There is a striking contrast between the youth and delicacy of
Franconia, blushing modestly and in her calmness suppressing that
inert repugnance working in her mind, and the brusqueness of
M'Carstrow, who assumes the free and easy dash, hoping thereby to
lessen his years in the picture of himself. Clotilda, for the last
time, has arranged Franconia's hair, which lies in simple braids
across her polished brows, and folds upon the back, where it is
secured and set off with a garland of wild flowers. The hand that
laid it there, that arranged it so neatly, will never arrange it
again. As a last token of affection for her young mistress, Clotilda
has plucked a new-blown chiponique, white with crystal dew, and
surrounded it with tiny buds and orange blossoms: this, Franconia
holds in her left hand, the lace to which it is attached falling
like mist to the ground.
Thus arrayed, they appear at the altar: the good man of modest cloth
takes his place, the ceremony commences; and as it proceeds, and the
solemn words fall upon her ear, "Those whom God hath joined together
let no man put asunder," she raises her eyes upwards, with a look of
melancholy, as tears, like pearls, glisten in her soft expressive
eyes. Her heart is moved with deeper emotion than this display of
southern galaxy can produce. The combination of circumstances that
has brought her to the altar, the decline of fortune, perhaps
disgrace, worked upon her mind. It is that which has consigned her
to the arms of one she cannot love, whose feelings and associations
she never can respect.
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