THE spirit of dissension in Musgrove Cottage penetrated to the very
kitchen. Old Betty sided with Alfred, and combated in her place the
creed of the parlour: “Why, according to Miss, the young sparrows are
bound never to fly out of the nest; or else have the Bible flung at
'em. She do go on about God's will: seems to me 'tis His will the
world should be peopled by body and beast--which they are both His
creatures--and, by the same toaken, if they don't marry they does
wus. Certainly whilst a young man bides at home, it behoves him to be
dutiful; but that ain't to say he _is_ to bide at home for ever. Master
Alfred's time is come to leave we, and be master in a house of his own,
as his father done before him, which he forgets that now; he is grown
to man's estate, and got his mother's money, and no more bound to our
master than I be.” She said, too, that “parting blights more quarrels
than it breeds:” and she constantly invited Peggy to speak up, and
gainsay her. But Peggy was a young woman with white eyelashes, and given
to looking down, and not to speaking up: she was always watching Mr.
Hardie in company, like a cat cream; and hovering about him when alone.
Betty went so far as to accuse her of colloguing with him against
Alfred, and of “setting her cap at master,” which accusation elicited no
direct reply, but stinging innuendoes hours after.
Now, if one looks into the thing, the elements of discord had attacked
Albion Villa quite as powerfully as Musgrove Cottage; but had hitherto
failed signally: the mutual affection of the Dodds was so complete, and
no unprincipled person among them to split the good.
And, now that the wedding drew near, there was but one joyful heart
within the walls, though the others were too kind and unselfish to throw
cold water. Mrs. Dodd's own wedding had ended in a piteous separation,
and now to part with her darling child and launch her on the uncertain
waves of matrimony! She heaved many a sigh when alone: but as there
were no bounds to her maternal love, so there were no exceptions to her
politeness: over her aching heart she forced on a wedding face, subdued,
but hopeful, for her daughter, as she would for any other young lady
about to be married beneath her roof.
It wanted but six days, when one morning after breakfast the bereaved
wife, and mother about to be deserted, addressed her son and Viceroy
thus: “Edward, we _must_ borrow fifty pounds.”
“Fifty pounds! what for? who wants that?”
“Why, _I_ want it,” said Mrs. Dodd stoutly.
“Oh, if _you_ want it--what to do, please?”
“Why, to buy her wedding clothes, dear.”
“I thought what her 'I' would come to,” said Julia reproachfully.
Edward shook his head, and said, “He who goes a borrowing goes a
sorrowing.'
“But she is not a he,” objected Mrs. Dodd with the subtlety of a
schoolman: “and who ever heard of a young lady being married without
some things to be married _in?_”
“Well, I've heard Nudity is not the cheese on public occasions: but why
not go dressed like a lady as she always does, only with white gloves;
and be married without any bother and nonsense.”
“You talk like a boy,” said Mrs. Dodd. “I could not bear it. My poor
child!” and she cast a look of tenderest pity on the proposed victim.
“Well, suppose we make the poor child the judge,” suggested Edward. He
then put it to Julia whether, under the circumstances, she would wish
them to run in debt, buying her finery to wear for a day. “It was not
fair to ask _her,_” said Mrs. Dodd with a sigh.
Julia blushed and hesitated, and said she would be candid; and then
stopped.
“Ugh!” ejaculated Edward. “This is a bad beginning. Girl's candour! Now
for a masterpiece of duplicity.”
Julia inquired how he dared; and Mrs. Dodd said warmly that Julia was
not like other people, she could be candid; had actually done it,
more than once, within her recollection. The young lady justified the
exception as follows: “If I was going to be married to myself, or to
some gentleman I did not care for, I would not spend a shilling. But I
am going to marry _him;_ and so--oh, Edward, think of them saying, 'What
has he married? a dowdy: why she hadn't new things on to go to church
with him: no bonnet, no wreath, no new white dress!' To mortify him the
very first day of our----” The sentence remained unfinished, but two
lovely eyes filled to the very brim without running over, and completed
the sense, and did the Viceroy's business, though a brother. “Why you
dear little goose,” said he: “of course, I don't mean that. I have as
good as got the things we must buy; and those are a new bonnet----”
“Ah!”
“A wreath of orange blossoms----”
“Oh you good boy!”
“Four pair of gloves: two white--one is safe to break--two dark; very
dark: invisible green, or visible black; last the honeymoon. All the
rest you must find in the house.”
“What, fit her out with a parcel of old things? so cruel, so
unreasonable, dear Edward?”
“Old things! Why, where is all your gorgeous attire from Oriental
climes? I see the splendiferous articles arrive, and then they vanish
for ever.”
“Now, shawls and Indian muslins! pray what use are they to a bride?”
“Why, what looks nicer than a white muslin dress?”
“Married in muslin? The very idea makes me shiver.”
“Well, clap her on another petticoat.”
“How can you be so childish? Muslin is not the _the thing._”
“No more is running in debt.”
