Chapter 6. The Eve Of The Wedding

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_ CHAPTER VI. THE EVE OF THE WEDDING

Where shall I find a white rose blowing?
Out in the garden where all sweets be.
But out in my garden the snow was snowing
And never a white rose opened for me,
Naught but snow and a wind were blowing
And snowing.

--CHRISTINA G. ROSSETTI.

Notwithstanding Mildred Anstruther's inward prognostications, there came no hitch to Hilda Merton's engagement. Quentyns behaved as the best and most honorable of men. He was all that was tender and loving to Hilda, and he immediately took that position toward Mr. Merton which a son might have held. Quentyns was a good business man, and in the catastrophe which overwhelmed the Rectory, he proved himself invaluable.

On one point, however, he was very firm. His marriage with Hilda must not be delayed. No persuasive speeches on her part, no longing looks out of Judy's hungry eyes, no murmurs on the part of Aunt Marjorie, would induce him to put off the time of the wedding by a single day.

He used great tact in this matter, for Quentyns was the soul of tact, and it quite seemed to the family, and even to Hilda herself, that _she_ had suggested the eighth of January as the most suitable day in the whole year for a wedding--it seemed to the whole family, and even to Hilda herself, that _she_ was the one who desired to go, whereas in her heart of hearts, in that innermost heart which she scarcely ventured to probe at all just now, she would have gladly shared Aunt Marjorie's discomforts and sat by her father's side while he composed those sermons which were to teach his flock, with a sure note of truth running through them, that the blessed man is the man whom the Lord God chasteneth.

The wedding-day was fixed, and notwithstanding poverty and its attendant shadows, preparations for the great event went on merrily enough.

A check for Hilda's trousseau was sent to her by a rich aunt in India, and the pleasant excitement which even the quietest wedding always causes began to pervade the Rectory.

When the day was finally arranged, Aunt Marjorie ceased to murmur and cry. She talked a great deal now of Hilda's coming responsibilities, and spent all her leisure moments copying out receipts which she thought might be useful to her niece in her new position as wife and housekeeper.

"You have never yet told me where you are going to live, Hilda," she said, on the New Year's Day which preceded the wedding.

"I am not quite sure myself," replied Hilda. "Jasper has seen a great many suburban houses which he does not quite like, and a great many flats which he considers absolutely perfect. He says there is no special hurry about choosing a house, for after we have returned from our wedding tour we are to stay with some of his relations in town, and during that time we can make up our minds as to what kind of home we will have."

"Very prudent of Jasper," said Aunt Marjorie. "He really is an excellent fellow--so wonderfully thoughtful for such a young man. Of course he has far too much sense to think of selecting a house for you himself. As to a flat, you will of course not dream of going into one--a house is better in all respects, more airy and more interesting."

"I should like a house best," said Hilda, "but Jasper, of course, is the one really to decide."

"Now, there you are wrong, my love. _You_ are undoubtedly the right person to make the final choice. I am old-fashioned in my ideas, Hilda, and I think the wife ought to be in subjection to her husband, for we have Scripture for it, but I don't believe St. Paul meant that rule to extend to domestic matters. In domestic matters the wife _ought_ to have the casting vote. Be sure, my dear Hilda, you don't yield to Jasper in domestic affairs--you will rue it if you do--and be quite sure that in selecting a house you have a wide entrance-hall, a spacious staircase, and a large drawing room."

"But, Auntie, such a house will be beyond our means."

"Tut, tut, my love--the rent _may_ be a few pounds more, but what of that? A large entrance-hall is really essential; and as it is easier to keep large rooms and wide staircases clean than small ones, your servants will have less to do and you will save the extra rent in that way. Now here is your great-grandmother's receipt for plum-pudding--two dozen eggs, three pounds raisins, one pound citron. Hilda, I particularly want to give you a hint about the _spice_ for this pudding; ah, and I must speak also about this white soup--it is simply made, and at the same time delicious--the stock from two fowls--one pint single cream--your father is particularly fond of it. Yes, Susan, what is the matter?"

"A parcel for Miss Hilda, ma'am," said the neat parlor-maid. "It has come by 'Carter Patterson'; and will you put your name here, please, Miss Hilda."

Hilda signed her name obediently, and a square wooden box was brought in. It was opened by Aunt Marjorie herself with great solemnity. Judy and Babs came and looked on, and there were great expressions of rapture when an exquisite afternoon tea-service of Crown Derby was exhibited to view.

Wedding presents were pouring in from all quarters. Hilda put this one away with the others, and calmly continued her occupation of adding up some parochial accounts for her father. She was a very careful accountant, and had the makings in her of a good business woman when she had gained a little experience.

Aunt Marjorie sat and mumbled little disjointed remarks with regard to her niece's future state and subjection. She gave her many hints as to when she was to yield to her husband and when she was to firmly uphold her own will.

