Ripton again shouted:  “An angel!” Throwing up the heels of his second bottle, he said: 

“You may trust your friend, Richard.  Aha! when you pulled at old Mrs. Berry I didn’t know what was up.  I do wish you’d let me drink her health?”

“Here’s to Penelope!” said Richard, just wetting his mouth.  The carriage was at the door:  a couple of dire organs, each grinding the same tune, and a vulture-scented itinerant band (from which not the secretest veiled wedding can escape) worked harmoniously without in the production of discord, and the noise acting on his nervous state made him begin to fume and send in messages for his bride by the maid.

By and by the lovely young bride presented herself dressed for her journey, and smiling from stained eyes.

Mrs. Berry was requested to drink some wine, which Ripton poured out for her, enabling Mrs. Berry thereby to measure his condition.

The bride now kissed Mrs. Berry, and Mrs. Berry kissed the bridegroom, on the plea of her softness.  Lucy gave Ripton her hand, with a musical “Good-bye, Mr. Thompson,” and her extreme graciousness made him just sensible enough to sit down before he murmured his fervent hopes for her happiness.

“I shall take good care of him,” said Mrs. Berry, focussing her eyes to the comprehension of the company.

“Farewell, Penelope!” cried Richard.  “I shall tell the police everywhere to look out for your lord.”

“Oh my dears! good-bye, and Heaven bless ye both!”

Berry quavered, touched with compunction at the thoughts of approaching loneliness.  Ripton, his mouth drawn like a bow to his ears, brought up the rear to the carriage, receiving a fair slap on the cheek from an old shoe precipitated by Mrs. Berry’s enthusiastic female domestic.

White handkerchiefs were waved, the adieux had fallen to signs:  they were off.  Then did a thought of such urgency illumine Mrs. Berry, that she telegraphed, hand in air; awakening Ripton’s lungs, for the coachman to stop, and ran back to the house.  Richard chafed to be gone, but at his bride’s intercession he consented to wait.  Presently they beheld the old black-satin bunch stream through the street-door, down the bit of garden, and up the astonished street; halting, panting, capless at the carriage door, a book in her hand,—­a much-used, dog-leaved, steamy, greasy book, which; at the same time calling out in breathless jerks, “There! never ye mind looks!  I ain’t got a new one.  Read it, and don’t ye forget it!” she discharged into Lucy’s lap, and retreated to the railings, a signal for the coachman to drive away for good.

How Richard laughed at the Berry’s bridal gift!  Lucy, too, lost the omen at her heart as she glanced at the title of the volume.  It was Dr. Kitchener on Domestic Cookery!

CHAPTER XXXI