He then suggested that a white shawl or two should be cut into a bridal
dress. At this both ladies' fair throats opened on him with ridicule:
cut fifty guinea shawls into ten-pound dresses; that was male economy!
was it? Total, a wedding was a wedding: new things always _had_ had to
be bought for a wedding, and always would _in secula seculorum._
“New things? Yes,” said the pertinacious wretch; “but they need not be
new-bought things. You ladies go and confound the world's eyes with
your own in the drollest way: If Gorgeous Attire has lain long in your
drawers, you fancy the world will detect on its glossy surface how long
you had it, and gloated over it, and made it stale to your eye, before
you could bring your mind to wear it. That is your delusion, that and
the itch for going out shopping; oh, I'm down on you. Mamma dear, you
open that gigantic wardrobe of yours; and I'll oil my hair, white-wash
my mug (a little moan from Mrs. D.) and do the counterjumping business
to the life; hand the things down to you, unrol 'em, grin, charge you
100 per cent over value, note them down in a penny memorandum-book, sing
out 'Caesh! Caesh!' &c. &c.: and so we shall get all Julia wants, and
go through the ritual of shopping without the substantial disgrace of
running in debt.”
Mrs. Dodd smiled admiringly, as ladies generally do at the sauciness of
a young male; but proposed an amendment. She would open her wardrobe,
and look out all the contents for Edward's inspection; and, if the mere
sight of them did not convince him they were inappropriate to a bride,
why then she would coincide with his views, and resign her own.
“All right!” said he. “That will take a jolly time, I know; so I'll go
to my governor first for the bonnet and wreath.”
Mrs. Dodd drew in at this last slang word; she had heard young gentlemen
apply it to their fathers. Edward, she felt sure, would not so sully
that sacred relation; still the word was obnoxious for its past
offences; and she froze at it: “I have not the honour to know who the
personage is you so describe,” said she formally. Edward replied very
carelessly that it was an upholsterer at the north end of the town.
“Ah, a tradesman you patronise.”
“Humph! Well, yes, that is the word, mamma, haw! haw! I have been making
the bloke a lot of oak candlesticks, and human heads with
sparkling eyes, for walking-sticks, &c. And now I'll go and draw
my--protege's--blunt.” The lady's hands were uplifted towards pitying
Heaven with one impulse. The young workman grinned: “Soyons de notre
siecle,” said he, and departed whistling in the tenor clef. He had the
mellowest whistle.
After a few minutes well spent in deploring the fall of her Oxonian, and
gently denouncing his motto, and his century, its ways, and above all
its words, Mrs. Dodd took Julia to her bedroom, and unlocked drawers and
doors in her wardrobe; and straightway Sarah, who was hurriedly flogging
the chairs with a duster, relaxed, and began to work on a cheval-glass
as slowly as if she was drawing Nelson's lions at a thousand pounds
the tail. Mrs. Dodd opened a drawer and took out three pieces of worked
Indian muslin, a little discoloured by hoarding: “There, that must be
bleached and make you some wrappers for the honeymoon, if the weather
is at all fine; and petticoats to match;” next an envelope consisting of
two foolscap sheets tacked: this, carefully undone upon the bed revealed
a Brussels lace flounce and a veil: “It was my own,” said Mrs. Dodd
softly. “I saved it for you; see here is your name written on it
seventeen years ago. I thought 'this dear little toddler will have wings
some day, and then she will leave me.' But now I am almost afraid to
let you wear it; it might bring you misfortune: suppose after years of
wedded love you should be bereaved of----” Mrs. Dodd choked, and Julia's
arms were round her neck in a moment.
“I'll risk it,” cried she impetuously. “If it but makes me as beloved as
you are, I'll wear it, come weal come woe! And then I shall feel it over
me at the altar like my guardian angel's wings, my own sweet, darling
mamma. Oh what an idiot, what a wretch I am, to leave you at all.”
This unfortunate, unexpected burst, interrupted business sadly. Mrs.
Dodd sank down directly on the bed and wept; Julia cried over her, and
Sarah plumped herself down in a chair and blubbered. But wedding flowers
are generally well watered in the private apartments.
Patient Mrs. Dodd soon recovered herself: “This is childish of me. When
I think that there are mothers who see their children go from the house
corpses, not brides, I ought to be ashamed of myself. Come! a l'oeuvre.
Ah, here is something.” And she produced a white China crape shawl. “Oh,
how sweet,” said Julia; “why have you never worn it?”
“Dear me, child, what use would things be to those I love, if I went and
_wore_ them?”
The next article she laid her hand on was a roll of white poplin, and
drew an exclamation from Mrs. Dodd herself: “If I had not forgotten
this, and it is the very thing. Your dear papa bought me this in London,
and I remonstrated with him well for buying me such a delicate thing,
only once wear. I kissed it and put it away, and forgot it. They _say_
if you keep a thing seven years. It _is_ just seven years since he gave
it to me. Really, the dear boy is a witch: this is your wedding dress,
my precious precious.” She unrolled a few yards on the bed to show it;
and asked the gloating Sarah with a great appearance of consideration
whether they were not detaining her from her occupations?
