“I am dressed,” said Lucinda.
“But, dear Lucinda—everybody will be waiting for you,” said Lizzie.
“Let them wait—till they’re tired. If Aunt Jane doesn’t choose to send, it is not my fault. I shan’t go out of this room today unless I am carried out. Do you want to hear that I have murdered the man?”
They brought her tea, and endeavoured to induce her to eat and drink. She would take the tea, she said, if they would promise to send to put the people off. Mrs. Carbuncle so far gave way as to undertake to do so, if she would name the next day or the day following for the wedding. But on hearing this she arose almost in a majesty of wrath. Neither on this day, or on the next, or on any following day, would she yield herself to the wretch whom they had endeavoured to force upon her. “She must do it, you know,” said Mrs. Carbuncle, turning to Lizzie. “You’ll see if I must,” said Lucinda, sitting square at the table, with her eyes firmly fixed upon the book.
Then came up the servant to say that the four bridesmaids were all assembled in the drawing-room. When she heard this, even Mrs. Carbuncle gave way, and threw herself upon the bed and wept. “Oh, Lady Eustace, what are we to do? Lucinda, you have destroyed me. You have destroyed me altogether, after all that I have done for you.”
“And what has been done to me, do you think?” said Lucinda.
Something must be settled. All the servants in the house by this time knew that there would be no wedding, and no doubt some tidings as to the misadventure of the day had already reached the four ladies in the drawing-room. “What am I to do?” said Mrs. Carbuncle, starting up from the bed.
“I really think you had better send to Mr. Emilius,” said Lizzie;—“and to Lord George.”
“What am I to say? Who is there to go? Oh—I wish that somebody would kill me this minute! Lady Eustace, would you mind going down and telling those ladies to go away?”
“And had I not better send Richard to the church?”
“Oh yes;—send anybody everywhere. I don’t know what to do. Oh, Lucinda, this is the unkindest and the wickedest, and the most horrible thing that anybody ever did! I shall never, never be able to hold up my head again.” Mrs. Carbuncle was completely prostrate, but Lucinda sat square at the table, firm as a rock, saying nothing, making no excuse for herself, with her eyes fixed upon the Bible.
Lady Eustace carried her message to the astonished and indignant bridesmaids, and succeeded in sending them back to their respective homes. Richard, glorious in new livery, forgetting that his flowers were still on his breast—ready dressed to attend the bride’s carriage—went with his sad message, first to the church and then to the banqueting-hall in Albemarle Street.
“Not any wedding?” said the headwaiter at the hotel. “I knew they was folks as would have a screw loose somewheres. There’s lots to stand for the bill, anyways,” he added, as he remembered all the tribute.
LXX
Alas!
No attempt was made to send other messages from Hertford Street than those which were taken to the church and to the hotel. Sir Griffin and Lord George went together to the church in a brougham, and, on the way, the best man rather ridiculed the change in life which he supposed that his friend was about to make. “I don’t in the least know how you mean to get along,” said Lord George.
“Much as other men do, I suppose.”
“But you’re always sparring, already.”
“It’s that old woman that you’re so fond of,” said Sir Griffin. “I don’t mean to have any ill-humour from my wife, I can tell you. I know who will have the worst of it if there is.”
“Upon my word, I think you’ll have your hands full,” said Lord George. They got out at a sort of private door attached to the chapel, and were there received by the clerk, who wore a very long face. The news had already come, and had been communicated to Mr. Emilius, who was in the vestry. “Are the ladies here yet?” asked Lord George. The woebegone clerk told them that the ladies were not yet there, and suggested that they should see Mr. Emilius. Into the presence of Mr. Emilius they were led, and then they heard the truth.
“Sir Griffin,” said Mr. Emilius, holding the baronet by the hand, “I’m sorry to have to tell you that there’s something wrong in Hertford Street.”
“What’s wrong?” asked Sir Griffin.
“You don’t mean to say that Miss Roanoke is not to be here?” demanded Lord George. “By George, I thought as much. I did indeed.”
“I can only tell you what I know, Lord George. Mrs. Carbuncle’s servant was here ten minutes since, Sir Griffin—before I came down, and he told the clerk that—that—”
“What the d⸺ did he tell him?” asked Sir Griffin.
“He said that Miss Roanoke had changed her mind, and didn’t mean to be married at all. That’s all that I can learn from what he says. Perhaps you will think it best to go up to Hertford Street?”
“I’ll be ⸻ if I do,” said Sir Griffin.
“I am not in the least surprised,” repeated Lord George. “Tewett, my boy, we might as well go home to lunch, and the sooner you’re out of town the better.”
“I knew that I should be taken in at last by that accursed woman,” said Sir Griffin.
“It wasn’t Mrs. Carbuncle, if you mean that. She’d have given her left hand to have had it completed. I rather think you’ve had an escape, Griff; and if I were you, I’d make the best of it.” Sir Griffin spoke not another word, but left the church with his friend in the brougham that had brought them, and so he disappears from our story. Mr. Emilius looked after him
