THE DIFFICULTIES TO BE ENCOUNTERED IN THE CHOICE OF A BRIDESMAID.
“Well, Margaret,” said Mrs. Meredith, when they were alone in their own
apartment—“well, and how have you got on with the colonel?”
“Oh, very well indeed, ma’.”
“I am glad of it. Has he proposed anything new to you, my dear, or has
he said anything more to you of a particular character? Has he said
anything respecting property? That is what we want to know pretty well,
and that is the only point that can be more than usually interesting to
us.”
“No, ma’, nothing about property. I could not expect he would say
anything to me, and I hardly expect he would to any one at all. You
see, he is no doubt a rich man.”
“Well, and he would not consider it at all necessary to say anything
about it to any one; that it is so peculiarly private, and has nothing
to do with any one; and he does not imagine that we require anything of
the kind. I am sure if the thought entered his mind, he would at once
satisfy us upon the subject. I cannot speak to him about it, because,
having none, I am really not entitled to do so. That’s my opinion upon
the subject, though Mr. Twissel, I dare say, has a different one to me;
indeed, he generally has one of his own.”
“Yes, you may depend upon that; but I have been thinking the matter
over, and I am sure he is what he says he is. But what did he say, my
dear?”
“Why, he insists that I shall name an early day.”
“Insists! my child. What does he mean?”
“Merely in a goodnatured, though urgent manner. Indeed, he wishes me
to make up my mind and have him at once. If I’ll consent to have him,
he’ll obtain a special licence to solemnise the marriage here in this
house, or at church, which I like best. Which shall I consent to, ma’?”
“Well, my dear, I think you may as well be married at home; it will be
so much more fashionable than going to church.”
“It will be much more trouble, and will hardly seem like a marriage, I
think, if it is not done at a church. What do you think?”
“It will make more noise,” said Mrs. Meredith, “if it is done at home;
and yet nobody can say a word about it if it takes place at church.”
“So I think, now; so I think.”
“Well, what did you decide?”
“I did not decide upon anything,” said Margaret; “I declined to do
so upon the moment, but said I would think about it, and after a few
words, I promised I would let him know the next time he spoke to me
about it, which should not be before to-morrow afternoon.”
“Very well, my dear. A becoming reluctance will never hurt your cause;
you have done quite right, and I have no doubt but he will feel more
pleased with you than if you had at once consented upon his first
asking.”
“So I thought, ma,” sad Margaret.
“But you must not carry that too far, or it may defeat its own
object, when next he asked you, you must affect a great deal of
emotion—trembling and blushing, and all that kind of thing, which you
can do very well; or if you should distrust yourself, you can practice
it a bit before a glass. I did it when I was your age, and I did it
well.”
“Yes, ma’, I can manage all that well enough; but what time shall I
name?”
“Well, that must in some measure depend upon the humour you find him
in. If he be very pressing, you may shorten the period; if he appear
distant, lengthen it; but if there is any danger, take him at his word
at once, and have no delay. It will not do to lose a chance; he must
not be allowed to get off in that manner; and you must declare your
confusion to be so great that you hardly know what you say, but, as he
is so very pressing, you will give in to his wishes, and you may name
any day you like best; and then he is caught, you see.”
“I understand that clearly; but what time would you, as a medium
time, give, which I out to lengthen or shorten as occasion may seem to
require?”
“Well, my dear, about a fortnight.”
“Ah, that was on my own tongue, too. Well, then, I should not have done
wrong in naming three weeks or a month, which I felt disposed to say at
first.”
“No, no, but you need not make it more than three weeks, unless you
see any fitting occasion, or any necessity for so doing,” said Mrs.
Meredith.
After an amiable council the mother and daughter held, having for its
object the entanglement and speedy marrying of the unfortunate East
Indian colonel, they both indulged in balmy sleep, and slept till morn.
The colonel himself said no more about the object of the previous day’s
conversation, when the amiable mother left the daughter alone with the
colonel, who appeared as if actuated by clock-work; when the hour of
his forbearance had passed, he again spoke of the matter.
“Miss Meredith,” he said, “my impatience will, I hope, be excused, on
the score that my love is ardent; and I have already waited as long as
I promised. You know to what I allude.”
“I am afraid I must say I do, Colonel Deverill,” said Margaret; “but
will you not grant me more time to consider this matter over? Remember,
it is a serious matter.”
“Of that there is no doubt,” said the colonel; “but I do not feel
the same doubts you do, for I only feel how much I can do for your
happiness, and how willingly I will do it.”
“Of that I can have no fear.”
