Gradually the conversation of the guests lowered itself into whispers, as some new surmise was started with regard to the possible cause of this strange absence of the most important personage at so important a moment. But even these whispers died away from lack of new ideas on the subject, and the now total silence was only occasionally broken by the rustling of the clergyman’s surplice, when he left his post before the large family prayer-book (laid open ready at the marriage ceremony) with the benevolent wish, by some commonplace observation, to dissipate the unpleasant feelings which seemed to infect all present; or when he followed Mr. Benson to the window, whither he had taken up his station of observation in the hopes of being the first to give the much wished-for news of the approaching bridegroom. Poor Mrs. Benson’s cheeks became momentarily of a deeper and deeper dye, and she betrayed her anxious agitation by the nervous twitching of the gold chain round her neck, to which was suspended her daughter’s portrait, and the constant arranging of her lace shawl, which she regularly each time pulled off her shoulders. At last, the welcome rattle of a carriage driving furiously was heard. It stopped at Mr. Benson’s door, and in a minute Lord Fitzhenry, with a flushed cheek, hurried into the drawing-room. Awkward as such an entrance must naturally be, still his agitation seemed even beyond what the circumstances of the moment would have been likely to produce on a young man of the world. Lord Fitzhenry, at twenty-seven, was remarkably good-looking; and on his countenance and whole figure was that stamp of high birth, which, even where beauty does not exist, more than compensates for its absence. The general character of his countenance was that of openness and good humour; but an agitated, even a melancholy expression now clouded it, which all noticed. “Marriage is certainly an awful ceremony,” whispered an elderly lady to Mrs. Benson; “and I am glad to see his lordship betraying so much feeling and seriousness at such a moment. It is a good sign in a young man.” The poor trembling mother scarcely heard the remark, nor was there much time for more observation, for Mr. Benson had already left the room, and in a few minutes returned, leading in his daughter. Emmeline was nineteen. She was slightly formed, had a most winning countenance, innocent laughing eyes, and a delicate, fair complexion, although now deepened into crimson, in her cheeks, by the agitation of the moment, as was very apparent, even through the folds of the beautiful lace veil that hung all over her. The marriage ceremony commenced immediately. As it proceeded, the bridegroom trembled violently. When called upon to pronounce his vow, his voice was scarcely audible; and as he placed the ring on his bride’s hand, he nearly let it fall to the ground.