Two bad blue eyes

It is Lauraine Douglas' wedding-day.

A delicious gleam of sunshine streams through the curtained windows--flickers over the dainty arrangements of the toilet-table, loses itself in the white wonders of lace, linen, and embroidery strewed about in different directions, and finally wanders to a dusky head on the pillows, and plays at hide and seek over the closed eyelids of a very lovely face.

The eyelids open--quite suddenly, quite wakefully--not with any half-and-half preparation--any symptom of sleepiness.

The inquisitive sunbeam has done its work, and retreats bashfully now as two white arms are thrown suddenly up and placed beneath the girl's head, and resting thus she takes a survey of the mysterious garments, the pretty room, the aspect of the weather, as promised by the wealth of prodigal sunlight, and, finally, the clock on the opposite chimney-piece.

"My wedding-day!"--so ran her thoughts.

"Only a few hours more and I am Lauraine Douglas no longer! Only a few hours and the old life and the things of it are done and past for ever--for ever. How strange it seems to think of that now! ... My wedding-day! ... How different I thought it would be once. How different I thought I should feel. Oh, Keith! Keith! what an old, far-away dream that looks. I suppose you have long ago forgotten it. And yet how we loved each other ... you and I! A boy-and-girl fancy, my mother calls it. Well, perhaps, it was; it is long enough since I heard from him, and I suppose he has long forgotten me. I wonder if he has made the fortune he spoke of yet? But what on earth makes me think of these things to-day, of all days? ... And so it really is my wedding-day at last! I wonder how most girls feel on their wedding-day! I can't say I feel in any way different--no stir, or flutter, or anticipation of any description. I am glad it is going to be fine, and how nice to be able to wear real orange blossoms! Sir Francis was very good to send them. I wonder if I shall ever think of him and call him anything but Sir Francis. Somehow I never can. I wish he was not so old--old, at least, for me, and I wish he did not love me in quite such a fierce, wild fashion. I seem to have been quite swept off my feet by the current of his passion and my mother's persuasions.... After all, I suppose one must be married some time or other ... only--only----"

She breaks off with a sudden sigh, and sits up in the bed, pushing off the thick, dusky hair from her brows with an impatient gesture.

"It is no use deceiving myself. I am going to be married and I hate the thought, and how I have been dragged into it I scarcely know. Sometimes I think I should never have yielded.... How oddly one drifts into things! ... And Sir Francis is so infatuated, and it seemed no use saying 'No.' I wish he were not so jealous. I can't understand the feeling myself. I wonder what it's like? Not pleasant by any means, if I am to judge by my future lord and master. Will he be my master, I wonder? How I should hate to be ordered about, and kept in check, and ruled! Mamma is bad enough, in all conscience; but, still, I have managed to get my own way with her, pretty often. How she has badgered me about this marriage, and what a desperate hurry they have been in to get it off! Heigho! only a month since I bartered my liberty for--for--ahem!--shall I go over all 'the good gifts that crown me queen' of this much-sought-after baronet? Unencumbered estates, magnificent income, ancient family--pooh! how sickening it is! After all, what do I care for these things? One comfort is, I go to him heart-whole. No sentiments in the background, no lovers to moan and fret over. I wonder if I am really cold-hearted, or if I never shall fall in love? Gracious! what am I saying? That folly must be over after 11.30 to-day. I suppose the nearest approach to it was that boy-and-girl romance with Keith. Poor old Keith! What a nice boy he was, and what a dare-devil, impetuous, headstrong sort of fellow! No milk-and-water lover he--a regular torrent of impetuosity, bearing one along, whether one would or no. I suppose he has forgotten me though, and no wonder. How rude mamma was to him, and how delighted when he turned his back on the Old World and went off to the New! I suppose if I ever see him again he will be a regular Yankee, and talk like that dreadful woman, Mrs. Bradshaw B. Woollffe, as she calls herself. And she will be at the breakfast, after all! Mamma would ask her. Heavens! how she does worship money! But I suppose that comes of having had so little all her life."

A little sleepy yawn comes in here, then the pretty head turns away from the sunlight, and nestles itself among the pillows again. But it is no use to woo sleep any longer. The eyes remain open, and the brain is busy with thoughts, until at eight o'clock a knock at the door is followed by the entrance of a maid, with hot water and letters. The girl sits up and stretches out her hands for the latter--just two. She holds them a moment, and looks hesitatingly at the superscription.

"The last time I shall see that name," she murmurs, half aloud, as she reads the "Miss Douglas" that has been her nomenclature for twenty years of her life. "Heigho! it makes me sad to think of it, after all.... Yes, Jane, draw up the blind. A fine morning? Well, of course, I can see that. No, I don't want anything more. You can go till I ring."

Left alone, she opens the letters. The first is apparently of little interest, and is tossed carelessly aside. The second--at the first line she starts and flushes as red as a June rose; then with eager eyes reads on with devouring speed till the end. It is not a very long letter, but it seems to agitate her in no small degree.

