The Veiled Man by Ambrose Pratt — Read

It had been in Cawthorne's mind when he bade his mother good night, to write a full account of the day's wonderful happenings to his sweetheart. But he decided, after some reflection, that his cousin had the first right to hear his golden news, and his hypersensitive conscience would not permit him to slight the veiled man, even in imagination. His letter to Dorothy, therefore, destined to be read by the young girl on her wedding morning, was only such a missive as she had expected to receive. Yet it gave her comfort none the less, and the memory of its passionate assurances helped her later to withstand her father's stately coldness and her uncle's thinly-veiled disapprobation of her hasty and half secret marriage. Sir Felix Greig had pictured a vastly different wedding for his niece--a ceremony of flowers and laces, with rose-strewn pathways for her traversing, lined with smiling crowds, the joy bells jingling merrily the while. He had found it hard to resign that cherished dream, the harder, because although he loved to pose as a cynical old bachelor, he was in reality as romantic at heart as a bread-and-butter school girl. It had hurt him to learn that the world was not to know just yet; he had always detested secrets, and he had writhed to hear that the ceremony, shorn of its proper splendor and positively crop-eared, as it appeared to him, was to be performed at the Cliff House rather than Stayton's quaint old church. But the cruellest part of his disappointment was reserved for Dorothy herself to inflict--and at the last moment. While the vicar, the Marquis, and himself were awaiting the arrival of the bridegroom in the library, Dorothy entered the room, attired in a simple gown of plain white cachemere. Sir Felix had imagined her busily engaged with her maids in donning a regulation silk or satin wedding dress, with its wreath and veil and wealth of orange blossoms. He stared at her for a few seconds, then glanced quickly at his watch. It wanted a more five minutes to the appointed hour. "Dorothy," he cried "you ought to be in your room; you'll never be dressed in time."

Dorothy gave him a tremendous smile. "I am quite ready, Nuncs," she answered, and glided towards her father.