“Oh no, mum. This glass have got so dull; I'm just polishing of it a
bit. I shan't be a minute now, mum.”
From silver tissue paper, Mrs. Dodd evolved a dress (unmade) of white
crape embroidered in true lover's-knots of violet silk, and ears of
wheat in gold. Then there was a scream at the glass, and Sarah seen in
it with ten claws in the air very wide apart: she had slily turned the
mirror and was devouring the reflexion of the finery, and this last
Indian fabric overpowered her. Her exclamation was instantly followed by
much polishing; but Mrs. Dodd replied to it after the manner of her sex:
“Well it _is_ lovely,” said she to Julia: “but where is the one with
beetle wings? Oh here.”
“Real beetles' wings, mamma?” inquired Julia.
“Yes, love.”
“So they are, and how wicked! and what a lovely green! I will never wear
them: they are prismatic: now, if ever I am to be a Christian, I had
better begin: everything _has_ a beginning. Oh vanity of women, you
stick at nothing. A thousand innocent lives stolen to make one dress!”
And she put one hand before her eyes, and with the other ordered the
dress back into the wardrobe with genuine agitation.
“My dear, what expressions! And you need not wear it; indeed neither of
them is fit for that purpose. But you _must_ have a pretty thing or two
about you. I have hoarded these a good many years; now it is your turn
to have them by you. And let me see; you want a travelling cloak: but
the dear boy will not let us; so choose a warm shawl.”
A rich but modest one was soon found, and Julia tried it on, arching
her supple neck, and looking down over her shoulder to see the effect
behind, in which attitude oh for an immortal brush to paint her, or
anything half as bright, supple, graceful, and every inch a woman.
At this moment Mrs. Dodd threw a lovely blue Indian shawl on the bed,
galvanising Sarah so that up went her hands again, and the door opened
softly and a handsome head in a paper cap peeped on the scene, inquiring
with mock timidity “May 'The British Workman' come in?”
He was invited warmly; Julia whipped his cap off, and tore it in two,
reddening, and Mrs. Dodd, intending to compliment his foresight, showed
him the bed laden with the treasures they had disinterred from vanity's
mahogany tomb.
“Well, mother,” said he, “you were right, and I was wrong: they are
inappropriate enough, the whole lot.”
The ladies looked at one another, and Sarah permitted herself a species
of snort.
“Do we want Sarah?” he asked quietly. She retired bridling.
“Inappropriate?” exclaimed Mrs. Dodd. “There is nothing here unfit for a
bride's trousseau.”
“Good Heavens! Would you trick her out like a Princess?”
“We must. We are too poor to dress her like a lady.”
“Cinderella; at your service,” observed Julia complacently, and
pirouetted before him in her new shawl.
Ideas rejected peremptorily at the time often rankle, and bear fruit
by-and-bye. Mrs. Dodd took up the blue shawl, and said she would make
Julia a peignoir of it; and the border, being narrowish, would do for
the bottom. “That was a good notion, of yours, darling,” said she,
bestowing a sweet smile on Edward. He grunted. Then she took out a
bundle of lace: “Oh, for pity's sake, no more,” cried the “British
Workman.”
“Now, dearest, you have interfered once in feminine affairs, and we
submitted. But, if you say another word, I will trim her poplin with
Honiton two feet deep.”
“Quarter! quarter!” cried Edward. “I'm dumb; grant me but this;
have nothing made up for her out of the house: you know there is no
dressmaker in Barkington can cut like you: and then that will put some
limit to our inconsistency.” Mrs. Dodd agreed; but she must have a woman
in to sew.
Edward grunted at this, and said: “I wish I could turn you these gowns
with my lathe; what a deal of time and bother it would save. However, if
you want any stuffing, come to me; I'll lend you lots of shavings;
make the silk rustle. Oh, here is my governor's contribution.” And he
produced L. 7, 10s.
“Now, look there,” said Julia sorrowfully, “it is money. And I thought
you were going to bring me the very bonnet yourself. Then I should have
valued it.”
“Oh yes,” replied the young gentleman ironically; “can I choose a bonnet
to satisfy such swells as you and mamma? I'll tell you what I'll do;
I'll go with you and look as wise as Solomon, all the time you are
choosing it.”
“A capital plan,” said Julia.
Edward then shook his fist at the finery: and retired to work again for
his governor: “Flowers,” he observed, “are indispensable, at a wedding
breakfast; I hear too it is considered the right cheese to add something
in the shape of grub.” Exit whistling in the tenor clef; and keeping
their hearts up, like a man.
So now there were two workshops in Albion Villa. Ned's study, as he
called it, and the drawing-room. In the former shavings flew, and
settled at their ease, and the whirr of the lathe slept not; the latter
was all patterns, tapes, hooks and eyes, whalebone, cuttings of muslin,
poplin and paper; clouds of lining-muslin, snakes of piping; skeins,
shreds; and the floor literally sown with pins, escaped from the fingers
of the fair, those taper fingers so typical of the minds of their
owners: or they have softness, suppleness, nimbleness, adroitness, and
“a plentiful lack” of tenacity.
