The snow was lying thick upon the streets, and as I noticed the driver's difficulty in keeping his horse up, and in getting the vehicle along, I wondered how it would fare with the wedding carriages if the storm should continue. At last we reached my destination, and running up the steps I found myself being warmly greeted by my uncle, whose beaming face showed that nothing had as yet occurred to mar the happiness of the day.  
"This is a pleasure, Frank," he said heartily. "I was beginning to think you would disappoint us after all. But you look frozen. Come to the fireside and get some food within you."
 
I returned his greeting, and, having been assured that Daphne was in the best of health, inquired after the bridegroom.
 
"When did you see George last?"
 
"Last night. He was here till eleven."
 
"And where did he go when he left?"
 
"To his hotel, I suppose," my uncle said, looking, as was natural, a little surprised at my question. "He's staying at the Métropole, you know."
 
Evidently George, on parting with my uncle and Daphne the previous night, had given no hint of his intended visit to Dover, but meant it to be a secret. I[Pg 33] was in a dilemma. I hesitated to tell my uncle all that had happened, for George might have very good reasons for his mysterious journey, and reasons requiring secrecy to be observed about it. On the other hand, there were plenty of things to make me think that he was not playing an honourable game, and I did not feel justified in allowing him to lead Daphne to the altar without satisfying me that my uneasiness was not warranted by the facts. However, we were not at the church yet. So I resolved to be silent about the night's happenings until I had seen him and heard his version of them, or until the course of events should make it necessary for me to speak out.
 
I went upstairs to change my travelling suit for a garb more becoming the office of best man, and then joined my uncle in the large drawing-room, where the guests staying with him for the wedding were gathered.
 
"I had better make my way to the hotel, and go with George to the church," I said to my uncle.
 
"Surely that is unnecessary," he suggested. "He knows you are not likely to fail him, doesn't he?"
 
"Oh, yes," I answered. "I telegraphed yesterday to say I was on the way, so he won't be afraid of my disappointing him."
 
"Then go to the church from here," my uncle said. "You must have had all the snow you want, and if you go in the first carriage you will be in plenty of time. Let me introduce you to some of the guests."
 
The most noticeable of these was a young man who had been watching me with a curiously attentive gaze. He was slender and had a graceful presence. From the profusion of his dark hair, and a certain air of detachment from his surroundings, I judged him to be a genius of some sort, an artist, a poet, or a [Pg 34]musician. I looked inquiringly at my uncle who introduced this mortal to me by the name of Angelo Vasari.
 
"A gentleman," he remarked, "to whom you owe some thanks."
 
"Indeed?" I said with some surprise, for I had never heard of him before. "Well, that is a debt I am always ready to pay. But why am I in Mr. Vasari's debt?"
 
"Daphne sent you a portrait of George the other day."
 
"She did."
 
"It was Mr. Vasari who painted it."
 
"Really?" I said, grasping his hand. "Then you must accept my congratulations as well as my thanks. The picture is a gem of art. Are you an artist?"
 
It struck me afterwards that to call a man's work a gem of art and then ask if he were an artist was somewhat silly, but he took no notice of the absurdity.
 
"An artist? Pardon me, no. But I hope to become one."
 
"You are one," said my uncle warmly. "Your picture in the Academy last year was second to none."
 
"The critics did not think so," he replied with a gloomy air.
 
"Nil desperandum," my uncle said cheerily. "They will think differently some day. Every great man has had the world against him at first."
 
"True, true," said the artist thoughtfully. "No one ever becomes great but by sorrow, humiliation, toil. Dante did not attain Paradise until he had passed through Hell and Purgatory."
 
He had splendid eyes I noticed, and any reference to his art made them shine like stars. Many of the women in the room looked at him admiringly, and I have no doubt that his melancholy utterances on fame,[Pg 35] united to the attractive beauty of his face, made him a hero in their eyes. He interested me too, but all the while I was conscious of an undercurrent of antagonism to him. Nevertheless, after a martyrdom of handshaking and formal conversation with the various persons to whom my uncle insisted on presenting me, I drifted back to the ottoman where the artist was sitting, surrounded by a small circle of admirers to whom he was showing a portfolio of sketches.
 
"Ah, here is Mr. Willard," he said, looking at me as if desirous of attracting my attention. "These sketches may perhaps interest him. They are views of Rhineland. I think there is one of Heidelberg among them."
 