“Then why not consent at once? Consent to have the man who loves you,
who dotes upon you, and who will do all that an ample fortune can
enable him to do for your welfare, and your future prosperity and
comfort. Consider all that.”
“I have considered much; I don’t know that I need consider more than my
present happiness; the future will take care of itself; at all events,
we can do no more than to deserve to do well, and to succeed in all our
undertakings—to deserve to be happy.”
“And do more you cannot; and who is there that can do as much?”
“We all endeavour to do so.”
“I hope we do so, though I am sure there are many who might do better;
but, to return to my hopes, when will you consent to become mine—say
the day on which I am to be made happy; and, if you really love me,
make it as short as you can.”
Margaret appeared to hesitate, and hung her head, trembled, and the
blushes mounted her cheek; the colonel caught her in his arms—and
pressing her to his bosom, he said,—
“Come, come, my own Margaret say when shall I be made happy.”
“Oh! Deverill,” she sighed, as she hid her face; “what shall I say—you
are so urgent; shall I say a—a fortnight; and yet that is,—too—too
soon.”
“No—no, not at all—not at all; thank you, dear Margaret, thank you.”
“I—I—I fear I have said too much; forgive me—”
“Nay, nay, no more about it; I will be content; to-morrow I will go to
the city, and then I will purchase the wedding-ring. I will obtain
a licence, and then we shall be ready against any contingencies; and
on our wedding morning, I will have some jewels ready for you. I have
given them some orders, but they take a long while in getting ready.”
“Oh, you are too good.”
“Not a bit—only just,” said the colonel; and he appeared as though he
were quite satisfied with his conquest, and looked very well pleased
with the success he had met with in the prosecution of his suit. It was
a settled thing now, and he was, or professed to be, in ecstacies.
• • • • •
“Mother,” said Margaret as she entered the room, “it is all settled at
last; I have given my consent, and the day is named.”
“Indeed! I am glad of it. When will the day arrive—what day is it?”
“This day fortnight.”
“This day fortnight! well—well, that will be a very good time—very good
time, indeed; we shall have a very busy time of it, for we must make
the most of our arrangements between this and then; for we must get you
in a fit-out; but if you have a dress to appear in, that is as much as
I shall be able to afford you, for my means are so short.”
“I know all that; but he has promised me jewels, which he has ordered,
but which will take some time in making; but he expects them to be
ready by our wedding-day. Come, now, this seems to me to be a very
handsome provision.”
“Very, my dear; very fortunate, too, because you see the furniture
was becoming somewhat less new and fine that it was; that would have
compelled me to lessen my terms; so we should have gone gradually back,
and, perhaps, been obliged to seek some other mode of living.”
“But you have some money by you?”
“That was reserved in case of extreme misfortunes, and I cannot realise
that immediately; however, it would only put off the evil day; but
we are saved that, now—we have caught a rare good fish—we have only
to land him, that is, get some little to be done before we pull him
ashore. We must keep up the farce; but, I tell you, we must not be
guided by Mr. Twissel, though he is of great use.”
“No, ma’, we must not; I have thought on that.”
“And yet I do not like to give up the idea of finding out first what
he may have in the shape of property, though I am sure it would do
no good; yet, to have one’s curiosity satisfied is something gained.
Still, I am not so curious that I must be satisfied at the expense of
our prospects.”
“No, ma’; I am sure I want badly enough to know all about it, but I
will restrain my curiosity until I find out by means and at a time when
no offence can be taken; or, if it be, why it’s of no consequence, and
I don’t care anything about it, because I shall have a right to speak
for myself.”
“Certainly, my dear, that is a very proper spirit—a very proper spirit,
indeed; but then he won’t interfere with you much, except it is to want
you to be always at his elbow.”
“Ah, I won’t mind that, because, you see, he may make a will; but I’ll
take pretty good care that nobody comes in between him and me.”
“Exactly; you have no relatives on his side to tease you, or give you
any trouble; therefore you have all plain sailing before you.”
“I have; and now, I suppose, it will not be too much to speak to one’s
bridesmaids?”
“Ah! my dear,” said Mrs. Meredith, with a shake of the head.
“What’s the matter, ma’?”
“Ah! my dear, there is the difficulty; you know how easy the colonel
has fallen in love with you; how sudden that has all come about, and
how short a time the courtship has continued.”
“So much the better, ma’.”
“Certainly, my love; but it should make you cautious—very cautious, how
you act with bridesmaids, because you don’t know what may happen with
such old people as the colonel—they are dreadful sometimes, and you
don’t know what they will do. They will fall in love with anybody; it
is quite shocking to think of it; but it don’t so much matter, only you
see he may take a violent fancy to some one, and then you may lose by
the whole affair.”