The days passed in hard work, and the evenings in wooing, never sweeter
than when it has been so earned: and at last came the wedding eve.
Dr. Sampson, who was to give the bride away, arrived just before
dinner-time: the party, including Alfred, sat down to a charming little
dinner; they ate beetles' wings, and drank Indian muslin fifteen years
in the wood. For the lathe and the chisel proved insufficient, and
Julia having really denied herself, as an aspirant to Christianity,
that assassin's robe, Mrs. Dodd sold it under the rose to a fat old
dowager--for whom nothing was too fine--and so kept up appearances.
Julia and Alfred were profoundly happy at bottom; yet their union was
attended with too many drawbacks for boisterous gaiety, and Alfred, up
to this time, had shown a seriousness and sobriety of bliss, that won
Mrs. Dodd's gratitude: it was the demeanour of a delicate mind; it
became his own position, at odds with his own flesh and blood for
Julia's sake; it became him as the son-in-law of a poor woman so lately
bereaved of her husband, and reduced to poverty by one bearing the name
of Hardie.
But now Dr. Sampson introduced a gayer element. He had seen a great deal
of Life; _i.e.,_ of death and trouble. This had not hardened him, but,
encountering a sturdy, valiant, self-protecting nature, had made him
terribly tough and elastic; it was now his way never to go forward or
backward a single step after sorrow. He seldom mentioned a dead friend
or relation; and, if others forced the dreary topic on him, they could
never hold him to it; he was away directly to something pleasant or
useful, like a grasshopper skipping off a grave into the green grass. He
had felt keenly about David while there was anything to be done: but now
his poor friend was in a madhouse, thanks to the lancet: and there was
an end of _him._ Thinking about him would do him no good. The present
only is irresistible; past and future ills the mind can bar out by a
resolute effort. The bride will very likely die of her first child! Well
then, forget that just now. Her father is in an asylum! Well then, don't
remember him at the wrong time: there sit female beauty and virtue ready
to wed manly wit and comeliness, seated opposite; see their sweet stolen
glances; a few hours only between them and wedded rapture: and I'm
here to give the lovely virgin away: fill the bumper high! _dum vivimus
vivamus._ In this glorious spirit he rattled on, and soon drew the young
people out, and silvery peals of laughter rang round the genial board.
This jarred on Mrs. Dodd. She bore it in silence some time; but with
the grief it revived and sharpened by contrast, and the polite effort to
hide her distress, found herself becoming hysterical: then she made the
usual signal to Julia, and beat an early retreat. She left Julia in the
drawing-room, and went and locked herself in her own room. “Oh, how can
they be so cruel as to laugh and giggle in my David's house!” She wept
sadly, and for the first time felt herself quite lonely in the world:
for what companionship between the gay and the sad hearted? Poor thing,
she lived to reproach herself even with this, the nearest approach she
ever made to selfishness.
Ere long she crept into Julia's room and humbly busied herself packing
her trunks for the wedding tour. The tears fell fast on her white hands.
She would not have been left alone a minute if Julia's mind had not
been occupied just then with an affectionate and amiable anxiety: she
earnestly desired to reconcile her Alfred and his sister before the
wedding; and she sat in the drawing-room thinking whether it could be
done, and how.
At last she sat down blushing, and wrote a little note, and rang the
bell for Sarah, and sent it courageously into the dining-room.
Sarah very prudently listened at the keyhole before entering, for she
said to herself, “If they are talking free, I shan't go in till it's
over.”
The persons so generously suspected were discussing a parchment Alfred
had produced, and wanted signed: “You are our trustee, my boy,” said he
to Edward: “so just write your name here, and mine comes here, and the
witness's there: the Doctor and Sarah will do. Send for a pen.”
“Let's read it first, please.”
“Read it! What for?”
“Catch me signing a paper without reading it, my boy.”
“What, can't you trust me?” inquired Alfred, hurt.
“Oh yes. And can't you trust me?”
“There's a question: why I have appointed you my Trusty in the Deed; he,
he.”
“Well then trust me without my signing, and I'll trust you without
reading.”
Sampson laughed at this retort, and Alfred reddened; he did not want
the Deed read. But while he hesitated, Sarah came in with Julia's note,
asking him to come to her for a minute. This sweet summons made him
indifferent to prosaic things. “Well, read away,” said he: “one comfort,
you will be no wiser.”
“What, is it in Latin?” asked Edward with a wry face.
“No such luck. Deeds used to be in Latin; but Latin could not be made
obscure enough. So now Dark Deeds are written in an unknown tongue
called 'Lawyerish,' where the sense is 'as one grain of wheat in two
bushels of chaff,' pick it out if you can.
