A HASTY MARRIAGE. 41
toasted as “the bride.” I slept brokenly, and woke with a racking headache, feverish and faint, and absolutely unable to stir. My kind hostess came and took charge of me; all day she held me in the pleasant captivity of the quiet, perfumed chamber, keeping intruders away; and not until dusk did she pronounce me convalescent, or fit to appear at her dinner- party.
I would gladly have evaded this ordeal; but I was really well enough now, and her kindness was not to be resisted. With all her other cares she lent her own assistance to her maid’s in arranging my toilet, and took as deep an inte- rest in the result as if I had been her daughter. I selected a rich black dress covered with violet ribbons, and with many pleasantries about my sober taste, she led me down stairs.
“You have been missed among us, I assure you,” she whispered, as she paused a moment in the ante-room te shake out her lace flounces. “I have had a thousand questions to answer in your behalf, and Mr. Harter has been waiting impatiently to lead you down.”
We were in the room before I could reply, or control the hurried beating of my heart. What could she mean? The floor seemed to whirl beneath my feet as Mr. Harter took my hand, and at the signal for dinner, transferred it to his arm.
I suppose I answered when addressed, and otherwise sustained my part—for the habit of society teaches us so far to control our emotions; but the grand dinner was a Barmecide feast to me, and less. Mr. Harter sat beside me—silent, except for the ordinary courtesies ef the table; but by his very presence, manner, and attentions, seeming to establish a claim upon me that I felt unable to comprehend or resist.
He was to be, it appeared, the hero of the evening; for he invited all those present to spend it at his house, and go from Mrs. Martyn’s delightful hospitality to his own. “All,’ he repeated, with a wistful, deprecatory glance at me, “if no one objects.”
No one objected; but, on the contrary, his proposal was received with acclamations, and coffee was served earlier to facilitate our departure. As we left the room, Mr. Harter spoke, for the first time, directly addressing me.
“Sylvia,” he whispered, “would it be too much if I asked you to exchange that sober dress for something gayer and lighter, more like yourself, to do honor to my fete?”
His tone and manner were constrained, but there was an indefinable something in both— an assertion of interest in, and responsibility for me—that made my heart stand still at first, then throb more quickly. An instinct of rebellion urged me to refuse to oblige him; to reply that I should not join the party, and was going elsewhere—but this was quite impossible. Mrs. Martyn had accepted the invitation for all her guests. I could not remain behind, and at this hour—what could I do, where should I go? For this one day fate and fortune had, somehow, prevailed against me—my destiny seemed in the hands of others, and I no longer my own mistress; but the next, I averred to myself, both should be conquered, and I be free as air.
While I hesitated, some one spoke behind us— it was Mrs. Martyn, exhorting such as desired to make any change in their dress, to do so at once, while the sleighs were getting ready.
I went upstairs mechanically. Like one in a dream I put on a gay blue silk, the handsomest I had; a white cloak with a tasseled hood; pearls on my neck and arms, and in my ears. When I returned, Mr. Harter stepped forward; everybody seemed already paired off. Could my old intimates leave me so readily to a stranger? A certain hard, defiant feeling came to me with the pain of this conviction, and taking my escort’s offered arm, I walked on proudly.
Mr. Harter’s sleigh was again waiting, but this time it was an elegant little affair, drawn by a pair of spirited black ponies, that tossed their pretty heads and champed upon their silver bits with pretty impatience. As soon as they were set free they darted off, leading the way lightly, and with a motion so swift and straight that the shell, with its trailing robes, must have seemed to those behind to be shooting like a bird onward, and imitating its arrowy flight.
It was a lovely moonlight night, very mild and fair, and the mellow rays shone full on white roads and whiter fields. The task of guiding the fairy vehicle seemed so easy and delightful, that I broke the awkward silence by expressing my admiration of the ponies, and requesting to be allowed to drive them for a moment. The fresh air and the rapid motion had so far revived my spirits; but they sank again as my companion relinquished the reins, with the single simple answer,
“Certainly—they are yours.”
I would have drawn back, but dared not, and, coward-like, dreaded more than anything else, question or explanation. I drove on desperately in utter silence for miles; Mr. Harter sitting by my side, motionless and speechless, like an Indian. Something in his mute patience