There was no running away from this invitation without seeming rude, so I sat down by the ottoman and prepared myself to express an admiration that I did not feel for the artist's productions.
 
"Oh, Mr. Vasari, what place is this?" cried a young lady, holding forward a view representing a picturesque old town by the side of a lake, with Alpine mountains rising around it.
 
"That? Ah, that is—er—Rivoli, a town among the Alps." He spoke with such hesitation as to give the impression that he was reluctant to reveal the name of the town. "It is my birthplace," he added briefly.
 
"Your birthplace? What a pretty town it is! It reminds one of some quaint poem of Longfellow's. Is it very old?"
 
"Centuries old. The people are quite medi?val—live in the past. Quite an old-world town, I assure you."
 
"The very place for an artist to be born in, then."
 
Vasari smiled mechanically, and seemed to be [Pg 36]searching in his portfolio for something he had a difficulty in finding.
 
"Ah, here they are! Twelve sketches—heads. Friends of mine. Some of them are artists, wild Bohemians; and others are students, two or three hailing from Heidelberg. I think Mr. Willard will recognise a college-friend among the number."
 
I took the papers, which were attached to each other by a piece of red tape. The sketches were in ink, carefully finished, and represented twelve different faces of men whose ages might vary from twenty to forty years. Some had both beard and moustache; others moustaches only; and one there was without either. I surveyed them all critically, but failed to identify any one of them. Looking up from my task, I was startled to see Angelo's eyes fixed on my face with an expression that could not have been more painful if he had been a prisoner waiting for the verdict of the jury.
 
"I don't see any one I know here."
 
The artist's face relaxed from its set expression. My answer had pleased him.
 
"No, really?" he exclaimed in a tone of evident delight. "And that is your sincere belief? You do not recognise one of these heads?"
 
"I do not. May I inquire——?"
 
"Whether I have a motive in asking? Mr. Willard," he continued, with a gay laugh, to those near him, "with that profound knowledge of human nature to be acquired only within the secluded cloisters of a university, knows that the wise man never acts without motive."
 
"But do I really know one of these persons?" I exclaimed, irritated at this mystification.
 
"Eh—well, you say not," replied the artist with a[Pg 37] most provoking smile. "I will take your word for it you do not."
 
And with these words he proceeded to gather up his sketches with the air of a man who wishes to say no more on the subject.
 
I have seen players, elate with victory, start up from the gambling-table when by one last turn of the wheel on which all depended they have won some enormous stake, and I was strangely reminded of their manner by Angelo's air as he rose after replacing the sketches in his portfolio.
 
"If every action has its motive," I thought, "what was that fellow's motive in asking me to study those twelve heads? Was he trying an experiment, and, if so, for what purpose? I do not know those faces, and yet one of them seemed to have a familiar look."
 
I had no leisure then to consider the matter further, for more pressing matters came to the front. My uncle, who had been absent from the room, came in and sought me with a troubled look upon his face.
 
"Here's a pretty pass, Frank!" he cried. "Stephen"—Stephen was his head-coachman—"says it is impossible for the horses to make their way through this thick snow, and I suppose he's right, as it must be two feet deep. It's out of the question to walk. What are we to do?"
 
I was the last person in the world to be asked this question, for, supposing I had known a way out of the difficulty, I am afraid I should have kept it a secret. For reasons of my own I was not at all averse to a postponement of the marriage, if only for one day.
 
A friend of my uncle's—a wealthy banker—now spoke:
 
"Did you not say that Captain Willard had a special license for this marriage?"
 
[Pg 38]
 
"To be sure! Of course he has!" replied my uncle, his countenance brightening: "I had forgotten it. Ah! I remember now laughing at what I thought his folly in procuring one, and at his words: 'In case of contingencies we can be married at any time and in any place.' He was right now, I see."
 
"Just so," returned the banker. "Let us hope that he will always have the same happy foresight. Well, if the mountain will not come to Mahomet, Mahomet must go to the mountain: If we cannot go to the church, the church must come to us. Our sweet little bride, after looking forward to this day as the happiest of her life, must not be disappointed. The marriage can take place in this drawing-room just as well as within the walls of St. Cyprian's, unless indeed Miss Leslie attaches a peculiar sanctity to a marriage contracted within the church. Let us send to St. Cyprian's, and ask Captain Willard and the Vicar to come here.
 