“Whatever man has done man may do,” said Dr. Sampson stoutly. “You have
rid it, and yet understood it: so why mayn't we, ye monster o' conceit?”
“Read it?” said Alfred. “I never read it: would not read it for a great
deal of money. The moment I saw what a senseless rigmarole it was, I
flung it down and insisted on the battological author furnishing me
with an English translation. He complied: the crib occupies just
twenty lines; the original three folio pages, as you see. That crib,
gentlemen,” added he severely, “is now in my waistcoat pocket; and you
shall never see it--for your impudence. No, seat yourself by that
pool of parchment (sedet eternumque sedebit, &c.) and fish for Lawyer
Crawford's ideas, rari nantes in gurgite vasto.” And with this he flew
up-stairs on the wings of love. Julia met him in the middle of the room
all in a flutter: “It is to ask you a favour. I am unhappy--about one
thing.”
She then leaned one hand softly on his shoulder, and curving her lovely
supple neck looked round into his face and watched it as she preferred
her petition: “It is about Jane and you. I cannot bear to part you
two in this way: only think six days you have not spoken, and I am the
cause.”
“Not the only cause, love.”
“I don't know, darling. But it is very cruel. I have got my dear mother
and Edward; you have nobody--but Me. Alfred,” said she with gentle
impetuosity, “now is your time; your papa is away.”
“Oh, is he?” said Alfred carelessly.
“Yes. Sarah says Betty says he is gone to Uncle Thomas. So I know you
won't refuse me, my own Alfred: it is to go to your sister this minute
and make it up.”
“What, and leave you?” objected Alfred ruefully.
“No, no; you are with the gentlemen, you know: you are not here, _in
reality,_ till tea. Make them an excuse: say the truth; say it is Me;
and come back to me with good news.”
He consented on these terms.
Then she armed him with advice: “You go to make peace; it is our last
chance; now remember, you must be very generous, very sweet-tempered.
Guard against your impetuosity. Do take warning by me; see how impetuous
I am. And then, you know, after all, she is only a lady, and a great
creature like you ought not to be ruffled by anything so small as a
lady's tongue: the idea! And, dearest, don't go trusting to your logic,
but _do_ descend to the arts of persuasion, because they are far more
convincing somehow: please try them.”
“Yes. Enumerate them.”
“Why, kissing and coaxing, and--don't ask _me._”
“Will you bestow a specimen of those arts on me if I succeed?”
“Try me,” said she: and looked him earnestly in the face; but
lowered her long lashes slowly and shyly, as she realised to what her
Impetuosity was pledging itself.
Alfred got his hat and ran to Musgrove Cottage.
A man stepped out of the shadow of a hedge opposite Albion Villa, and
followed him, keeping in shadow as much as possible.
The door of Musgrove Cottage was opened to him by old Betty with a
joyful start! “Mr. Alfred, I _de_clare! Come in; there's only me and
Miss. Master is in Yorkshire, and that there crocodile, Peggy, she is
turned away--for sauce--and a good riddance of bad rubbish: Miss is in
the parlour.”
She ushered him triumphantly in. Jane was seated reading: she dropped
her book, and ran and kissed him with a cry of joy. So warm a reception
surprised him agreeably, and simplified his task. He told her he was
come to try and make it up with her before the wedding: “We lose your
presence, dear Jenny,” said he, “and that is a great grief to us,
valuing you as we do: don't refuse us your good wishes to-morrow.”
“Dearest Alfred,” said she, “can you think it? I pray for you day and
night. And I have begun to blame myself for being so sure you were in
the wrong and poor papa faultless. What you sent me half in jest, I take
in earnest 'Judge not that ye be not judged.'”
“Why, Jenny,” said Alfred, “how red your eyes are.”
At this observation the young saint laid her head on her brother's
shoulder and had a good cry like any other girl. When she recovered a
little she told him, yes, she had been very unhappy: that he had always
been a dear good brother to her, and the only one she had; and that it
cut her to the heart not to be at his wedding; it seemed so unkind.
Alfred set her on his knee--she had more soul than body--and kissed her
and comforted her: and, in this happy revival of natural affection,
his heart opened, he was off his guard, and told her all: gave her the
several proofs their father had got the L. 14,000. Jane, arrested by
the skill and logical clearness with which he marshalled the proofs,
listened in silence; and presently a keen shudder ran through her frame,
and reminded him he was setting a daughter against her father.
“There,” said he, “I always said I would never tell you, and now I've
done it. Well, at least you will see with what consideration, and
unheard-of leniency, the Dodds for our sake are treating Mr. Richard
Hardie. Just compare their conduct to him with his to them. And which is
most to his advantage? that I should marry Julia, and give Mrs. Dodd the
life interest in my ten thousand pounds, to balance his dishonesty, or
for him to be indicted as a thief? Ned Dodd told us plainly he
would have set the police on him, had any other but his son been the
informant.”
“Did _he_ say that? Oh, Alfred, this is a miserable world.”
