BETSEY AS GOOD FAIRY.
When Mary Selby and her sister Susan arrived at the Rectory of St.
Euphrase, next morning, the family mind was already excited by other
news; so much so, that, notwithstanding this was the first visit
Judith's sisters had ever paid, and it was unexpected, they were
received precisely as if they had dropped in from the next street, and
their coming were an every-day occurrence. The family capacity for
surprise had been forestalled.
"Only think!" cried Betsey, the irrepressible; "young Jordan has been
here--Randolph, you know. _I_ know him quite well; was at a party at
their house, when I stayed with you last winter--knew him a little,
before then, but not much. Well, he tells Uncle Dionysius here--that's
not here, exactly, but in the study--that he ran away with Miss
Rouget, the seignior's daughter. Stuck-up looking thing she is. No
complexion to speak of; a snub nose. Yes, indeed, Aunt Judy, it is a
snub. _Nez retroussé_, is it? That's because she's Miss Rouget de La
Hache, and a kind of a somebody; though folks do say they've lost
their money all the same--like better folks who make less moan. But,
anyhow, Randolph ran away with her--fixed a fire-escape on to her
bedroom window, and down she came, bag and baggage, in the dead of the
night; and everybody in the house fast asleep. They went to New York,
and were married before a squire, and now they have come home, and are
staying with Mrs. Jordan, at The Willows. And they are going to be
married all over again, from the beginning--twice over again, I should
say, for he has just been speaking to Uncle Dionysius, and now he has
gone to the Roman Catholic priest, with a letter from an archbishop,
and no less, bidding him raise no difficulties, but just do it. Think
of that! Is it not impressive? The same two people to be three times
married, and always to one another! I suppose there will be no getting
out of that, anyhow, as long as they live. If even they were to go to
Chicago, I suppose it would take three divorce suits to separate them.
They can only dissolve one marriage at a time, so I have heard. What
do _you_ think. Miss Susan?"
"I never was married, my dear. I have suffered too much from neuralgia
for some years back to be able to think of marrying, or anything
else."
"Well! That's not me, now. If I was to have neuralgy, I'd want a man
to take care of me, all the more, 'pears to me. I'm 'takin' steps,'
as uncle there says, to get the man right off; and then the neuralgy
may come if it wants to, I can't help it."
Both visitors' eyes were fixed on the speaker. The recollections of
their own youth furnished no such amazing expression of maidenly
opinion. Betsey coloured a little, coughed, and began once more, while
her uncle and aunt, taught by experience, sat silent, waiting till she
should talk herself out of breath.
"The fact is, Mrs. Selby, I'm to be married immediately; as soon, that
is, as I can get ready, and that depends mostly on Mademoiselle
Ciseau. She'll have to make my gown, and she says she's over head and
ears in orders, between so many deaths and all the marriages; for you
know Matildy Stanley's going to marry--more proper if she'd be making
her soul, at her time of life, than thinking of sich--and that chit
Muriel--set her up--she's to be married the same day as her aunt,
though they ain't no kin at all, nohow, to one another, and Matildy
knows it. I call it going before their Maker with a lie in their right
hand--goin' to church to be married, and tellin' such a story."
"But who are the bridegrooms, Betsey?"
"Me? I'm going to marry Mr. Joe Webb--Squire Webb, I should say, it
sounds more respectful--justice of the peace, and the handsomest
fellow round here about. But never mind the men, just for one minute.
Everybody knows there must be a man to make a wedding, and any kind
does quite well; but think of a poor girl married without a gown, or
the wrong kind of one. How people would talk! You bein' from the city,
will be able to give me an idea. Here are a lot of _swatches_ the
storekeeper got me from Montreal, and every one has the price marked
on to it. White satin? Oh, yes, it's pretty and stylish; but I see by
'Godey's Magazine' the upper crust ain't as partial to marryin' in
white as they used to be; and white satin would not be much use
afterwards for apple-paring bees, and sich; that's the form our gaiety
takes mostly in the country round here. Yellow? Well, I did read not
long ago about a _recherché_ nuptials, somewhere, and the bride was
dressed to represent a sunflower--poetical fancy, wasn't it? Yes,
yellow's a good colour--easily seen--but it soils just as bad as
white, or worse, for one can say _écru_ for dirty white, but what can
be said for soiled yellow? Just nothing, for everybody sees it's gone
dirty.
"Brown? and navy blue? I guess one of these would be the best. You
like the blue, eh? Well, now, that's strange, for to me the brown
looks a deal the best. I could be married in my travelling dress, with
a bonnet trimmed with white roses and peacock's feathers--I seem to
see it in my mind's eye. Sweet and rather distinguished--but it would
be better with the brown, would it not, than with the blue? Now, do
really give me your candid opinion, Mrs. Selby; you have everything
about you at home in such good taste."