"I suppose there is no alternative," my uncle said, "short of a definite postponement of the wedding. But I'll see Daphne. It's time we should have been starting, so she's sure to be dressed. I'll go and fetch her now."
 
He hurried off, and in a few moments came back with Daphne on his arm, looking in her dainty wedding dress more beautiful than I had ever seen her.
 
She greeted me with so radiant a smile that the spectators might have taken me for the bridegroom.
 
So deep was my emotion at seeing once more, and on so dramatic an occasion, the face whose image for so many months had haunted my dreams, that oblivious of all my surroundings, I could do nothing but gaze at her with an earnest and wistful (some might have called it stupid) look until her laugh—how [Pg 39]sweet and familiar it sounded!—recalled me to myself.
 
"Why, Frank, have you been in Germany so long that you have forgotten your native language? Speak to him in German, papa, and ask him if he is glad to see me."
 
I stammered out a few words of greeting. I do not remember what. The happiness of seeing her again was too great to allow of conventional conversation and I drew back while the development of the situation was being explained to her.
 
She was, of course, terribly disappointed by the turn events were taking, but her courage was splendid. Although in her eyes a marriage in a drawing-room was a less sacred ceremony than one within consecrated walls, she seemed less cast down by the prospect than did her bridesmaids who were being deprived of the chance of displaying their toilettes to the fashionable congregation of St. Cyprian's, and thus, in the probable absence of reporters, they would have to forego the pleasure of reading in the society papers the description of their finery.
 
"Well, Daphne, what do you say?" her father asked.
 
"Let George be sent for," she replied. "I will do just as he wishes."
 
In my anxiety to see and question George I was on the point of starting for the church myself, but my uncle detained me.
 
"No, no," he said. "Why should you expose yourself unnecessarily to this storm? Hall can go," and I had no option but to submit, and my uncle's valet was despatched with orders to bring back both Captain Willard and a clergyman.
 
Meantime Daphne with fine courage went about[Pg 40] among the guests, as if nothing unusual were happening. Presently she came up to me.
 
"Come and talk to me," she said. "It is so long since I saw you. I am sure you must have much to tell me."
 
One of the bridesmaids made room for her upon an ottoman, and I drew a chair near her.
 
The language of love was all but trembling on my lips as I gazed at her beautiful face—that face so associated with my life from very childhood that it seemed to belong to me by a sort of prescriptive right. It was well that others were by to check my ardour; but for their presence I believe I should have been kneeling once more at her feet. I had come back from Heidelberg with the intention of treating her with a frigid and distant courtesy—I would be an heroic martyr! But one glance of her gentle eyes had melted my icy armour, and here I was almost on the point of making love to her on the very morning of her intended marriage to another!
 
Daphne was her old sweet self, and chatted as freely as if we two were alone, and sitting once more at breakfast in my uncle's old home.
 
"You are looking very pale, Frank," she said. "When did you leave the Fatherland?"
 
"I left Heidelberg two days ago, and crossed the Channel last night. But tell me about George." It made me jealous to see how bright her eyes became at the mention of my brother's name. "I suppose the Indian sun hasn't made much difference in his appearance? How does he look?"
 
"He is very, very bronzed, and much handsomer, in my opinion, and—and—but there, you'll see him this morning in his uniform, and you'll confess he looks every inch a hero."
 
[Pg 41]
 
I had seen him that morning, though not in his uniform, with a red stain on his breast, trembling at sight of me, and I was very far from confessing that he looked every inch a hero; but, of course, I did not tell Daphne this.
 
"Where are you going to spend your honeymoon?"
 
"At Sydenham. A friend has lent us a pretty little villa there."
 
"And from there you are going——"
 
"To India? Yes. In February. Papa wants George to leave the army now, but I don't think he will."
 
"George is ambitious, you see," I returned, resenting in him that quality which was lacking in myself. "Medals, stars, titles, etc. Perhaps some day they'll make him a baronet—if he do but kill men enough, you know—and then you'll be Lady Willard. Ahem! I salute you Lady Willard, in futuro," I added with a low bow.
 
"Frank, don't be ridiculous! Mr. Vasari is watching you."
 
"Never mind Mr. Vasari! who's he! Let him watch. We are doing nothing wrong. Hang the fellow! How he stares! Vasari," I said, repeating the artist's patronymic—"an Italian evidently: and as an artist a dead failure, if I may judge by his own remarks."
 