“I can't see that: it is the jolliest world in the world: everything is
bright and lovely, and everybody is happy except a few sick people, and
a few peevish ones that run to meet trouble. To-morrow I marry my sweet
Julia; Richard Hardie will find we two don't molest him, nor trouble our
heads about him. He will get used to us; and one fine day we shall say
to him, 'Now, we know all about the L. 14,000: just leave it by will
to dear Jenny, and let my friend Dodd marry her, and you can enjoy it
unmolested for your lifetime.' He will consent: and you will marry Ned,
and then you'll find the world has been wickedly slandered by dishonest
men and dismal dogs.”
In this strain he continued till he made her blush a good deal and smile
a little; a sad smile.
But at last she said, “If I was sure all this is true, I think I should
go--with a heavy heart--to your wedding. If I don't, the best part of me
will be there, my prayers, and my warm, warm wishes for you both. Kiss
her for me, and tell her so; and that I hope we shall meet round His
throne soon, if we cannot meet at His altar to-morrow.”
Brother and sister then kissed one another affectionately; and
Alfred ran back like the wind to Albion Cottage. Julia was not in the
drawing-room, and some coolish tea was. After waiting half an hour he
got impatient, and sent Sarah to say he had a message for her. Sarah
went upstairs to Mrs. Dodd's room, and was instantly absorbed. After
waiting again for a long time, Alfred persuaded Edward to try his luck.
Edward went up to Mrs. Dodd's room, and was absorbed.
The wedding dress was being solemnly tried on. A clean linen sheet was
on the floor, and the bride stood on it, receiving the last touches of
the milliner's art. With this and her white poplin and lace veil she
seemed framed in white, and her cheeks bloomed so, and her eyes
beamed, with excitement and innocent vanity, that altogether she was
supernaturally lovely.
Once enter the room enchanted by this snow-chad rose, and--_Vestigia
nulla retrorsum._
However, Edward escaped at last and told Alfred what was on foot, and
drew a picture of the Bride with white above and white below.
“Oh, let me see her,” implored the lover.
Edward must ask mamma about that. He did, and mamma said “Certainly not;
the last person in the world that shall see her in her wedding dress.”
But she should come down to him in half an hour. It seemed a very long
half-hour. However, by way of compensation, he was alone when she did
come. “Good news?” she asked eagerly.
“Capital: we are the best of friends. Why she is half inclined to
_come._”
“Then--oh how good you are: oh, how I love you.”
And she flung a tender arm round his neck, like a young goddess making
love; and her sweet face came so near his, he had only to stoop a
little, and their lips met in a long blissful kiss.
That kiss was an era in her life. Innocence itself, she had put up her
delicious lips to her lover in pure, though earnest affection; but the
male fire with which his met them, made her blush as well as thrill,
and she drew back a little, ashamed and half scared, and nestled on his
shoulder, hiding a face that grew redder and redder.
He bent his graceful head, and murmured down to her, “Are you afraid of
me, sweetest?”
“Oh no, no! Yes, a little. I don't know. I was afraid I had made too
free with my Treasure; you don't quite belong to me yet, you know.”
“Oh yes, I do; and, what is more, you belong to me. Don't you, sweet
rebel?”
“Ah, that I do, heart and soul, my own, own, own.”
A few more soft delicious murmurs, and then Julia was summoned to more
rites of vanity, and the lovers parted with tender reluctance for those
few hours.
Alfred went home to his lodgings. He had not been there above ten
minutes, when he came out hastily, and walked quickly to the “White
Lion,” the principal inn in Barkington. He went into the stable-yard,
and said a few words to the ostler: then returned to his lodgings.
The man followed him at a distance from Albion Terrace; watched him
home; dogged him to the “White Lion;” and, by-and-bye, entered the yard
and offered the ostler a glass of ale at the tap.
At Albion Villa they were working on Julia's dresses till past midnight:
and then Mrs. Dodd insisted on her going to bed. She obeyed; but when
the house was all quiet, came stealing out to her mother, and begged to
sleep with her: the sad mother strained her in a tearful embrace: and so
they passed the night; clinging to one another more as the parting drew
near.
Edward arranged the wedding breakfast for after the ceremony; and sent
the ladies up a cup of coffee, and a bit of toast apiece. They could
hardly find appetite even for this; or indeed time; there was so much
still to do.
At ten o'clock Julia was still in the height of dressing, delayed by
_contretemps_ upon _contretemps._ Sarah and her sister did her hair up
too loose, and, being a glorious mass, it threatened all to come down
and, meantime, a hair-pin quietly but persistently bored her cream-white
poll.
“Oh, run for mamma!” she cried.
Mamma came half dressed, had the hair all down again, and did it up
with adroit and loving hand, and put on the orange wreath, kissed her
admiringly, and retired to her own toilet; and the girls began to lace
the bride's body.
Bump came Edward's foot against the door, making them all shriek.
“Now I don't want to hurry you; but Dr. Sampson is come.” The handmaids,
flustered, tried to go faster; and, when the work was done, Julia took
her little handglass and inspected her back: “Oh,” she screamed, “I am
crooked. There, go for mamma!”
