MABEL'S WEDDING DAY.
MR. STEINTHORPE looked, if possible, sleeker, handsomer, and better
dressed than ever that evening. I could find no fault with him as a
lover. He was evidently fascinated with Mabel, and the delicate homage
his manner to her displayed must have been very flattering to her
vanity. Nor did his manner towards my father and me leave anything to
be desired.
Father was more than satisfied with his future son-in-law; he thought
the engagement a most fortunate one for Mabel. That he was very
pleased I could tell by the unusual animation he displayed; the cloud
of melancholy that so often hung over him had disappeared. I could at
least feel thankful to Mr. Steinthorpe for having rendered my father
more cheerful.
Mr. Steinthorpe treated me with a courtesy into which he tried to
infuse somewhat of brotherly kindness. I showed myself so amazed when
first he addressed me by my Christian name that he apologised, and
humbly asked if I would allow him to use it.
"Of course you must call her 'Dorothy,'" said Mabel; "she is your
sister now as well as mine."
I tried hard to look as if this idea were pleasant to me, but scarcely
succeeded. Indeed, I endeavoured to think kindly of Howard Steinthorpe,
but a secret distrust of him still lurked within my heart. However, it
seemed to Mabel that we were getting on nicely, and she was satisfied.
When tea was over, I left Mabel to enjoy her lover's company, and
putting on my hat hurried off to find Salome.
It was but a few steps to the little white cottage at the top of the
road. The three-cornered cottage, we called it, because a large slice
had been taken off it for the enlargement of the neighbouring house,
and the one room on the ground floor, on to which the house door
opened, and the bedroom above it, were alike of a triangular form.
I think Salome was expecting me, for there was something rather too
dramatic in the start and exclamation of surprise with which she
greeted my appearance. But I could see that she was very pleased that I
had come to her so soon after my arrival at home.
Her cottage was a cosy little place, and, of course, it looked the
picture of neatness. The carpet, curtains, and certain pieces of
furniture were recognised by me as having once done service in my home.
Clearly Mabel had had a hand in the arrangement of things.
Salome was ironing when I entered, and I saw to my surprise that a
frock of Mabel's lay on the ironing-board. When I remarked on this, she
explained to me that my sister, knowing her liking for laundry work,
had arranged that she should undertake the getting up of our family
linen, having a woman to help her with the rougher work. She said, too,
that by Mabel's recommendation, she had gained other employers, and was
thus able to earn a nice little sum weekly.
What a manager Mabel was! How cleverly she had contrived to rid herself
of Salome's presence in the house when she found it inconvenient, yet
in such a way that no one could say she had treated our old servant ill!
Yet I could see that her retirement from our service was a sore subject
with Salome. When I told her how sorry I was to miss her from our home,
and that I hoped she would come back to me when Mabel was married, she
shook her head, and refused to think of such a thing.
"Nay, nay, Miss Dorothy, I'd better bide here. I like my cottage, and
I've no mind to give it up. Old folks and young folks don't often think
alike, and maybe I shouldn't fall in with your ideas any better than
with Miss Mabel's."
I was silent, feeling that there was perhaps some truth in Salome's
words.
"But I tell you what, Miss Dorothy, my dear," my old nurse went on; "if
ever you find yourself at a loss and want a helping hand, I'll come to
you; whether it's pickling the hams, or boiling the jam, or the house
cleaning, you may rely on me. It's not likely that you, fresh from
school, can know how these things should be done, though Miss Mabel was
mighty clever at them, for all her fine education; but you're not just
like Miss Mabel, and p'raps I do know better than you, and living so
near, I can always run in when you want me."
"Which will be very often," I said, "for I have not Mabel's genius for
housekeeping, and I shall get into the most fearful muddles if you do
not look after me. And I like the old ways best; I'm not a fashionable
person, you know."
Salome's eyes gleamed with satisfaction.
"That's true," she said; "you're no-ways so particular as Miss Mabel.
