A Bride of a Summer’s Day

I

Crash went the bells from All Saints tower; “One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight,” jangled the bells of old Saint Clement’s in response; and then All Saints fired off its volley again.

The crowd parted, the children scattered their flowers, and the bride passed out of the church leaning on the arm of her newly-made husband.

Very fair to look at was this bride. She was tall and slender in figure, and owned to features that might have been chiselled out of a block of marble, for their faultless regularity. Her complexion was a pure white, with scarce a vestige of colour. Hair of a bright, dark brown; eyes of a deep grey, overarched with long, sweeping eyebrows, that finished in a delicate line on the temples, completed the picture.

This was Ida, elder daughter of George, fifth Baron Culvers, on the day that she was married to her cousin, Captain Sefton Culvers, late of the Royal Hussars.

Between the bride and bridegroom there was just that amount of likeness that might be expected between such near relatives; that is to say, he owned to a figure as tall and lithe as hers, a nose as straight, eyes as large and luminous. But there likeness ended. The look from the girl’s eyes was clear and straightforward; the look from the man’s was neither the one nor the other, and could the long, dark moustache, which hid the lines and curves of his mouth, have been removed, the receding chin and long, uncleft upper lip, which mark the pleasure-loving, vacillating nature, would at once have stood revealed.

“A very suitable marriage; she has the money, he will have the title,” said certain of the wedding-guests, as they settled themselves in the carriages that were to convey them from the church to the house, two miles out of the town, which had been lent to Lord Culvers for the occasion.

And then they fell to discussing sundry scraps of gossip afloat in society respecting the bride and her family; how that since Lord Culvers’s second marriage, his home had not been exactly a paradise to him, for Ida, in spite of her loveliness, had a temper and a will of her own, and had known how to stand up not only for her own rights, but also for those of her twin-sister, Juliet.

“To think of a man in his position marrying his daughter’s governess and chaperon,” said an elderly dowager, who would not at all have minded being the second Lady Culvers herself.

And from that they drifted on to the discussion of other items in Lord Culvers’s family life, his own placid, easygoing temper as compared with the restless, excitable temperament of his first wife—a temperament which there could not be a doubt she had bequeathed, together with her beauty, to her daughters.

“If they were not beauties and heiresses,” said one, “no one would put up with their odd whims and fancies.”

“To think,” chimed in another, “that Ida chose to be married at Hastings for the whole and sole reason that her mother lies buried in All Saints churchyard! If she had been my daughter I would not have given way to such a ridiculous whim. But there, everyone knows how completely Lord Culvers is ruled by his womenkind.”

Assuredly it seemed an odd fancy for a bride to choose the church for her wedding, for the reason that the funeral service had been read over her mother’s coffin in the chancel of that church, some twenty years back.

A second strange fancy was to be announced by the bride before the day was over.

To the surprise of everyone, when she came downstairs equipped for travelling, in a neat grey dress and hat, her beautiful bouquet of orchids and orange-blossoms was still in her hand.

“What are you going to do with it, Ida?” asked one of the bridesmaids, coming forward; “you surely don’t mean to carry it away with you?”

But that was exactly what she did mean to do. She stooped—for he was a short man—and kissed her father, then she shook hands rather formally with her stepmother, then passed on to her sister, to whom she gave one long kiss, a kiss that was in very truth a farewell and a “Heaven bless you!” though not a word was spoken by either.

It was at the door of the carriage that stood waiting to convey her and her husband to the railway station, en route for the Swiss lakes, that the destination of the bridal bouquet was to be revealed.

“Sefton,” said the girl, turning to her husband, and speaking in a tone that had more of a command than a request in it, “will you tell the coachman to drive first to All Saints churchyard—I want to lay these flowers on my mother’s grave.”

The guests assembled under the porch, with their rice and old satin shoes, exchanged glances. It was like the sound of a funeral-bell in the midst of a feast.

“My dear love!” cried Lady Culvers, rustling forward in her silks and velvets, “let someone else do that for you!” then, as Ida deigned no reply, and the coachman touched his horses with the whip, she turned to Juliet, who was standing at her elbow straining her eyes to see the last of her darling sister, and exclaimed, “Oh, what odd fancies she has! Where can she get them from?”

“From my father, of course,” answered Juliet, promptly; “his odd fancies are only too well known.” And the tone in which she spoke the words gave as their undercurrent of meaning: “If it had not been for my father’s odd fancies, you would be Miss Pigott at the present moment, our devoted and obedient chaperon, writing our letters for us, doing everything in fact that we didn’t feel inclined to do, and showering gratitude upon us in return for our odds and ends of silks and laces.”

