“NOW, Bertha, say the word, and let us be married at once. I have told you what Soft Sam has said. You know our position. At any moment this scoundrel may do us a mischief.”
“And what if he does, I’m not afraid; and I am surprised at you, a strong man, fearing a coward who is afraid to show himself!”
“That is just it, Bertha! If he would only show himself. I am afraid of no man alive; but a crawling wretch who springs on you unawares, I fear him as I would a death adder in the dark.”
“What can he do? He has not hurt either of us yet.”
“I suppose you think your cab drive was a pleasure trip?”
“Well, after all, Alec, there was not much harm done, was there? I was awfully frightened and all that kind of thing, but it was all right when you came.”
“You will drive me mad, Bertha! I believe you try to provoke me on purpose! Will you, or won’t you, marry me now?”
“When is now?”
“Say to-morrow!”
“Impossible!”
“Why impossible?”
“In the first place, I must get my dress ready, and then there are the bridesmaids. Who would be bridesmaids at a day’s notice?”
“Oh, bother the bridesmaids. We don’t want any bridesmaids. Let them rip!”
“If I don’t have bridesmaids I won’t be married. A marriage without bridesmaids! Who ever heard of such a thing! I don’t believe it would be a proper marriage at all!”
“Oh, yes, it would—as safe as the bank!”
“Safe or no safe, I’ll be married properly or not at all.”
“Perhaps you would rather be carried off in a cab?”
“Well, your marriage would be nearly as bad! Go and write our name in a book, the same as you do at a picture-gallery, and a man in a light suit says, ‘Three-and-sixpence, please. You are married. Next!’ You can bury me that way if you like to but marry me, never!”
“Say your own time then; only pray be reasonable, Bertha. I am fearful for myself, I own, but I am doubly fearful for you. Every time I see you I fear it may be the last.”
“I suppose I must give in; you men are so impatient! Let us say this day month. That is the very, very earliest.”
“A month, Bertha! Why not say twelve at once?”
“I will say twelve if you like. That would be much better, only I thought you were in such a hurry.”
“I should like to swear to myself for a few minutes, Bertha, if you would kindly walk on a little way ahead.”
“What you can see to be so cross about I can’t make out. You have everything your own way. You ask me to marry you in twelve months, and I agree to it. What more can you want?”
“You are trying to take a rise out of me—I can see clear enough. But be a little reasonable, Bertha. Say three days, four days—in fact, say just how long it takes these blessed bridesmaids to get themselves groomed and in proper training for the job!”
“Now you are more reasonable, Alec. We might—mind, I am not sure—we might get ready in a fortnight.”
With this promise Alec had to be satisfied, or make the best of it. He had succeeded in knocking fifty per cent. off the first estimate, and was correspondingly elated. Perhaps he would not have been quite so pleased with himself had he known that for more than a week past Bertha’s bridal dress had been completed, that the bridesmaids were long ago chosen, and their arrangements made; that even the church and officiating minister had been selected, and, as a matter of fact, the marriage could have been solemnized with all those rights dear to the heart of womankind two days from date.
Alec did not know this, and he was contented.
* * * * *
A fortnight later the Sydney Evening Times had the following paragraph in its column of social news—
“St. Clement’s Church, Church Hill, Sydney, was yesterday the scene of a very pretty wedding, the occasion being the marriage of Miss Bertha Summerhayes, a popular Sydney belle, and Mr. Alexander Booth, the well-known sportsman, and owner of the winner of the last Sydney Cup. The church had been very prettily decorated by the friends of the bride, wreaths of waratah and rock lilies being used with great effect. A miniature avenue of tree ferns led from the gateway to the church entrance, and wild flowers were not only used in the profuse decoration, but were also scattered as a carpet for the happy pair. The bride was married from the residence of her old friend Professor Norris, the eminent and well-known specialist in character reading.
“Punctually at half-past two the entrancing sound of the march from Tannhäuser on the organ announced the arrival of the carriages with the bridal party. The bride was attired in a lovely gown of green peau-de-soie, with berthe of old Brussels bone-point lace also cream in tint, the corsage adorned with orange flowers.
“She carried an exquisite bouquet of white lilies and maiden-hair ferns, and over all fell a soft tulle veil in graceful folds to the ground. A magnificent diamond bracelet, the gift of the bridegroom, was her only jewel. Miss Ruby Jones, a friend of the bride, was maid of honour, and wore a toilette of old gold silk, with gloves and shoes to match; she wore a richly-chased gold bangle, a present from the bridegroom, and also carried a bouquet of lilies and ferns. Miss Florrie Simpson, the second bridesmaid, was likewise attired in old gold silk, and she carried a duplicate bangle and bouquet. The whole effect of colour was a delicious harmony of cream and gold.
“Mr. Booth was attended by Mr. Jenkins, the well-known and popular host of the Golden Bar. After the ceremony, which was performed by the Rev. A. A. Softword, the bridal party left the church to the strains of the grand march of Mendelssohn, ably played by that eminent organist, Mr. Treadfast, and adjourned to the residence of Mr. Norris. Here a sumptuous breakfast was prepared, and the house made a little fairyland with palms and tropical foliage.
“After the health of the bride and bridegroom had been duly honoured, Mr. and Mrs. Booth left amidst a shower of rice and rose-leaves on their tour through the Blue Mountain district. The bride wore a fashionable Newmarket walking gown, tailor made, of a light fawn tint, with sunshade and hat en suite. The presents were costly and too numerous to give in detail. One exception must be made in favour of a wonderful and rare piece of art, a stirrup-cup in chased gold and enamel, of Viennese workmanship, a present to the bridal pair from the members of the A.J.C.”