "you are yourself for the second time
in your life. You've overslept yourself, my lad, that's all!"
Archibald cast his eyes round the hall, as if searching for some one.
"Where is my father?" he asked at length.
There was an awkward pause. Finally Miss Tremount said, "My dear, your
sleep has lasted seven years. Much may happen in such a length of time."
"But my father--where is he? I want to see him; I will see him!" and he
made some steps toward the door.
"My poor lad, you cannot see him now--he ... he--"
"Where is he?" cried Archibald, stamping his foot.
"He has been for five years in his grave."
Archibald stared at the Doctor a moment, and then burst out laughing.