“How so, ma?”
“Why, suppose he takes a fancy to one of the bridesmaids?—you don’t
know what may pass between them.”
“Certainly not.”
“Very well; then he may make a will to reward her, as he would call it,
and then you lose so much, which is a clear robbery, as I call it.”
“So it would be, ma’; and yet, after all’s said and done, I cannot tell
what else we are to do; some female friends we must have; and the only
precaution we can take will be to get some one as ugly as I can, and
then keep her away as much as possible.”
“The latter is the only effectual method, for ugliness is not always a
safeguard, for men have got such tastes, and what we think extremely
plain, they, by a perversity of taste, will persist in believing to be
interesting, at least, if not pretty. I have known so many instances;
besides, I do know that even ugliness itself is no safeguard.”
“Indeed, ma’!”
“No; I had an instance of that—I may say two—even with your father, who
took a fancy to two of the servants, one after the other. I am sure
there was nothing in the hussies to attract any attention; but then men
will be men, and you can’t help it.”
“We must get rid of them.”
“Yes, that is all you can do; but whom did you think of having?”
“There are the two Miss Stewards—”
“They are called pretty. I heard a gentleman say so at the last party
we went to, so that I think decidedly bad policy. I know the men’s
taste very well, my dear, but it is different to what we call taste; I
don’t know why, but it is so.”
“Well, ma’, if the Misses Steward won’t do, what do you say to the
Misses Brown? They are anything but even passable; besides, they are
pitted with the small-pox, and very light hair, almost carroty—they are
anything but fascinating.”
“That may be all very true, my dear, but you know the Misses Brown
sing, they are called good figures, and dashing young women, and they
are very bold, which might tempt many people, especially when they are
looking about for sweethearts.”
“Yes, that is very true; then there are the Misses Smith—they are very
young—much too young to be at all likely to cause men to have any fancy
for them.”
“There, my dear innocent girl, you are entirely wrong—most entirely
wrong.”
“Indeed, ma’?”
“Yes, my dear, you are innocence itself, because you have been brought
up at home; but, look here, men are the nastiest creatures alive—why,
some of them would fall in love with a girl sixteen or seventeen years
old. Aye, more than that,—I have seen some of them married at that age.”
“Oh! I am shocked,” said Margaret, as she lifted up her hands in
amazement at this description of the vices of men. “Ah! well they may
say at church, ‘And there is no good in us.’”
“Indeed, my dear, you are quite right, and so is the Prayer-book—but
it is as I tell you; beside, men never forget these things; they will
remember faces they have seen for a year or two, and then they will
begin their games.”
“Dear me, ma’, what shall I do?”
“That is the difficulty, my dear. I would not have unfolded this book
of vice before you, had it not been necessary for your happiness.”
“Oh! fiddle de dee ma’—it’s the money that I care for; it ain’t the
colonel, poor old cripple. He may do as he pleases, as long as I get
the gold.”
“Well, my dear,” said the careful mother, who felt the sedative effects
of this speech, “well, my dear, but you know they do waste their means
in these affairs, and that most outrageously, sometimes, to cause a
ruinous effect upon their home.”
“Oh! but he’s too much of an invalid.”
“Do you know, Margaret, I think the colonel is more of an invalid from
habit than reality. Sometimes, when nobody’s looking, he can walk and
use both feet alike, and even use his left hand without any trouble at
all.”
“Do you really think so?”
“Yes, but I don’t mean to say it is all sham. Oh, dear, no, but long
habit, and the laziness of these rich Indians is so great, that there
is no knowing its extent. I don’t believe they would eat, if it wasn’t
for their being hungry.”
“What is to be done?”
“I will tell you, my dear. Have Miss Twissel and her friend.”
“Miss Twissel and Martha Briggs,” exclaimed Miss Meredith with a
giggle. “What a fright!”
“So much the better, my dear—so much the better. It is just what you
want—the very thing above all others. Have a fool and a fright, and you
can drop their acquaintance whenever you like, and I think there can be
no danger of the colonels falling in love with them. At least,” added
Mrs. Meredith, with emphasis,—“at least, upon such an occasion.”
“Very well, ma’. Let it be Miss Twissel and Martha Briggs. Goodness me,
how I shall be attended upon this occasion—it will be quite laughable.
I mustn’t let the colonel see them before the morning arrives, else he
will be sure to laugh at them.”
“Ha! ha! ha!” laughed both mother and daughter at the idea of the
two frights, as they called them, being bridesmaids; and in high
good humour they both retired to rest for the night, to dream of the
forthcoming occasion.