CHAPTER XXXV.

DORIS'S WEDDING.

Breakfast is considerably later than usual the next morning, in consequence of the gaieties of the previous night. Mrs. Merivale has therefore made an effort to be present on this occasion in order to hear full accounts of the ball.

Lady Woodhouse has now somewhat recovered from her fatigue, but the girls all look pale and heavy-eyed, being altogether unaccustomed to such late hours. Molly sits in a hopeless state of yawning, hardly eating any breakfast, and leaving all the others to do the talking, only throwing in a word here and there. Doris has been scolding her mother for her part in what she calls the _trick_ played upon her as to the real position of her _fiancé_, and Mrs. Merivale has more than once been obliged to appeal laughingly to her sister for support in what she holds out as her _reasons_ against her daughter's arguments.

That young lady at length clinches the matter by emphatically declaring it to be all "fudge," whatever that may be, and that she is quite surprised at Lancelot having behaved so badly.

"Yes," presently remarks Lady Woodhouse, chipping the top off an egg, "I will say this for your girls, Mary,--a more lady-like, refined trio you could not see. If they were not here," she continues with an inconsistency worthy of the Emerald Isle itself, "I should go on to say what is perfectly true, that they were the admiration of the greater part of the guests, and the envy of the rest. Why, if their programmes had been as long as my arm, they could have filled them over and over. O, yes, I certainly feel well repaid for those long, weary hours of sitting there, pretending I liked it, when I would _far_ rather have been in my bed. Well, as I said before, the girls do you credit, Mary. You and that excellent Miss Denison that was; you would have brought them up to be refined even had they had to go out charing. Good gracious! here's that cat of yours playing with my shoe-strings. Take him away, Molly, do! And now, Doris, what is this you are telling us about Sir Edward? If he wants you to marry him in three weeks' time instead of several months, why in the world shouldn't you do so?"

"It is so quick, aunt," objects Doris.

"Quick? What nonsense, child! And now, let me tell you this, Doris, and I am sure your mother will agree with me. Considering that you are going to your husband without so much as a sixpence of your own, I think it is your duty--do you hear?--your _duty_ to consider his wishes. Goodness knows, the property has been neglected long enough; and if Sir Edward wishes to settle down on his estate as quickly as he can, I don't see why _you_ should raise objections. _Do_ leave off twirling that knife round, Dick. It fidgets me to death."

After a good deal of argument on the subject, it is settled that Doris (in her aunt's wording) shall behave herself like a sensible young woman, and inform Sir Edward, who is to call at twelve o'clock that morning, that she is ready to be borne off to the altar at any moment he shall think desirable; and Molly, suddenly looking up at the clock and remembering that she is due at the Hallams at half-past ten, darts away from the table to put on her hat.

And so it comes to pass that the wedding is fixed for that day three weeks.

Much as Sir Edward would have wished for a quiet wedding--just simply the Merivale party and a few of his own relatives--it is found to be impossible, under all the circumstances. So Doris finds (not entirely to her chagrin) that she is, after all, to have the grand wedding which she has always promised herself on the occasion of her union with the much-talked-of duke. Although the house for the next three weeks is in a perfect uproar of preparation regarding everything appertaining to the bride's trousseau, much trouble, and expense too, is taken off their hands by the Mr. Talboys, who insist, taking no denial, on giving the breakfast at their own house.

Grave and long, therefore, are the consultations held by the old gentlemen with Mrs. Edwards, their cook and housekeeper, and anxious the discussions with Priscilla, the parlour-maid, on the subject of certain valuable silver and china, which are stored away in the depths of a capacious closet, and have not seen the light of day for years.

Nearly all Doris's time is taken up in trying on and being fitted, until she hardly knows what dresses she does possess. Many are the notes of thanks, too, which she has to write for the really nice presents she receives, conspicuous amongst which are a beautiful set of amethysts from Mr. Edward, and another of fine pearls from Mr. Benjamin Talboys.

Sir John and Lady Woodhouse have come forward most generously in the matter of the trousseau, the former having said to his wife: "We must see that little Doris is well set up for gowns and bonnets and so forth, my dear. I should not like her to step into such a position scantily supplied. You see it is our duty, as it were, to see the affair all through satisfactorily, the young people having met so often while Doris was under our charge."

And so the rich silk embroidered with seed pearls in which Doris now stands, waiting for her carriage, has been the gift of her kind uncle, as well as most of the other dresses; and while, before starting for the church, he clasps upon the girl's wrist a slender band of pearls (his wedding present), he whispers to her, "You must never forget, my dear, that _I_ was the attraction, and that Sir Edward always came to see _me_, not _you_, you know!" and laughingly patting her cheek, he trots away after his wife.

No less a personage than the Earl of Castleton has solicited the honour of giving away the bride, partly on account of his friendship with Sir Edward, but quite as much for the real liking he has taken to "little Miss Doris," as he calls her.

Lord Castleton seems every bit as nervous as Doris herself on this occasion, for he fusses about the room, first to the window then to the mantel-piece, taking little sniffs here and there at the flowers, then back again to the window. He can think of nothing particular to say either, excepting every now and then expatiating on the beauty of the day, which has certainly turned out lovely, and also begging Doris not to be nervous.

He is just admiring the beautiful diamond necklace (Sir Edward's gift) which Doris wears, when the carriage is announced, and the earl, with a dignity which fills the stragglers at the gate with awe, proudly conducts the bride to it.

Lord Hinton acts as best-man to his friend, Sir Edward, and the ceremony once over, he of course takes Honor into his charge as first bridesmaid, Dr. John Sinclair accepting the inevitable with a fairly good grace, remarking as he follows the rest of the party down the aisle with Molly on his arm:

"You and I must console each other, Molly; we both seem rather out of it to-day, though your turn will come as surely as mine yet."

The moment has now come when Doris must take leave of all her family and the kind friends standing around her. She is looking lovely in her plainly-made dress of dark green cloth and tan Suède waistcoat and facings, with bonnet and gloves to match. Though when bidding her adieux the tears are standing in her soft blue eyes, she wisely keeps them from falling (for after all it is not a compliment to one's bridegroom to start on the wedding tour in floods of tears); and as she takes her husband's arm and goes down the steps, she turns before entering the carriage and throws a beaming glance back to them all.

In another moment, amidst a perfect storm of rice, the Mr. Talboys actually struggling with Dick and John Sinclair for the largest quantities, Sir Edward and Lady Ferrars are off, _en route_ to Seaforth Abbey, one of Lord Castleton's seats in the neighbourhood of the English lakes, which he has placed at their disposal for the honeymoon.