So in the dawning of the year, when Proserpine's returning footsteps were only faintly indicated by pale snowdrops and early violets lurking in sheltered hedges, and by the gold and purple of crocuses in all the cottage gardens, Christabel put on her wedding gown, and whiter than the pale ivory tint of the soft sheeny satin, took her seat in the carriage beside her adopted mother, to be driven down into the valley, and up the hilly street, where all the inhabitants of Boscastle--save those who had gone on before to congregate by the lich-gate--were on the alert to see the bride go by.
Mrs. Tregonell was paler than her niece, the fine regular features blanched with that awful pallor which tells of disease--but her eyes were shining with the light of gladness.
"My darling," she murmured, as they drove down to the harbour bridge, "I have loved you all your life, but never as I love you to-day. My dearest, you have filled my soul with content."
"I thank God that it should be so," faltered Christabel.
"If I could only see you smile, dear," said her aunt. "Your expression is too sad for a bride."
"Is it, Auntie? But marriage is a serious thing, dear. It means the dedication of a life to duty."
"Duty which affection will make very light, I hope," said Mrs. Tregonell, chilled by the cold statuesque face, wrapped in its cloudy veil. "Christabel, my love, tell me that you are not unhappy--that this marriage is not against your inclination. It is of your own free will that you give yourself to my boy?"
"Yes, of my own free will," answered Christabel, firmly.
As she spoke, it flashed upon her that Iphigenia would have given the same answer before they led her to the altar of offended Artemis. There are sacrifices offered with the victim's free consent, which are not the less sacrifices.
"Look, dear," cried her aunt, as the children, clustering at the school-house gate--dismissed from school an hour before their time--waved their sturdy arms, and broke into a shrill treble cheer, "everybody is pleased at this marriage."
"If you are glad, dearest, I am content," murmured her niece.
It was a very quiet wedding--or a wedding which ranks among quiet weddings now-a-days, when nuptial ceremonies are for the most part splendid. No train of bridesmaids in æsthetic colours, Duchess of Devonshire hats, and long mittens--no page-boys, staggering under gigantic baskets of flowers--no fuss or fashion, to make that solemn ceremony a raree-show for the gaping crowd. The Rector of Trevalga's two little girls were the only bridesmaids--dressed after Sir Joshua, in short-waisted dove-coloured frocks and pink sashes, mob caps and mittens, with big bunches of primroses and violets in their chubby hands.