"A dead failure?" returned Daphne, resenting the expression. "Well there's one of his pictures in the next room, and you can judge for yourself whether he's a failure or not. He isn't the equal of Doré or Alma Tadema yet, but he may be, for he has genius, and some day it will be recognised."
 
"Ah, let us hope it will," I replied drily, meaning, of course, the reverse. "Thou shalt have none other gods but me" is the language of every lover to his[Pg 42] lady, and Daphne's interest in the artist moved my jealousy a little.
 
"I am not sure that Germany has improved you," Daphne said, looking at me critically, "but never mind that now. You haven't seen my wedding gifts. They are in the next room. Papa, I am going to show Frank my presents."
 
And holding her long train with one hand, Daphne rested the other on my arm, and conducted me beneath some heavy hangings to the next apartment. The gifts were arranged in tasteful order on a wide and spacious table.
 
"You see this picture? It is Mr. Vasari's gift—the work of his own hand. 'The Betrayal of Ariadne' he calls it. Don't you think she bears a resemblance to me?—her eyes and hair are just the colour of mine."
 
I was somewhat surprised to see a painting which, in my judgment, rose far above mediocrity. The composition was graceful and the colouring harmonious. This is what the canvas showed: Faint blue waves rippling over amber sands; a maiden kneeling thereby, with the teardrops falling from her eyes, her arms extended towards a distant galley on the sea; and a human figure advancing from a wood with a wreath in his hand.
 
My comprehension of the work was aided by its author, who had followed us from the drawing-room.
 
"Theseus deserts her," said he, "but amid the woodland foliage on the left you will see the beautiful Bacchus: he will kiss away her tears, and console her for the loss of her false hero. See! he bears in his hand a laurel-wreath: it is the crown of fame, whose sweet attraction will cause her first love to fade from her memory like a morning dream. The picture," he added with a curious smile, "is a sort of allegory to[Pg 43] intimate that second love is preferable to the first."
 
Daphne gave an indignant little gasp at these words, and elevated her pretty eyebrows.
 
"I don't believe second love is better than the first; do you, Frank?"
 
Had Daphne absolutely forgotten the cause which had banished me so long from her presence that she could thus appeal to me? Or, remembering it, did she delight in reminding me of the power she held over me?
 
"The sun is still the sun at noon and at eventide," I replied; "but it is only in the early morning hours that his beams are supremely soft and lovely. So with love. Second love can never have the sweet freshness, the dewy fragrance peculiar to the first dawn of passion!"
 
"Was Ovid's 'Art of Love' included in your curriculum of this year?" asked Daphne with a smile. "You have come back from Heidelberg quite romantic. Where have you learnt to talk so prettily?"
 
"In the school of experience," I returned.
 
She glanced quickly at me, and I saw that she understood my meaning. Her eyes drooped, and a colour stole over her face and neck. Her confusion was too evident to escape the eye of the artist, but affecting not to notice it he turned on his heel and left us as quietly as he had come.
 
"After the rich display of presents here," said I to Daphne, "my gift will appear but as poor in comparison. I trust you will not estimate it solely by its monetary value."
 
I drew forth a jewel-case I had purchased at Heidelberg. The pressure of the spring revealed a golden bracelet set with violet amethysts.
 
"For me?" exclaimed Daphne, and the tone of her voice gave me a delicious thrill. "Oh, how sweet![Pg 44] None of my gifts will give me more pleasure. Shall I wear it this—this morning?"
 
There was a hesitation in the enunciation of the last words that touched me more than an avowal of love on her part could have done. I nodded, and aided her to clasp the golden circlet around her slender wrist.
 
"I will return your gift, Frank, though in a more simple way. You have no bouquet. Let me choose you one."
 
There was a vase of flowers hard by. Daphne selected some snowdrops, and, placing them on a pretty fern-leaf, attached them to my breast, bending so low in the act that my lips kissed the orange-blossoms and stephanotis that gleamed in her dark hair.
 
"Do you know what this fern-leaf signifies?" she said.
 
"No; what?" I asked.
 
"Oblivion!" she whispered; and then, like a beautiful fairy, she glided from the room. I understood her.
 
"Oblivion!" I muttered. "Well, yes; fern-leaf may signify that, but you have forgotten that the snowdrop is the emblem of hope."