And if there's any making or mending I can do for you, Miss Dorothy,
I'd be only too glad to do it. Or for Miss Mabel either; I'd help her
with her wedding clothes if she'd let me, but I doubt I'm not a fine
enough needlewoman for her."
"You sew beautifully," I said, though I was not sure that Mabel would
agree with me, "and I will find you plenty to do, whether Mabel does or
not; you know how I hate needlework."
Salome laughed. I think she liked me the better for my careless,
improper ways, shocking as they were to her sense of propriety. They
made her feel that I needed her, and it is pleasant to a true woman's
heart to know that she is necessary to the well-being of another.
I felt happier after I had had that talk with Salome, and when I
went home, I told Mabel how much I liked Salome's cottage, and how
comfortable she seemed. I hoped thus to make amends to my sister for my
hasty, cross words, and especially for the improper way in which I had
spoken of Mr. Steinthorpe. Mabel received my overtures graciously, and
complacently remarked that she had been sure I should soon feel that I
had passed too hasty a judgment upon her conduct with regard to Salome,
since she had no right to complain of the way in which she had been
treated.
A few days later, Edmund came home. I welcomed him with rapture. His
company would be more precious to me than ever, since Mabel was much
occupied with her "fiancé" and the preparations for her wedding, which
was to take place ere long.
But I had the mortification of seeing Edmund on his arrival eye me with
astonishment, not unmixed with disgust, pretty much as Mabel had done.
"What have you done to yourself, Dorothy?"
"Don't you like my short hair?" I faltered.
"Like it! Why, you look just like a hairdresser's apprentice who has
been practising on himself with the curling-'tongs!"
For I had been trying to make my unruly hair curl, and the result was
not happy.
"Was she not silly to have it cut off?" said Mabel.
"Infatuated," returned Edmund. "I hate to see a girl with short hair;
it looks so unwomanly."
"Unwomanly!" I could hardly keep the tears from rising to my eyes when
I heard him speak so.
Little as I strove to acquire certain womanly virtues, I hated the idea
of being thought unwomanly. I had often enough wished that I were a
boy, but I had no admiration for girls who affected mannish airs and
a mannish style of dress. It seemed to me that such were as little
deserving of respect as men who show themselves weak and effeminate.
"I am sure I wish enough I had not cut it off," I said, impatiently;
"everyone goes on at me so about it, and I can't make it grow, anyhow.
It gets thicker and thicker, but it won't grow long."
"Try Mrs. Allen's hair restorer, warranted to make the hair grow to
any length, and we shall soon see you like the fair damsel on the
advertisement sheets with her silken tresses sweeping to her feet.
Shall I get you a bottle?" said Edmond, mischievously.
"No, thank you," I returned, unable to relish the joke.
Edmund chose another topic that was hardly more agreeable to me.
"By the bye, Dottie," he began, (he would persist in calling me by this
childish name, given to me in my baby-days, though I often begged him
to drop it, seeing it was most ridiculous applied to a tall being like
myself), "I suppose you have now done with school. Miss Carefull has
put the last touch of her superfine polish upon you and labelled you
'finished.' What trophies have you brought home in the form of prizes
to witness to the solemn fact?"
"What is the good of asking me about prizes!" I sail, pettishly. "You
know very well that I am the dunce of the family."
"Are you a follower of Duns Scotus, who, by the way, was a very clever
fellow, and by no means deserved to have all the blockheads called
after him?" said Edmund, coolly.
I could not help laughing at the brotherly indifference with which
Edmund accepted the fact of my being a blockhead, and in the laugh my
vexation melted away.
"How about your friend, Ralph Dugdale?" I inquired. "Have you seen much
of him lately?"
"Oh, yes, only he has been working so tremendously hard. He talks of
coming into this neighbourhood for the vacation, so perhaps you will
see him, Dottie. He has an uncle living near Braintree."
"Oh, that will be nice! You must ask him to come here," I cried, whilst
Mabel made haste to inquire what was his uncle's name.
