PREPARING FOR THE WEDDING.
“Mr. Mahone! Mr. Mahone! Is there any news?” said Ellen Post, advancing
toward the laundry.
“Hush! Step in here; the cook is always prowling in and out of that
room. That’s right. Shut the door. You were asking about news. Yes,
indeed, that boy was arrested yesterday. This morning an officer is
after the old woman—two of the Laurence family are in for it. As for
that girl, Eva, I’m afraid we can’t fasten on her just yet.”
“Oh, we can wait for her. Mrs. Lambert’s agent was here this morning
about foreclosing a mortgage on the house. They haven’t kept up the
interest. I don’t think she’d order them turned out, much as she hates
them. So I told him she was sick; but I’d take up his message, which was
to ask for directions. She was asleep on the sofa, so I told him that
she was not well enough to talk about business, but wanted this
troublesome mortgage closed up at once, without bothering her again
about it.”
“That was a ten strike,” said the admiring Robert.
“So, when they get back from prison, their shanty will be gone, and we
shall have rooted them out, trunk and branch. I’m sure that must satisfy
Miss Spicer.”
“Yes. If she don’t pay the five thousand down after that, she’s no
lady.”
“Which she is,” answered Ellen, with emphasis. “Why, the very last
night, she, knowing what was between us, Mr. Mahone, gave me a
white-silk dress, only twice worn, with real lace on the sleeves and
bosom, and a wreath of white flowers, which she says are just as
fashionable for brides as orange-blossoms, which she hasn’t had any use
for as yet—more’s the shame to Mr. Ivon, who behaves as no gentleman has
a right to.”
“Well, no one can say that we haven’t done our share. When will she pay
over, my dear?” questioned Mahone, drawing Ellen tenderly toward him.
“Just as soon as we are married. I asked her, and she said that.”
“She did? Well, well! When will that be? With the wedding dress all
ready, we might have it in the basement-parlor, within a week.”
“Oh, Mr. Mahone, think of it? I couldn’t. The cake—the invitations.”
“Hang the cake! and as for inform——I beg pardon, invitations; the
genteel thing is a strictly private wedding.”
“A private wedding, and that dress? _Such_ a silk! You could almost
stand it alone!”
“Yes, yes, I know. But who does a bride dress for but her admiring
husband? I shall worship you in that bridal robe and them flowers; but
don’t ask me to share the beautiful sight with any other man. I couldn’t
stand it, being that jealous.”
“Oh, Mr. Mahone, I had so set my heart upon it.”
“Not as I have set my heart on you, Ellen. Just a carriage, with you and
your adorer in it, the white-silk dress a rustling around your lovely
person, trimmed with flowers white. Well, yes, white, as bridal flowers
ought to be.”
“What! Without bridemaids?—without witnesses?”
“My love, I have thought of that. There is my friend Boyce, a genteel
fellow, in the grocery line, who has a sweetheart of his own, a Miss
Gorman, splendid old Irish name; not to be compared with yours of
course, but still respectable on a certificate, very.”
“Why, Mr. Mahone, you seem to have settled everything,” cried Ellen,
half angry, half elated.
“Always under your wishes, being only your shadow and nothing more, Miss
Ellen, and having, in fact, no will of my own, nor wanting any.”
“So private! So soon! I really don’t know what to say, Mr. Mahone.”
“Let me say it for you, dearest of women; let me take this modest
hesitation for yes. May I—may I?”
“Mr. Mahone, you may.”
A moment after this consent was given, the betrothed pair stole from the
laundry, Mahone first and Miss Post after. She passed the cook with a
lofty fling of the head, and apologized with mock humility for her
presence in a place so far out of her usual element as a kitchen, at
which the cook said “Scat,” which certainly did seem a little out of
place, as no cat, black or white, was disturbing the tranquillity of the
room.
Not ten minutes after this the washerwoman came out of the laundry with
her bonnet and shawl on, white as a ghost, but with undaunted fire in
her eyes. In fact the poor drudge looked full of life, and almost
handsome; a very different woman from the jaded and hopeless creature
who had crept into the house with such humility only a few hours before.
“You will please excuse me, I am not well enough for hard work to-day;
for the whole world I couldn’t get out another piece.”
The woman said this in a quick, eager way, as if she had quite
determined on going, whether her apology was accepted or not.
The cook would have argued with her, but the whole matter was cut short
by the woman walking abruptly out of the house.
Meantime Ellen Post knocked at the door of Miss Spicer’s room. That
young lady turned the latch with her own hand.
“Was that Mr. Lambert that just came in? I thought it was his step on
the stairs?”
“No, Miss,” answered Ellen, confidentially. “It’s only me; but I’ve got
good news. The old woman and her boy are both in the hands of a
policeman. Would it be convenient to let me have that amount?”
“When they are convicted!” answered Miss Spicer, closing the door
abruptly.
Ellen Post stood for a moment in blank amazement, then she gave her head
a toss and, speaking to herself, said sharply,
“We shall see! We shall see!”