These two sisters resembled each other in face and figure as only twin sisters could; Juliet, in fact, might have been called the replica of Ida, with license, however, given to the artist to repeat his original design with a lighter brush and in slightly brighter colour. And not alone in face and figure was their twinship proclaimed, in temperament and character the same striking resemblance was apparent. Each was bright, gay, imaginative, quick-tempered and quick-witted, and, as a rule, the wishes and opinions of one might have been taken without a question as the wishes and opinions of the other. What of seriousness, if any, might lie beneath their apparently reckless gaiety of mood and manner would have been a difficult question for even their most intimate friends to determine.

The cloud that had gathered on Juliet’s face as she had kissed her farewell to her sister disappeared with the sound of the carriage wheels that bore her away. She looked around at the guests. To her fancy they all more or less appeared bored or triste. Even her father’s placid face, with its benignant smile, had an unmistakeable look of weariness upon it—a look which said plainly as words could: “I wish to goodness all this fuss and botheration were over, and I could quietly slip away to an easy-chair and a cigar.”

It was too tempting! Something she must do, someone she must stir into animation, or she would become drowsy and stupid, like the rest.

So she crossed the room to her father’s side, a vision of poetic loveliness in her soft, white silk robes, with their maize trimmings and tea-roses, but with a smile on her lip, and mischief in her heart, that would have suited sprite Puck himself.

“Father,” she said, in the quiet, cooing voice she generally affected when one of her most tricksy moods was upon her, “about twenty names have just come into my head—of people who ought to have been asked today. And they all begin with an N! Is it possible that when Ida and I made out the list we turned over two leaves of the visiting-book together, and so went on from M to O? There’ll be no end of botherations when we get back to town.”

Lord Culvers’s benignant smile vanished. Nature had sent him into the world with a disposition as peaceful and placid as a still lake amid mountains, and Fate had linked his lot with temperaments as restless and turbulent as the ocean itself. Was life for him to be forever whirlpool and worry?

An exclamation of annoyance rose to his lips. A voice, however, over Juliet’s shoulder intercepted it.

“Juliet,” it said, “come into the garden a moment. I want specially to speak to you. I haven’t had an opportunity before.”

The speaker was a man of about eight-and-twenty, a tall, well-built young fellow, with crisp, curly hair of a reddish-brown, and very prominent, very bright, brown eyes. His face was of the type one sees in classic pictures or Roman sculpture, and that one associates with the helmet, spear, and shield of Mars, or of Hector, or Achilles. And lo! he came of a race that had been moneygrubbers for generations—the Redways of London, Liverpool, and New York, world-renowned as merchant-princes, and of late years as financiers and bankers.

This was Clive Redway, Juliet’s affianced lover, only son of Joshua Redway, the present representative of the firm, and the owner of large estates in two English counties, a deer-forest in Scotland, and one of the most palatial of modern houses to be found in London.

Juliet followed her lover into the garden.

Glynde Lodge, the house that had been lent to Lord Culvers for the wedding, was small and unpretending, and stood in a few acres of land abutting on the high-road between Ore and Hastings.

The trees it owned to were ill-grown and but few in number, consequently, although the rays of the June sun were already beginning to slant, the unshadowed lawn and gravelled walks did not look attractive as promenades.

“Oh, my complexion!” cried Juliet, holding her bouquet of tea-roses slantwise over her face, and leading the way across the lawn to a small arbour at its farther end.

“Never mind about your complexion just for once,” said the young man, almost irritably; “I want to know about this wedding. Last night, you know, I couldn’t get you alone for five minutes. I was never more astounded in my life than when I had your letter, six weeks ago, just as I was starting for home. Why, when I left for the Cape, it was not even talked about. You knew next to nothing of this cousin of yours.”

“That was because he was always away with his regiment, you know. But we had always heard that he was charming, and delightful, and fascinating”—this with a mischievous side-glance at her companion—“and when father asked him to spend Christmas with us, at Dering, I jumped and clapped my hands, and ordered the loveliest tea-gowns and ball-dresses, and—”

“Do be serious a moment, Juliet; I want information. Remember, I know next to nothing how the thing came about.”

“Oh, well, I suppose it came about in the usual way. I’ve no doubt he asked her and she said ‘Yes.’ I don’t suppose she asked him.”

Clive made a gesture of annoyance.