"Beavis, I believe," said Edmund, indifferently.
"Oh, Sir John Beavis, of Cotsford Manor!" said Mabel, with some
eagerness. "Howard knows him, I believe. You must bring your friend to
The Towers some day, Edmund."
"Perhaps," said Edmund, drily; "but, you know, Mab, you are not at The
Towers yet."
His remark brought a flush of indignation to Mabel's cheek.
I soon learned what Edmund thought of Mabel's engagement. It was not a
bad thing for her, he said. No doubt she would enjoy doing the grand at
The Towers, but he could not say that he was charmed with his future
brother-in-law; he did not find that he improved upon acquaintance.
"Why, Ted," I said, with some surprise, "I thought you liked him. And
Mabel says that he has been very good to father. He has lent him money
and helped him in his business."
Edmund gave an odd smile.
"Have you not heard of the disinterested cormorant who went to the
assistance of the fishes when they were threatened with death? Depend
upon it, Steinthorpe will be no loser by any help he has given father.
If he has advanced money, it has been upon good security, and he will
get capital interest for his money. Father told me as much himself.
Steinthorpe is not the fellow to give, hoping for nothing again."
"But, Edmund," I said, "the cormorant carried the fishes to a secure
little pool and devoured them at his ease. You don't mean to suggest
that Mr. Steinthorpe intends to devour father?" And I laughed at the
absurd notion.
"Oh, I don't think father is in any bodily peril," said Edmund,
laughing, too; "Steinthorpe is not a man of large appetite."
"Then what do you mean, Edmund?" I persisted.
"Better not ask, Dottie," he replied. "After all, perhaps, I wrong the
fellow by my suspicions."
I felt lonely after Edmund had gone back to college. Mabel was so very
busy and important over the preparations for her wedding that she could
give little time to me.
I went once or twice with her to The Towers, now delivered over to
workmen, to see the improvements that were being made there, or to
decide concerning carpets or furniture. Not that my advice was ever
wanted, or the least respect paid to my opinions, only Mabel thought it
right that I should go with her.
As I wandered through the large rooms, I wondered rather sadly whether
Mabel would be happy there. The prospect of the wedding gave me no
pleasure. Mabel and I had been together all our lives, and I could
not bear to think of parting with my sister. Sometimes I was pained
to see how little she minded leaving me and the old home. The large
rooms and elegant furniture at The Towers seemed to promise her ample
compensation for all that she would leave.
Mabel was married early in June. Her wedding day was a miserable day
to me; it rained fast all day, and was so chilly that we were glad to
have fires. Edmund came home the evening before with such a bad cold
on his chest that he could hardly speak, and he should have been in
bed instead of making one of the party that went to church. What with
anxiety about him and general excitement, I was hardly in a state of
mind to give Mabel the attention and service she had a right to expect.
But Mabel's equanimity did not fail her, much as it was tried. She felt
it disappointing that the sun refused to shine on her in her bridal
white; but with her usual common sense, she resigned herself to the
inevitable. The only time her serenity was seriously disturbed was when
we discovered that the dressmaker had deceived herself as to my height,
and made the skirt of my gown outrageously short. Then, indeed, Mabel's
pretty face fell, and her brows were puckered in distress.
"How dreadfully tall you are, Dorothy!" she said, as if I could help it.
But presently her quick mind and nimble fingers contrived a way of
remedying this defect; our toilets were completed to our satisfaction,
and we went downstairs. I was the only bridesmaid, for it was a very
simple wedding; father had stipulated for that. He had no money to
waste on finery, he said.
I did not deport myself well as a bridesmaid, for when Edmund was
seized with a violent fit of coughing in the middle of the service, I
became so absorbed in anxiety about him that I was not ready to take
the bride's bouquet when she looked to me for assistance.