Mamma soon came, and the poor bride held out imploring hands, “I'm all
awry; I'm as crooked as a ram's horn.”
“La, miss,” said Sarah, “it's only behind; nobody will notice it.”
“How can they help it? Mamma! _am_ I deformed?”
Mrs. Dodd smiled superior and bade her be calm: “It is the lacing, dear.
No, Sarah, it is no use your _pulling_ it; all the pulling in the world
will not straighten it. I thought so: you have missed the second top
hole.”
Julia's little foot began to beat a tattoo on the floor: “There is not
a soul in the house but you can do the simplest thing. Eyes and no eyes!
Fingers and no fingers! I never did.”
“Hush, love, we all do our best.”
“Oh, I am sure of that; poor things.”
_“Nobody_ can lace you if you fidget about love,” objected Mrs. Dodd.
(Bump)! “Now I don't want to hurry any man's cattle: but the bridesmaids
are come.”
“Oh dear, I shall never be ready in time,” said Julia; and the tattoo
recommenced.
“Plenty of time, love,” said Mrs. Dodd, quietly lacing: “not half-past
ten yet. Sarah, go and see if the bridegroom has arrived.”
Sarah returned with the reassuring tidings that the bridegroom had not
yet arrived; though the carriages had.
“Oh, thank Heaven, _he_ is not come,” said Julia. “If I keep him waiting
to-day, he might say--'Oho!'”
Under dread of a comment so significant she was ready at last, and said
majestically he might come now whenever he liked.
Meantime, down stairs an uneasiness of the opposite kind was growing.
Ten minutes past the appointed time, and the bridegroom not there.
So while Julia, now full dressed, and easy in her mind, was directing
Sarah's sister to lay out her plain travelling dress, bonnet and gloves
on the bed, Mrs. Dodd was summoned downstairs. She came down with
Julia's white gloves in her hand, and a needle and thread, the button
sewed on by trade's fair hand having flown at the first strain. Edward
met her on the stairs: “What had we better do, mother?” said he, _sotto
voce:_ “there must be some mistake. Can you remember? Wasn't he to call
for me on the way to the church?”
“I really do not know,” said Mrs. Dodd. “Is he at the church, do you
think?”
“No, no, either he was to call for me here, or I for him. I'll go to the
church, though: it is only a step.”
He ran off, and in a little more than five minutes came into the
drawing-room.
“No, he is not there. I must go to his lodgings. Confound him, he has
got reading Aristotle, I suppose.”
This passed before the whole party, Julia excepted.
Sampson looked at his watch, and said he could conduct the ladies to
the church while Edward went for Alfred. “Division of labour,” said he
gallantly, “and mine the delightful half.”
Mrs. Dodd demurred to the plan. She was for waiting quietly in one
place.
“Well, but” said Edward, “we may overdo that; here it is a quarter-past
eleven, and you know they can't be married after twelve. No, I really
think you had better all go with the doctor. I dare say we shall be
there as soon as you will.”
This was agreed on after some discussion. Edward, however, to provide
against all contingencies, begged Sampson not to wait for him should
Alfred reach the church by some other road: “I'm only groomsman,
you know,” said he. He ran off at a racing pace. The bride was
then summoned, admired, and handed into one carriage with her two
bridesmaids, Miss Bosanquet and Miss Darton. Sampson and Mrs. Dodd went
in the other; and by half-past eleven they were all safe in the church.
A good many people, high and low, were about the door and in the pews,
waiting to see the beautiful Miss Dodd married to the son of a personage
once so popular as Mr. Hardie: it had even transpired that Mr. Hardie
disapproved the match. They had been waiting a long time, and were
beginning to wonder what was the matter, when, at last the bride's party
walked up the aisle with a bright April sun shining on them through the
broad old windows. The bride's rare beauty, and stag-like carriage of
her head, imperial in its loveliness and orange wreath, drew a hum of
admiration.
The party stood a minute or two at the east end of the church, and then
the clergyman came out and invited them into the vestry.
Their reappearance was eagerly expected; in silence at first, but
presently in loud and multitudinous whispers.
At this moment a young lady, with almost perfect features and sylph-like
figure, modestly dressed in dove-coloured silk, but with a new chip
bonnet and white gloves, entered a pew near the west door, and said a
little prayer; then proceeded up the aisle, and exchanged a word with
the clerk, then into the vestry.
“Cheep! cheep! cheep!” went fifty female tongues, and the arrival of the
bridegroom's sister became public news.
The bride welcomed her in the vestry with a sweet guttural of surprise
and delight, and they kissed one another like little tigers.
“Oh, my darling Jane, how kind of you! have I got you back to make my
happiness complete?”
Now none of her own party had thought it wise to tell Julia there was
any hitch: but Miss Hardie blurted out naturally enough, “But where's
Alfred?”
