There was so shocked and startled a look on Colin’s face, that Tibbie believed that his brother must be dead, and when in a few almost inaudible words he told her that he must start for Bishopsworthy by the afternoon train, she fairly began to scold, partly by way of working off the irritation left by her alarm. “The lad’s clean demented! Heard ye ever the like, to rin awa’ frae his new-made wife afore the blessin’s been weel spoke; an’ a’ for the whimsie of that daft English lassie that made siccan a piece of work wi’ her cantrips.”
“I am afraid she is right now,” said the Colonel, “and my brother must not be left any longer.”
“Hout awa, Maister Colin, his lordship has come between you and your luve oft enough already, without partin’ ye at the very church door. Ye would na have the English cast up to us, that one of your name did na ken better what was fittin by his bride!”
“My bride must be the judge, Tibbie. You shall see whether she bids me stay,” said Colin, a little restored by his amusement at her anxiety for his honour among the English. “Now desire Smith to meet me at the church door, and ride at once from thence to Avoncester; and get your face ready to give a cheerful welcome, Tibbie. Let her have that, at least, whatever may come after.”
Tibbie looked after him, and shook her head, understanding from her ain laddie’s pallid check, and resolute lip, nay, in the very sound of his footfall, how sore was his trial, and with one-sided compassion she muttered, “Telegrafted awa on his vera weddin’ day. His Lordship’ll be the death o’ them baith before he’s done.”
As it was in every way desirable that the wedding should be unexpected by Avonmonth in general, it was to take place at the close of the ordinary morning service, and Ermine in her usual seat within the vestry, was screened from knowing how late was Colin’s entrance, or seeing the determined composure that would to her eyes have betrayed how much shaken he was. He was completely himself again by the time the congregation dispersed, leaving only Grace Curtis, Lady Temple, and the little best man, Conrade, a goodly sight in his grey suit and scarlet hose. Then came the slow movement from the vestry, the only really bridal-looking figure being Rose in white muslin and white ribbons; walking timidly and somewhat in awe beside her younger aunt; while her father upheld and guided the elder. Both were in quiet, soft, dark dresses, and straw bonnets, but over hers Ermine wore the small though exquisite Brussels lace veil that had first appeared at her mother’s wedding; and thankful joy and peaceful awe looked so lovely on her noble brow, deep, soft dark eyes, and the more finely moulded, because somewhat worn, features; and so beauteously deepened was the carnation on her cheek, that Mr. Mitchell ever after maintained that he had never married anyone to compare with that thirty-three years’ old bride upon crutches, and, as he reported to his wife, in no dress at all.
Her brother, who supported her all the time she stood, was infinitely more nervous than she was. Her native grace and dignity, and absence of all false shame entirely covered her helplessness, and in her earnestness, she had no room for confusion; her only quivering of voice was caught for one moment from the tremulous intensity of feeling that Colin Keith could not wholly keep from thrilling in his tones, as he at last proclaimed his right to love and to cherish her for whom he had so long persevered.
Unobserved, he filled up the half-written despatch with the same pen with which he signed the register, and sent Conrade to the door with it to his already mounted messenger. Then assuming Edward’s place as Ermine’s supporter, he led her to the door, seated her in her wheeled chair, and silently handing Rachel’s note as his explanation to Alison, he turned away, and walked alone by Ermine’s side to his own house. Still silent, he took her into the bright drawing-room he had so long planned for her, and seated her in her own peculiar chair. Then his first words were, “Thank God for this!”
She knew his face. “Colin, your brother is worse?” He bent his head, he could not speak.
“And you have to go to him! This very day?”
“Ermine, you must decide. You are at last my first duty!”
“That means that you know you ought to go. Tell me what it is.”
He told the substance of the note, ending with, “If you could come with me!”
“I would if I should not be a tie and hindrance. No, I must not do that; but here I am, Colin, here I am. And it is all true—it has all come right at last! All we waited for. Nothing has ever been like this.”
She was the stronger. Tears, as much of loving thankfulness as of overflowing disappointment, rushed into his eyes at such a fulfilment of the purpose that he had carried with him by sea and land, in battle and sickness, through all the years of his manhood. And withal her one thought was to infuse in its strongest measure the drop of happiness that was to sustain him through the scenes that awaited him, to make him feel her indeed his wife, and to brighten him with the sunbeam face that she knew had power to cheer him. Rallying her playfulness, she took off her bonnet, and said as she settled her hair, “There, that is being at home! Take my shawl, yes, and these white gloves, and put them out of sight, that I may not feel like a visitor, and that you may see how I shall look when you come back. Do you know,