Had Hilda followed out Aunt Marjorie's precepts, or even been greatly influenced by them, she and Jasper would have had a very unhappy future, but she had a gentle and respectful way of listening to the old lady without taking in a great deal that she said. Her thoughts were divided now between Jasper and Judy. Her heart felt torn at the thought of leaving her little sister, and she had an instinctive feeling, which she had never yet put into words, that Judy and Jasper were antagonistic to each other, and, what is more, would always remain so.

Judy had seen the Crown Derby service unpacked, and then, in the sober fashion which more or less characterized all her actions of late, she left the room.

She went up to the bedroom which she and Babs shared together, and sitting down by the window, rested her chubby cheek against her hand.

Babs was kneeling down in a distant corner, pulling a doll's bedstead to pieces for the express purpose of putting it together again.

"My doll Lily has been very naughty to-day," she said, "and I am going to put her to bed. She wouldn't half say her lessons this morning, and she deserves to be well punished. What are you thinking of, Judy, and why do you pucker up your forehead? It makes you look so cross."

"Never mind about my forehead. I have a lot of things to think of just now. I can't be always laughing and talking like you."

Babs paused in the act of putting a sheet on her doll's bed to gaze at Judy with great intentness.

"You might tell me what's the matter with you," she said, after a moment of silence; "you are not a bit interesting lately; you're always thinking and always frowning, unless at night when you are sobbing."

"Oh, don't!" said Judy. "Don't you see what it is, Babs--can't you guess?--it is only a week off now."

"What's only a week off?"

"Hilda's wedding. Oh, dear; oh, dear! I wish I were dead; I do wish I were dead."

Babs did not think this remark of poor Judy's worth replying to. She gravely finished making her doll's bed, tucked Lily up comfortably, and coming over to the window, knelt down, placed her elbows on the ledge, and looked out at the snowy landscape.

"Hasn't Hilda got lots and lots of presents?" she said, after a pause.

"Yes. I don't want to see them, though."

"Everyone is giving her a present," continued Babs, in her calm voice, "even Miss Mills and the servants. Susan told me that the schoolchildren were collecting money to buy her something, and--may I tell you a 'mendous big secret, Judy?"

Judy ceased to frown, and looked at Babs with a faint dawning of interest in her eyes.

"I has got a present for her too," said Babs, beginning to dance about. "I am not going to give it till the day of the wedding. I buyed it my own self, and it's _quite_ beautiful. What are you going to give her, Judy?"

"Nothing. I haven't any money."

"I have half a sovereign in the Savings Bank, but I can't take it out until after I am seven. I wish I could, for I could lend it to you to give Hilda a wedding present."

"I wish you could," said Judy. "I'd like awfully to give her something. You might tell me what you have got, Babs."

"It's some darning-cotton," said Babs in a whisper. "I buyed it last week with twopence-halfpenny; you remember the day I went with Mrs. Sutton to town. She said it was a very useful thing, for Hilda will want to mend Jasper's socks, and if she hasn't darning-cotton handy maybe he'll scold her."

"He wouldn't dare to," said Judy, with a frown; "she _shan't_ mend his horrid socks. Why did you get such a nasty wedding present, Babs?"

A flush of delicate color spread all over Babs' little fair face. She winked her blue eyes hard to keep back the tears which Judy's scathing remarks were bringing to the surface, and said, after a pause:

"It's not a horrid present, it's lovely; and anyhow"--her voice becoming energetic as this happy mode of revenge occurred to her--"it is better than yours, for you has got nothing at all."

"Oh, I'll have something when the day comes," replied Judy, in a would-be careless tone.

"But you hasn't any money."

"Money isn't everything. I'll manage, you'll see."

From this moment Judy's whole heart and soul were absorbed in one fierce desire to give Hilda a present which should be better and sweeter and more full of love than anybody else's.

After two or three days of anxious thought and nights of troubled dreams, she made up her mind what her present should be. It should consist of holly berries and ivy, and these holly berries and that ivy should be picked by Judy's own fingers, and should be made into a bouquet by Judy herself; and the very center of this bouquet should contain a love-note--a little twisted note, into which Judy would pour some of her soul. It should be given to Hilda at the very last moment when she was starting for church; and though she was all in white from top to toe--all in pure white, with a bouquet of white flowers in her hand--yet she should carry Judy's bouquet, with its thorns and its crimson berries, as a token of her little sister's faithful love.

"She shall carry it to church with her," said Judy, with inward passion. "I'll make her promise beforehand, and I know she won't break her word to me. It will be a little bit of me she'll have with her, even when she is giving herself to that horrid Jasper."

The little girl quite cheered up when this idea came to her. She became helpful and pleasant once more, and allowed Babs to chatter to her about the insect world, which had now practically gone to sleep; and about the delights of the time when their chrysalides, which they had put away so carefully in the butterfly-case, should burst out into living and beautiful things.