“To think that Ida should throw herself away on such a man as that!” he said in a low, constrained tone.

Juliet arched her eyebrows at him.

“Why, what is the matter with him?” she exclaimed. “Our first cousin, next heir to the title, handsome, good talker, plays tennis delightfully, sings divinely! Why, I nearly fell in love with him myself.”

Here she threw another mischievous side-glance at her companion, a glance, however, which was lost on him. They were now seated side by side in the arbour, and Clive was leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, his hands half covering his face.

He did not speak for a minute or two. Juliet began beating a tattoo with her satin slipper on the floor.

Presently, he had another question to ask. It was:

“What was it brought Ida home from Florence in such a hurry? When I started for the Cape, if you remember, she had just taken it into her head that she must be an artist, and had flown off to study in the Florentine Galleries.”

“There go the Bethunes,” said Juliet, “in the brightest of grass-greens—to match the buttercup tint of their complexions, I suppose. And there go the Murrays, in bluish-green and yellow, like so many tomtits.”

From the arbour in which they were seated they could get a clear view of the drive, adown which the carriages of departing guests were now beginning to roll.

Again Clive made an impatient movement.

“Will you mind answering my question, Juliet?” he said in a tone that showed his annoyance.

“Oh, what was it? There go the St. Johns, in salmon-pink, both of them, and they’re fifty if they’re a day! Oh, I beg your pardon. What brought Ida back from Florence, did you say? My letters, I suppose. I used to fill pages with rapturous accounts of Sefton and his many good qualities, and I dare say she thought she would like to come and see him for herself. Oh, then, too, I told her how disagreeable Peggy had been over one or two things, and I suppose she thought she had better come home and take her in hand for a time.”

“Peggy” was the nickname that the young ladies had bestowed upon Miss Pigott in the days of her chaperonage and general usefulness. They preferred to retain the name now that Miss Pigott had become Lady Culvers, and occasionally brought it out with admirable effect.

“And I suppose,” said Clive, slowly, “when she came back that man was staying down in Northamptonshire with you, she was caught by his surface attractions, and before anyone could say a word the thing was done. It’s a marvel to me that your father did not put his veto on it at the outset.”

“Father!” exclaimed Juliet. “Why, he was delighted. He knows that Sefton must sooner or later come in for the title, and for Dering, too, and that he hasn’t money enough to keep it up, and it seemed to him a splendid arrangement that Ida’s money should be kept in the family. There go the Conroys! Oh, that girl has been lead-pencilling her dimple again, one can see it a mile off! Everyone’s going, I think. I’d better go back to the house now. Peggy will be thinking too much of herself if I leave her to say the goodbyes entirely on her own account.”

They both rose. Juliet made one step forward, then paused.

“One moment, Clive,” she said, “you’ve been asking me no end of questions—oh, I couldn’t count them on my fingers—will you mind just answering one? What makes you dislike Sefton as you do? Do you really know anything against him?”

Clive flushed a deep red, and for a moment did not speak.

“According to your own showing,” the girl went on, “you have only occasionally met him in society. There really can be nothing to bring against him, or, depend upon it, our kind friends, one way or another, would have been sure to have done so when they congratulated us on the marriage.”

Clive drew a long breath.

“No,” he said, slowly, “I suppose there is really nothing that I can bring against the man, although it has never been clearly explained why he sent in his papers to the Horse Guards. Your father knew of his debts, no doubt. All the world knew of them; but debts, though bad enough, are scarcely enough to condemn a man utterly. The only thing—”

He broke off abruptly, his face growing white and drawn as of a man in pain. But Juliet did not note his change of expression. Her eyes were fixed on a distant view of an elaborate arrangement of peach-coloured satin and velvet, out of which looked the round red face of Lady Culvers.

“Oh, look at Peggy trying to do the dignified,” cried the girl, laughingly. “Those are some of Ida’s greatest friends, and my lady is bowing them out with stately dignity. I must go and detain them and gush over them for at least half an hour under her very eyelids!”

Clive did not follow her across the lawn to the house, but went his way along a narrow path which led circuitously through the orchard to another entrance, thereby avoiding a series of friendly recognitions from the departing guests; recognitions for which he felt strangely disinclined that day.

He drew his hat lower over his eyes; his face still looked white and drawn.

“There’s no one who walks this earth good enough for her,” he muttered to himself as he went along; and his eyes assuredly were not turned in the direction where Juliet, in her pretty white robes, stood “gushing” over guests whom Lady Culvers would fain have kept at a distance.