The church was crammed with spectators, for Mr. Steinthorpe was a
great man in the neighbourhood, and many people were interested in his
wedding. He had given his men a holiday, and my father's tan-yard,
too, was closed for the day, so in spite of the rain, there was quite
a crowd of workmen with their wives and children gathered in the
churchyard to see the bride arrive.
The Burford brass band was there, and played "Oh, haste to the wedding"
in the most inspiriting style, as we walked up the churchyard path,
breaking forth with still more vigour into "See, the conquering hero
comes" when we quitted the church at the conclusion of the service;
whilst the children scattered flowers for the bride to step on,
ruthlessly casting down the sweet summer blossoms to be trampled into
the wet earth.
There was to be a great dinner for Mr. Steinthorpe's and my father's
workpeople at The Swan later in the day, so it was a gala occasion
for most of the Burford people; but for me, as I have said, it was an
unhappy day. Mabel was not long at home after our return from church.
She had but time to partake rather hastily of the excellent breakfast
which Salome had helped to prepare, and at which she waited in a new
lavender gown, and with white satin ribbons in her cap.
Then I helped Mabel to change her dress; our farewells were said,
and she and her bridegroom drove off to the nearest station at which
they could catch the London express, which disdained to stop at so
unimportant a place as New Burford. They were going to spend their
honeymoon amidst the enchanting scenery of Switzerland.
How dismal everything seemed when the day's excitement was over! Father
felt the parting with Mabel as much as I did, no doubt, but he was
never wont to confide his feelings to his children, and he did not on
this occasion. He only kissed me more warmly than usual, saying,—
"You and I must take care of each other now, Dorothy."
And then he slipped on his old coat with an air of relief, and went
across to his office, where he busied himself for the remainder of the
day.
Edmund could no longer conceal that he was feeling quite ill with his
cold. I made up a fire in father's room, and drawing an easy chair to
it, persuaded Edmund to rest there. Salome would have liked to poultice
him; but he would not hear of that, and we had hard work to get him to
drink some of the linseed tea which she held to be a sovereign remedy
for coughs.
I sat by his side all the afternoon, feeling dull and heavy-hearted.
He, too, hardly cared to speak; his good spirits had deserted him, a
sure sign that he was feeling far from well. After a while, he fell
into a dose. I wished I could do the same, but anxious thoughts would
not let me rest. They soon brought tears to my eyes, and finding myself
on the point of sobbing aloud, I rose and slipped quietly from the room.
I went into the dining-room. Salome had restored everything here to its
usual order, and, save some vases filled with hothouse flowers, there
was nothing to remind me of the great event of the day. I did not need
reminding, however. I made up the fire, and then sitting down on the
hearthrug, leaned my head on a chair and indulged in a good cry.
I had ceased to sob, but my cheeks were still wet with tears, when I
heard a vehicle drawing up outside the house. I did not disturb myself,
however, supposing that it had only brought someone on business to the
tan-yard. There must have followed a knock at the door, but I did not
hear it. I was lost in a sad reverie when Martha, our servant, startled
me by opening the door and ushering a gentleman into the room.
She could not see me where I crouched by the fire. I started up
immediately, but she had closed the door and was gone.
To my dismay, I found myself confronting a dark, bearded man, with very
pleasant eyes, violet-blue in hue, which had a merry twinkle in them
when I started up in confusion, but grew grave and earnest as they saw
the tears upon my cheeks.
I bowed with a dreadful consciousness of the ludicrous appearance I
must present.
"I beg your pardon for disturbing you thus," he said, and his voice
was as pleasant as his eyes, "the servant made a mistake, I fear. I
am Ralph Dugdale; you may have heard your brother speak of me, for I
presume I am addressing Miss Carmichael."
Ralph Dugdale, my brother's friend, whose acquaintance I had longed to
make! It was too provoking that he should surprise me with tear-stained
face and tumbled hair. I was so overwhelmed by confusion that I could
only murmur an affirmative.
