A Mad Marriage by May Agnes Fleming (mini ebook reader .TXT) 📕

like Undine herself—a lake lily in its green array.

Ten minutes more complete Miss Forrester’s toilet. Dark, and stately,

and tall, entirely self-possessed and at her ease, a greater contrast

than the two could scarcely be found as they descend to the already

filled rooms. A blue, silvery silk sweeps behind her, silver lilies

trail in the rich darkness of her hair, looped with diamond stars, a

cluster of fragrant white blossoms in her hand. So Miss Forrester and

Miss Higgins dawned upon the view of the best county society.

Eric is watching for his lady love—Eric, looking extremely patrician,

and elegant, and his eyes light as they fall upon his betrothed. Truth

to tell, he has been dreading this ordeal almost more than she has; his

vanity is so thin-skinned—so much stronger than any other passion of

his life. What if she does not do him credit to-night? What—good

Heaven!—what if she appears looking rustic, or countryfied, or dressed

in bad taste? He has been turning alternately hot and cold for the last

fifteen minutes as he stands here, when he sees her enter the rooms on

France Forrester’s arm. And then doubting and fearing are at an end. His

heart gives an exultant leap, his eyes light, a smile comes over his

lips, he draws a long breath of intense, unutterable relief. Rustic,

countryfied, dressed in bad taste! Why, she is lovelier than he has ever

seen her, and her dress is the very perfection of good taste. Yes, the

country parson’s daughter will do credit to Lord Dynely to-night.

He advances and takes possession of her, stooping his fair, tall head to

whisper something that lights up Crystal’s soft, sweet face. The worst

is over now, she feels she can face all England, all the United Kingdom,

in a body. Eric, the sovereign lord and ruler of her life, is deigned to

be pleased with his lowly handmaiden.

Miss Forrester is surrounded immediately, she is besieged with petitions

for the next waltz, but she declines. It is her intention not to dance

at all before supper, and she takes Terry Dennison’s arm, and clings to

him as her rock of refuge.

“I’m engaged to you for the next waltz, Terry,” she says imperiously;

“not to dance it though—you understand?”

“I understand,” Terry gravely responds. “We are waiting for the hero of

the piece to come on, and we want to be disengaged to meet him, looking

cool and lovely, and our very best. That is a very delicious thing in

the way of dresses, Miss Forrester—misty, silvery blue, a sort of

moonlight color that is vastly becoming to your dark complexion. Being

in love agrees with you, I think—I never saw you looking so well as

to-night. Give you my word there’s nothing half so handsome in the

house.”

Miss Forrester bows her acknowledgment.

“Monseigneur, ‘you do me proud.’ The first compliment I ever received

from Mr. Dennison in my life! But you haven’t seen all in the house—you

haven’t seen Miss Crystal Higgins. Look yonder.”

Terry looks. Sooner or later he knows it must come, and he has schooled

himself to meet her. His sunburnt face pales a little as he sees her

leaning on Eric’s arm, lovely as a dream, happy as it is ever given

mortals here below to be. He pulls his tawny whiskers and tries to

laugh.

“Bliss is a wonderful beautifier—knocks all Madame Rachel’s cosmetics

into thin air. Handsome couple, aren’t they?—look as though they were

made for each other, and all that. Shall we go up and pay our respects?”

“You may—I have none to pay; and Lady Dynely beckons—I think she wants

you, Terry. When you’ve spoken to Crystal, you had better join her.”

So Terry goes up, and Crystal lifts those imploring, innocent eyes of

hers in humble appeal to his face, and the look goes through Terry’s

heart of hearts. Ah no; she is not to be blamed. She has done as eleven

girls out of twelve would have done—there are not many like France

Forrester to look upon Eric, with undazzled eyes. He pays his respects

and makes his greetings in frank, brotherly fashion enough, and requests

the honor of a waltz. The turquoise eyes glance timidly up at Eric as if

seeking his permission. For, earlier in the evening, Eric has issued his

princely ukase that his affianced wife shall waltz with no one but

himself.

“I don’t choose to see my promised wife gyrating round the room with

every fellow in the county who chooses to ask her. Remember, Crystal,

you dance round dances with me only!”

She is very willing. If he had ordered her to sit in the remotest corner

of the room until morning dawned, she would have obeyed willingly,

gladly, so that his sultanship deigned but once or twice to smile upon

her in her exile. But Terry Dennison, Terry, who is almost like a

brother, will not Eric make an exception in his favor? Eric, who is to

have so much—Terry, who has lost all. But Eric’s blonde brows knit

themselves ever so slightly; to Terry he is not disposed to yield an

inch.

“Crystal only waltzes with me, Terry. Scratch your initials down for a

quadrille, old boy, if you do that sort of idiotic performance, and do

it quickly, for our waltz begins.”

Terry does that sort of idiotic performance, scratches his initials

accordingly, then seeks out Lady Dynely. Lady Dynely merely wants him to

make himself useful all night, in finding partners for unpartnerable

elderly girls, and lead the forlorn hope himself.