“I don't know, dear,” said Julia innocently. “Are not he and Edward
in another part of the church? I thought we were waiting till twelve
o'clock, perhaps. Mamma dear, you know everything; I suppose this is all
right?”
Then, looking round at her friends' faces, she saw in a moment that
it was all wrong. Sampson's, in particular, was burning with manly
indignation, and even her mother's discomposed, and trying to smile.
When the innocent saw this, she suspected her beloved was treating her
cavalierly, and her poor little mouth began to work, and she had much
ado not to whimper.
Mrs. Dodd, to encourage her, told her not to be put out: it had been
arranged all along that Edward should go for him: “Unfortunately we
had an impression it was the other way: but now Edward is gone to his
lodgings.”
“No, mamma,” said Julia; “Alfred was to call for Edward; because our
house was on the way.”
“Are you sure, my child?” asked Mrs. Dodd very gravely.
“Oh yes, mamma,” said Julia, beginning to tremble; “at a quarter before
eleven: I heard them settle it.”
The matter was terribly serious now; indeed, it began to look hopeless.
Weather overclouded: rain-drops falling; and hard upon twelve o'clock.
They all looked at one another in despair.
Suddenly there was a loud, long buzzing heard outside, and the house of
God turned into a gossiping fair. “Talk of money changers,” said Satan
that day, “give _me_ the exchangers of small talk.”
“Thank Heaven they are come,” said Mrs. Dodd. But, having thus relieved
her mind, she drew herself up and prepared a freezing reception for the
defaulter.
A whisper reached their excited ears: “It is young Mr. Dodd” and next
moment Edward came into the vestry--alone: the sight of him was enough;
his brow wet with perspiration, his face black and white with bitter
wrath.
“Come home, _my_ people,” he said sternly: “there will be no wedding
here to-day!”
The bridesmaids cackled questions at him; he turned his back on them.
Mrs. Dodd knew her son's face too well to waste inquiries. “Give me my
child!” she cried, in such a burst of mother's anguish long restrained,
that even the insult to the bride was forgotten for one moment, till
she was seen tottering into her mother's arms and cringing and trying to
hide bodily in her: “Oh, throw a shawl over me,” she moaned; “hide all
this.”
Well, they all did what they could. Jane hung round her neck and sobbed,
and said, “I've a sister now, and no brother.” The bridesmaids cried.
The young curate ran and got the fly to the vestry-door: “Get into it,”
he said, “and you will at least escape the curious crowd.”
“God bless you, Mr. Hurd,” said Edward, half choked. He hurried the
insulted bride and her mother in; Julia huddled and shrank into a corner
under Mrs. Dodd's shawl: Mrs. Dodd had all the blinds down in a moment;
and they went home as from a funeral.
Ay, and a funeral it was; for the sweetest girl in England buried her
hopes, her laugh, her May of youth, in that church that day.
When she got to Albion Villa, she cast a wild look all around for fear
she should be seen in her wedding clothes, and darted moaning into the
house.
Sarah met her in the hall, smirking; and saying, “Wish you j----”
The poor bride screamed fearfully at the mocking words, and cut the
conventional phrase in two as with a razor; then fled to her own room
and tore off her wreath, her veil, her pearls, and had already strewed
the room, when Mrs. Dodd, with a foot quickened by affection, burst in
and caught her half fainting, and laid her weary as old age, and cold as
a stone, upon her mother's bosom, and rocked her as in the days of happy
childhood never to return, and bedewed the pale face with her own tears.
Sampson took the bridesmaids each to her residence, on purpose to leave
Edward free. He came home, washed his face, and, sick at heart, but more
master of himself, knocked timidly at Julia's door.
“Come in, _my son,_” said a broken voice.
He crept in, and saw a sorry sight. The travelling dress and bonnet were
waiting still on the bed; the bridal wreath and veil lay on the floor;
and so did half the necklace, and the rest of the pearls all about the
floor; and Julia, with all her hair loose and hanging below her waist,
lay faintly quivering in her mother's arms.
Edward stood and looked, and groaned.
Mrs. Dodd whispered to him over Julia: “Not a tear! not a tear!”
“Dead, or false?” moaned the girl: “dead, or false? Oh that I could
believe he was false; no, no, he is dead, dead.”
Mrs. Dodd whispered again over her girl.
“Tell her something: give us tears--the world for one tear!”
“What shall I say?” gasped Edward.
“Tell her the truth, and trust to God, whose child she is.” Edward knelt
on the floor and took her hand--
“My poor little Ju,” he said, in a voice broken with pity and emotion,
“would you rather have him dead, or false to you?”
“'Why false, a thousand times. It's Edward. Bless your sweet face, my
own, own brother; tell me he is false, and not come to deadly harm.”
“You shall judge for yourself,” he groaned. “I went to his lodgings. He
had left the town. The woman told me a letter came for him last night.
A letter in--a female hand. The scoundrel came in from us; got this
letter; packed up his things directly; paid his lodging; and went off in
a two-horse fly at eight o'clock in the morning.”