PREPARATIONS FOR A WEDDING
The house is very quiet. Jane and Dimbie are out in the woods
gathering sprays of red-tinted brambles, briony, traveller's joy,
bracken, which though fading is of that golden tinge which is almost
more beautiful than the green, hips and haws shining and scarlet, and
clusters of berries of the mountain-ash. This collection of autumnal
loveliness is for the decoration of the cottage, for is not Jane to be
married to-morrow? Mother and Peter have gone for a stroll as Peter
calls it, or for a gallop as mother terms it, for Peter can get up as
much speed, in spite of his gouty leg, as Amelia can with my Ilkley
couch.
Amelia has "run" to the village for innumerable things forgotten this
morning when the grocer's boy clamoured for orders. And the Help I
should imagine, from the quiet of the house, has fallen asleep over the
kitchen fire. The Help, from what Amelia tells me, is very stupid and
is no help at all. She puts the blacking on the scullery floor instead
of on the boots. She never screws the stopper on to the Shinio bottle
after use, and the contents are therefore spilled all over the place.
She allows the handles of the knives to lie in water. "Does she take
them off the blades?" I asked, and I received one of Amelia's halibut
looks. She forgets to sprinkle tea-leaves on the carpets before
brushing them, though the tea-leaves are put all ready for her in a
nice clean saucer. And yet, in spite of all these enormities, Amelia
permits her to remain and not help.
Before "running" to the village just now she wondered whether anything
would go wrong during her temporary absence and what the Help would be
up to.
"She's worse than her at Tompkinses'."
"The one who wore half a pound of tea as a bustle when she left at
night?"
Amelia seemed pleased at my memory, and she then went on to explain why
this Help was worse than the other. It appeared that deceit was her
besetting sin. The other one openly, so to speak, wore tea as a
bustle; this one you could never catch. She would leave of an evening
with a face like the Song of Solomon--I did not see the connection, but
did not like to interrupt--and yet butter, bacon, and tea disappeared
miraculously. Amelia would search her hand-bag when the Help was
washing up; she would look under the lining of her crêpe bonnet.
"Crêpe!" I said. "Is she a widow?"
But Amelia said she wasn't, that the bonnet had been given to her by a
late employer, and the crêpe was of the best quality. I felt remiss in
not having a crêpe bonnet too to present to the Help, and asked Amelia
if she thought my old yellow satin dancing frock would be of any use to
her, and Amelia has gone off without replying. Perhaps she would like
the frock for herself. I know she can dance, for have I not seen her
executing the cakewalk in Dimbie's tea-rose slippers?
The Help is to wear a cap and collar and cuffs for to-morrow's
festivities. Amelia is making her do this; and I am a little sorry for
the poor Help, for she may dislike a cap very much, having a husband
and four nearly grown-up children.
Amelia says that she and the Help will be able to manage the guests
quite easily, and I believe her. I know that she alone would be quite
equal to forty, and we are only expecting ten besides the house-party.
A younger brother of Dr. Renton is to be best man; and then there will
be Nanty; a Miss Rebecca Sharp, a Suffragist, and cousin to Jane; Dr.
Renton's married sister and her husband; his housekeeper, who has
served him faithfully like a housekeeper in a book for nearly twenty
years; a Mrs. Wilbraham, an old patient, who has invited herself; and
Professor Leighrail. Dimbie suggested inviting the last, and I jumped
at him.
"He will entertain Nanty," I said.
"You don't want to marry them?" said Dimbie in alarm.
"Dimbie, dear," I returned, "you must try to break yourself of the
habit of assuming that I am perpetually trying to marry people."
"What about Jane and the Doctor?"
"I was a girl in the schoolroom when they fell in love with one
another."
"You brought them together."
"I did nothing of the kind. Jane's visit was arranged long before I
knew."
He was only half convinced.
"I don't want another wedding from here," he said a little gloomily.
"One is all right. I like Jane, and it has been fun and amusement for
you. But if Nanty and more pattern-books arrive I shall clear off."
"Were I stronger," I said, "I should shake you."
"Would you?" He laughed, holding his face to mine.