"Excuse me," he said, and his tones were now grave and concerned; "I
fear I have come at the wrong time. You are in trouble, and my visit is
an intrusion, but I thought I should find Carmichael—"
"Oh, yes, he is here," I said, recovering myself; "he will be glad to
see you. There is no trouble, only this has been rather an eventful day
with us—my sister was married this morning."
"Indeed!" he returned, with a smile. "That is not generally regarded as
a mournful event."
"No; but I am very silly," I said, able to smile now, and feeling
constrained to account for my tears, "and I have been worrying about
Edmund. He has got one of his bad colds, and seems so far from well
that I cannot help being anxious."
I paused, finding myself once more on the verge of tears.
"Of course not," he replied, in the most sympathising manner. "I am
very sorry that he has caught cold again."
But ere he could say more the door opened, and, to my relief, Edmund
appeared to give account of himself.
"Welcome, old fellow! I did not hope to see you so soon, but I'm
awfully glad. You're a brick to come on such a day as this, though I
know you never stand for weather," he said, hoarsely but heartily.
"Come into the other room, it's snugger there."
"What have you been about to get knocked up again?" Dugdale inquired,
as he followed him.
"Oh, it's nothing," Edmund said; "I'm a bit seedy to-day, but I shall
be all right in a day or two."
I allowed Edmund to enjoy his friend's society alone for a time.
Indeed, I rather shrank from further acquaintance with Ralph Dugdale. I
devoutly hoped that he would not tell my brother that he had found me
in tears, for Edmund would be sure to tease me most unmercifully if he
knew of it.
Presently, however, Edmund called to me that Dugdale was about to go. I
went to them then, and succeeded in persuading Mr. Dugdale to stay long
enough to take a cup of tea with us. My father came in, and we had tea
together in his room.
Ralph Dugdale did not in the least resemble my preconceived ideas of
Edmund's friend. In the first place, he was several years older than
my brother, and I had always thought of him as about Edmund's age,
forgetting that others besides youths of twenty can study at Cambridge.
There was a wonderful gaiety, too, in his demeanour, such as I had
never associated with the clever, mathematical student Edmund had
described him to be. He was just the man one would wish to arrive on a
wet day, he brought so much sunshine with him. There was no affectation
or flippancy in his mirth. He gave me the impression that day of a
man of large heart and noble nature, kind-hearted and generous, whose
friendship would be a precious thing.
I took little part in the conversation that went on round the
tea-table, though every now and then Mr. Dugdale made an effort by word
or glance to draw me into it, but I enjoyed listening to his bright,
ready talk. So did Edmund; he had brightened wonderfully since his
friend's arrival. I think we were all sorry when he rose to take leave
of us, saying that he had left himself only just time to get back to
Cotsford by his uncle's dinner hour.
"Now, stay where you are, Carmichael," he said, imperatively, as Edmund
made a movement as though he would accompany him to the front door.
Edmund went back to the fireside and Dugdale closed the door upon him,
and stood leaning against it in order to secure his safe custody.
Father had gone out to see if Luke had put Mr. Dugdale's horse into the
gig, so he and I were alone in the passage.
"Don't you fret any more about your brother, Miss Carmichael," he
said, as he held my hand in his, and looked at me with a merry yet
kindly light in his eyes; "he will soon get over this attack, if he is
careful."
"Ah, that is it," I said, with a sigh, "Edmund never will take proper
care of himself."
"No, I know he is not so prudent as he should be," he replied; "but he
has a prudent man for his friend, and I promise you I will take good
care of him at Cambridge. Don't you worry about him when he is there.
I'll look after him."
Father was calling to him that the gig was ready. With a kind, assuring
smile, he bade me good evening, and hastened out into the pouring
rain. In a few moments, he drove off, nodding gaily to Edmund, who was
watching him from the window.
"He is a nice fellow," said father, as he came in.
I thought so too. I was feeling very grateful to Ralph Dugdale. His
words had cheered me, as he meant that they should. It was good to know
that Edmund would have such a friend to look after him at Cambridge.
[Illustration]