Betsey got out of breath at last, and rose to take away her
_swatches_, and there was an opening for the visitors to explain the
cause of their unlooked for advent. Both Judith and her husband were
kind and sympathizing, and both were shocked beyond measure at the
part which Ralph had played in the transaction. For Martha's sake,
however, and for the credit of the family, the subject was dropped
when Betsey returned to the room, she being a known blab of the most
flagrant kind.
Mary succeeded in restraining her impatience for tidings of her
husband's success within bounds, for several hours; but after the one
o'clock dinner it grew stronger than her will, and would not be
controlled.
"By which way are they most likely to reach the village, Judith? I
feel myself fretting into a fever as I sit. I must be up and doing, or
I shall lose my senses. Betsey, my dear, will you not come out with
me? We will walk in the direction we are most likely to meet them. It
will bring me the news a minute or two sooner, and it soothes me to
feel I am doing. You will tell me about your own plans, too, dear. It
is good for me to listen to other people's concerns, if only to
distract me from my own."
Betsey was nothing loth. She was good-natured, at least, if not
endowed with all the other virtues. They walked through the village,
and up the turnpike road coming from the east. Mary, notwithstanding
her weakness, was so urged forward by impatience that Betsey, scarce
able to keep up with her, was soon out of breath, and quite unable to
make the interesting confidences she had intended.
"Is not that a carriage coming this way? I see two men on the
driving-box, and one of them is George. Oh! the time is come. Lend me
your arm, Betsey, dear, to steady me. I am getting faint. If this is
another disappointment, how shall I bear it?"
The carriage drew near. One look in George's face told all.
Hopelessness had settled on it; he looked utterly cast down. He
alighted as his wife drew near, and the afflicted ones embraced in
silent wretchedness, as they had done many a time before. The story of
the expedition did not take long to tell.
The squaw was able to point out the way she had taken all across the
Reservation, with circumstantial details, which made it impossible to
doubt the accuracy of her recollection, and argued a hopeful
termination to their search. On gaining the public road they entered
the carriage, and still the squaw went on recognizing salient objects
on either hand, and finally, at a forking of the road, where there
stood a house, she cried out, that there was the place. It
corresponded perfectly to her previous descriptions. They alighted,
and the sergeant knocked at the door. A woman opened it, and when
asked by the officer how long she had lived there, answered, after
many repetitions of the question and much explanation, and disavowing
that she understood English, twenty years. "Then you will remember,"
the policeman said, "if one summer night, many years ago, you found an
infant lying at your door?" She answered that babies were never left
there. She was a respectable woman, who had brought up a family of her
own, and that the proper place to leave outcast children was a
convent, or the priest's house.
Her hearing appeared so bad, her knowledge of English so slight, she
seemed so cross, so deaf, and so stupid, that they could draw nothing
from her but the disavowal of any knowledge of a child having been
left there, which, however, was what they chiefly wanted to know, and
they came away disappointed. The priest of the village might be able
to make some inquiries, and they were now on their way to find him;
but there was little to be expected after so many years.
"Where was this house with the woman?" asked Betsey, with awakened
interest. "Not the first house we shall come to going up the hill?"
"Yes," said Selby, "that is the place."
"Well, then--but surely it cannot be!--that is the house Bruneau lives
in--the Stanleys' man. His wife confessed to me and Aunt Judy, only
last winter, that she found a baby at her door one summer night, many
years ago, and carried it up to the door of the big house, where my
cousins took it in and adopted it. But, from the way she spoke of
Muriel's parentage, it can be no relation of yours, dear Mrs. Selby.
She said it was--but I can't say what she said."
"If you please, miss," cried the sergeant, who had been listening,
"will you be so kind as to walk back with us. As you know the woman,
she will speak different to you from what she did to us. I feel noways
sure that she was not lying when I questioned her, now you put the
notion in my head."
Again there came knocking to Annette's door. Again she opened it, and
looked as if she fain would have run away at sight of the policeman
before her.
"Annette," said Betsey, "did you not tell me that you carried that
baby you found on your stoop up to Miss Stanley's door and left it?"
"I know it," answered Annette, and covering her face with her apron,
fled back into the interior of her house. They could hear her mount
the little stair, and bang to a door, but they saw her no more. In
truth, from the time she had unburdened her feelings to the rector's
lady, a new misgiving oppressed her mind. Could English women be
trusted to keep a promise, and they heretics? What would the Miss
Stanleys say, first of her conduct towards themselves in foisting that
particular child on them, and next in divulging the story, to the
discredit of their adopted niece? And now the story was out, and there
was a minister of the law come to take her.