“It is what Eric should do,” her ladyship says, “but Eric won’t do it.

If he dances at all, it will be with the youngest and prettiest girls

present, so, Terry, I look to you.”

“‘England expects every man to do his duty,’” laughs France Forrester,

passing him, and giving him a perfumed blow of her fan. “My poor Terry!

Some men are born martyrs. Some have martyrdom thrust upon them; I begin

to think you are one of the latter.”

But Mr. Dennison pulls on his kid gloves a little tighter, braces

himself for the battle, and looks about him undismayed. Old or young,

handsome or ugly, it is all the same to Terry. Since Crystal is not for

him, all the rest doesn’t much matter. The most venerable virgin

present, the scraggiest matron, are the same to him for this night as

the Venus herself.

“Let’s see,” he says; “there’s Belinda Higgins—I’ll lead off with her.

After that I’ll take ‘em as they come—one down, t’other come on.”

Mr. Dennison goes and with polite empressement asks the eldest Miss

Higgins but one for that waltz. Eric and Crystal float past them as

perfect in their waltzing as in their beauty. Eric whispers something in

her pretty pink ear that makes her look at Terry and her bony elderly

sister and laugh. It is the unkindest cut of all, but Terry bears it

manfully. Let them laugh. He is pleasing Lady Dynely, he is making, for

the time, poor old Belinda happy—he asks no more.

Miss Forrester is not dancing. She is growing impatient. Her restless

eyes wander ceaselessly to the door. He should have been here a full

hour ago; the train was due at eight, it is ten now. Can anything have

happened? Can he not be coming, after all? He telegraphed this morning

he would be with them by the eight o’clock train. Why does he not come?

“Will she dance?” Dance! No, she could as soon think of flying. She gets

away from Prince Di Venturini, who is present, and who dances like a

little yellow Italian angel; makes her way from the warm, brilliantly

lit, brilliantly filled saloon, to the cloak room, throws a heavy wrap

over her shining ball-dress, and goes out into the chill October night.

A wild autumnal gale is blowing, the trees rock in the stormy moonlight

that floods earth and sky and distant sea. She goes down the portico

steps and stands alone on the white, cold terrace. The stone urns gleam

like silver; Ajax in marble stands with his face uplifted to the purple

sky, defying the lightning. Above the roaring of the gale she can hear

the deeper, hoarser roar of the far-off sea, above all the sweet ringing

of the German waltz music within. The old stone Abbey is lit to the

roof—countless figures flit past the windows like shapes in a magic

lantern. She stands here alone, wondering why he does not come.

Suddenly, over the soughing of the wind, the tossing of the trees, there

comes a sound that makes her heart spring, her eyes light—the rapid

roll of the wheels up the drive. The carriage was sent two good hours

ago to meet him; all is well, he is here at last.

She leans eagerly forward. Yes! the tall form of her lover leaps out and

approaches. He sees the solitary figure standing on the terrace—the

pale, expectant, eager face upon which the white moon shines. He is by

her side in a moment, and France’s perfect hour has come.

“What! waiting for me?” he says; “getting your death out in the cold.

Come into the house immediately. How long have you been here?”

“Not long—ten minutes or more. I must confess to feeling just a trifle

uneasy. You are two hours behind time.”

“And you took it for granted that perishing in a ball-dress on the

terrace would fetch me the sooner,” growls Mr. Caryll, but he takes her

happy face between both his hands, and his frown changes to a smile.

“Yes, we’re two hours behind time; got shunted off—misplaced switch,

something wrong with the road—I was asleep at the time, and knew

nothing about it until we were under way again. High jinks going on

within, aren’t there? Awful bore to go and dress and face them all.”

“You would rather face a regiment of Sepoys, I dare say; but a brave man

never shows the white feather, be the danger what it may. Will you go to

your room at once?—the dear old atelier where my portrait was

painted—”

“And the unhappy painter hopelessly done for.”

“Has been fitted up for your use,” goes on Miss Forrester. “So run up at

once, get into regulation costume, and come down to be looked at.”

“Is there a very great crush, France?” Caryll asks, in dismay.

“Three hundred, if one; and as Miss Higgins has been stared at until

they can stare no more, you will be the cynosure of all; every eye will

be concentrated upon you.”

She laughs at his blank face, slips her hand through his arm, and leads

him into the house.

“How is grandmamma?” she asks; “and what did she say? Tell me

everything.”

“Tell you everything! They talk of the labor of Hercules; but to tell

you everything ‘grandmamma’ has said in the past seven weeks would be a

Herculean task indeed. She says this, for one thing—that you are to

join her in Rome next week, or a week after, at latest.”

“What! with you?”

“Forbid it, Mrs. Grundy. Oh, no! we don’t outrage the proprieties in

that fashion. With Lady Dynely, of course. She will chaperone you—will

she not?”

“Are you going back, Gordon?”

“Naturally. We part no more. My poor mother! It is something to be loved

as she loves me.”

“She knew you at once?”

“At once—the moment we met. She neither fainted nor screamed—it is a

wonderful old lady!—she just came forward and took me in her arms,