"I hope you are going to be very good to-morrow, and give Jane away
nicely. You mustn't give her a push, you must hand her over gracefully
to the Doctor."
Dimbie screwed up his face.
"I don't fancy the job. I wish you could be there, Marg, to give me a
wink at the right moment."
"Oh, don't!" I whispered, in a momentary fit of passionate longing.
"Don't remind me that I can't be there. Dimbie, I am _so_ disappointed
that I shall not see Jane married! I do so love Jane. It is--hard to
bear."
As the words were uttered I would have given a kingdom to recall them.
When should I learn control? Pain flitted across my dear one's face,
pity and sorrow.
"Never mind!" I cried, striving to heal the wound. "I shall see her
dressed. She is going to don her wedding-gown in my room, and I am to
put all the finishing touches. She will kneel in front of me, and I am
to pull a lock of hair out here, pat one in there, persuade a curl to
wander across her forehead, tilt her hat to a more fashionable angle,
and altogether make her the most beautiful Jane in the world."
But Dimbie was not to be comforted. He has gone to the woods with
black care hovering very close at hand, and every effort must I strain
this evening to bring back the smile to his lips. There must be no sad
faces to-morrow. Jane has had a somewhat hard and lonely life, and she
must embark upon her new voyage without a shadow of unhappiness. The
Doctor will be good to her, I know--gentle and chivalrous. One knows
instinctively when a man will be good to the woman he has married; it
is in his voice, his manner, in the very way he looks at her. What
Dimbie is to me he will be to her. Why should Jane and I be of the
elect among women? We deserve it no more than mother and Nanty. But
they will have their compensation, I verily believe. God in His
goodness will reserve for all the tired, disillusioned wives of the
world a little peaceful niche where they may rest from their husbands,
which is another word for labours. And the husbands! I do not think
that theirs is always the blame, the fault. There must be many too who
would like to find a peaceful haven where they may smoke and read, and
put their feet upon the chairs, and rest from the perpetual nagging and
fault-finding of their wives.
* * * * *
Amelia is back and has roused the Help, for her voice was borne to me
loudly indignant. "And there is no kettle boiling for tea!" Poor
Help, or sensible Help? Did she realise that if she waited long enough
Amelia would put on the kettle? There are usually plenty of Amelias to
put on kettles and scold Helps and tidy up the universe. And so also
are there many Helps who realise this, and therefore sit with folded
hands doing nothing so long as the Amelias will permit them. I don't
know to whom my sympathy goes the most, the Amelias or Helps.
Peter and mother are back too, and are removing their outdoor wraps.
Peter, blowing and snorting like the alligator to which Amelia likened
him, has informed me that it is a beastly cold day with an east wind,
that the roads in Surrey are the worst in Europe, and that mother is
the slowest woman in God's universe. Mother has tip-toed back to tell
me what she thinks of Peter. That his limp was so fast and furious
that you might just as well try to keep up with a fire-engine, that she
has made up her mind that this will be her last walk with him (mother
has been saying this for many years), and that he has _forbidden_ her
to wear her new bonnet on the morrow, as--she looks a fright in it.
I have soothed her as best I can. I have told her that Dimbie shall
stand by and see that she does wear the new bonnet, and that if Peter
is in any way untractable he shall be locked up for the day in the shed
with his own canoe, which has caused her to steal away in a state of
fearful joy.
I see Jane and Dimbie coming through the gate. Jane is wellnigh lost
in a tangled wealth of glorious autumn treasures, and Dimbie trails
behind him an immense bough of pine. It is for me to smell, I know--to
inhale the delicious, resinous scent fresh from the woods. A bit
broken off is less than nothing, you must have a branch straight from
the heart of the trunk. When I have felt it and held it, and smelled
it and loved it, it shall stand by the grandfather clock in the hall,
and it will make a beautiful decoration for to-morrow's festivities.
I must cease scribbling. They are all assembling for the last family
tea. The Doctor has just arrived. Jane has a bunch of mountain-ash
berries tucked into her belt. Here comes Amelia with the tea and
toast, and resignation under suffering written on her brow! What has
the Help been doing now?