"How strange!" she says. "After all these years--and to-day, of all days! What on earth am I to do?"

She grows very white, and for some moments leans back on the snowy pillows, with her breath coming fitfully and unevenly, and her eyes looking sad and troubled. Then with a great effort she rises and puts the letter aside, and proceeds with her morning toilette.

She is standing before the mirror in a loose white dressing-gown, her long rich hair hanging loosely about her, when the door opens and a lady enters.

A very handsome, stately lady, with sufficient likeness to the girl to suggest their relationship; but the soft curved lips of the young face are thin and cold in the older one, and the eyes, though brilliant, still lack the softness and tenderness that give so great a charm to those of Lauraine.

"Up and dressed, my darling!" she says, in clear, sweet tones. Then she comes near to the girl and kisses her effusively on both cheeks. "Will you come to my boudoir for breakfast?" she continues. "I made Henriette dress my hair first, so that you can have all her attention afterwards. What a barbarous custom to have weddings so early in the day! You look very well, dear; just a trifle pale, but that is quite correct for a bride." Then she kisses her again, and Lauraine submits to the caresses with a sort of passive contempt. There is no gladness on her face, nor in her eyes, and she has certainly grown very pale, but the pallor only makes the beautiful eyes more wistful, and the sweet red lips more exquisite in contrast.

The girl is tall and slender, with delicately-cut features, and a wealth of dusky gold-brown hair, and a clear, creamy skin, that shows every trace of the coursing blood as it flows beneath. It warms suddenly now, with a brilliant flush, as she meets her mother's eyes and listens to her words. The white slender hand moves to the toilet-table, and takes from amidst its glittering array a letter lying there.

"Mother," she says suddenly, "whom do you think I have heard from this morning? An old friend of ours."

Mrs. Douglas looks a little startled just for a moment. Then she smiles sweetly.

"I am a bad hand at guessing, love. Pray tell me, if it is of any importance."

Lauraine looks full at her, still holding the letter in her hand. "It is from--Keith," she says calmly.

"From Mr. Athelstone!" remarks Mrs. Douglas calmly, but a little nervous agitation is visible on her face. "Dear me! I thought he had long forgotten us!"

"So did I," answers Lauraine, glancing for an instant at the superscription.

"But he has not. You never told me that he had written to you, mamma, three months ago."

"To me! Did he really?" and Mrs. Douglas colours ever so little. "I forgot all about it. Yes, now you mention it, he did write me--some nonsense about his prospects, and how they were improving. Nothing to interest me, or you either. I think you were away."

"I was not away at the time," says Lauraine quietly; "and any news from Keith would have interested me. But I suppose you thought it best to--forget."

Mrs. Douglas looks slightly uncomfortable. "Dear me, Lauraine," she says pettishly, "what are you making such a fuss for? Keith was a very nice boy, and all that; but you are both grown up now, and that brother-and-sister business couldn't go on for ever. What does he say in that letter? Is he still in Chicago?"

"He is in England," answers Lauraine, still very quietly; "and he has been left an immense fortune by some rich, eccentric old Yankee, who took a great fancy to him. Also, he is coming here this morning to call on us. He is anxious to see me after four years' absence."

Mrs. Douglas turns suddenly very white. Her eyes flash their eager scrutiny at her daughter's face.

"What nonsense! Here--and to-day? It is impossible. I must send a message."

"Stay, mother." The girl lays her hand on her mother's arm, and her voice trembles a little. "Don't send any message. Let him come. He will be here just when we come back from the church.

"I should like to see my old playmate, and receive his congratulations on such a day as this. We were always like brother and sister, you know. He will be delighted with my future prospects, I am sure--though I feel rather like the servants who leave an old place 'to better themselves,' and are not quite sure how they will get on in the new. Oh, do let him come! It is just the one thing wanting to make my wedding perfect."

Mrs. Douglas looks at her with puzzled wonder. "I don't quite understand you," she says uncomfortably. "You really wish Keith Athelstone to come here, knowing nothing of the altered circumstances? It will be horribly unpleasant. There will be a scene, and you know I detest scenes. They are such bad form."

"There will be no scene," Lauraine says very quietly. "I think you know me better than that. And it is the last thing I ask of you, before I leave your house to-day. Let him come."

She speaks calmly enough, but a feverish flush glows in her cheek, and her eyes look up at her mother's face more in command than in entreaty.

"Oh! if you put it like that," Mrs. Douglas says, with a pretty pretence of feeling that Lauraine regards with scornful amusement, "I cannot deny you. Let it be so, then. I only hope he will behave himself. He was always so dreadfully impetuous and hot-headed. That Spanish mother of his is to blame for that. Well, my darling, it is a charming day for your wedding, and if you are ready for breakfast come down to my boudoir. You will find me there. By the way, would you mind giving me that letter to read? I should like to see what he says."