The day before the wedding came, and the whole house was in pleasant bustle and confusion. Nearly all the presents had arrived by this time. The school children had come up to the Rectory in a body to present Hilda with a very large and gaudily decorated photographic album; the Rectory servants had given the bride-elect a cuckoo-clock; Miss Mills had blushed as she presented her with a birth-day book bound in white vellum; "Carter Patterson's" people were tired of coming up the avenue with box after box; and Aunt Marjorie was tired of counting on her fingers the names of the different friends who were sure to remember such an important event as Hilda Merton's wedding.

But for Aunt Marjorie, Hilda would have given herself to Jasper in a very quiet and unobtrusive fashion. But this idea of a wedding was such intense grief to the old lady that Hilda and Jasper, rather against their wills, abandoned it, and Hilda was content to screen her lovely face behind a white veil, and to go to church decked as a bride should.

"It is positively economical to get a proper wedding dress," said Aunt Marjorie; "you'll want it for the parties you'll go to during your first season in town, Hilda. Of course Lady Malvern, Jasper's aunt, will present you, and the dress with a little alteration will do very well to go to the Drawing Room in. I shall desire the dressmaker to make the train quite half a yard extra, on purpose."

Aunt Marjorie had her way, and was sufficiently happy in her present life to forget the dull days which must follow, and to cease to think of the deserted house when Hilda, and wealth, and luxury, went away.

It was the evening before the wedding-day, when Babs came solemnly into the room where her sister was sitting, and presented her with her wedding gift.

"It's darning-cotton," said Babs, in her gentle, full, satisfied fashion. "Sutton said it would be useful, and that Jasper wouldn't scold you if you had it handy."

"What treason are you talking, Babs?" asked Quentyns, who was standing by Hilda's side.

He stooped down, and mounted her on his shoulder.

"Sutton says that husbands always scold their wives," said Babs.

"Nonsense, child! Sutton doesn't speak the truth. I would far rather scold myself than Hilda."

"Well, at any rate here's the cotton. I spent all my money on it except the ten shillings in the Savings Bank; and, Hilda, you _will_ use it when Jasper's socks get into holes."

"Of course I will, you dear little darling," said Hilda. "I think it is a perfectly sweet present. Give it to me; I was just packing my work-basket, and in it shall go this minute. I'll think of you every time I use a thread of this cotton, Babs."

"Babs, Miss Mills says it is quite time for you to go to bed," said Judy, who was standing at the back of Hilda's chair, softly touching her bright head from time to time with the tips of her little fingers.

Quentyns laughed when Judy spoke in her solemn voice.

"And what about Judy's time for going to bed?" he asked.

"Oh, I am much older than Babs, and Hilda said----"

"Yes, Jasper; I said Judy should have a little talk with me all by myself to-night," said Hilda, putting back her hand and drawing her little sister forward. "Here's a tiny bit of my chair for you to sit upon, Judy dearest."

"Then I'll take Babs upstairs," said Jasper. "Put your arms tightly round my neck, you quaint monkey, and I'll race up to your room with you."

"Hilda," said Judy, the moment the door had closed behind the two, "I haven't given you my present yet."

"My darling," said Hilda, "when we love as you and I love each other, presents mean nothing--nothing at all. I know you have no money, dearest little Judy and I think it was so sweet of you not to ask for any. Your present to me is your thoughtfulness; no gift could be sweeter."

"Hilda, may I rest my head against your shoulder?"

"Of course, darling. Now aren't we cozy?"

"We are; I feel warm now, and--and happy. I won't be able to sit like this for a long time again."

"Yes you will, for you're coming to stay with us; as soon as ever we get into our house, or our flat, or wherever we shall live, you are to come. One of the very first rooms I shall furnish will be your little bedroom, my Judy."

"And then I can sit close to you every night. But oh, Hilda, _he'll_ be there, he won't like it."

"Yes, he will; he'll like anything that I like. There is an old proverb that I must repeat for your benefit--'Love me, love my dog.' That means that those whom I love you ought to love."

"Ought I? Very well, I'll try to love--Jasper. Anything that you say I'll try to do. Hilda, why does loving a person give pain? I have an ache in my heart--a big ache. There now, what a horrid girl I am! I am making your eyes fill with tears. You shan't be unhappy just when you're going to be made into a beautiful white bride. Sutton says it is unlucky for a bride to cry. You shan't cry, Hilda, you shan't--you mustn't."

"But I can't help crying, Judy, when I think that you are unhappy, and when you speak of your love to me as a pain."

"I'll never speak of it again. I'll be happy--I won't fret--no, I won't fret at all, and I won't cry even once," said the child, making a valiant effort to bring a smile to her face. "Hilda, will you promise me something very, very solemnly?"

"If it is in my power I certainly will, my pet."

"You have not got my wedding present yet, Hilda; but it is coming. Promise me----"

"What, darling?"

"Promise to take it to church with you to-morrow--I'll give it to you just before church--it will be full of me--my very heart will be in it--take it to church with you, Hilda, and hold it in your hand when you're giving yourself to Jasper--promise--promise."

"How excited you are, my dearest! If it makes you really happy to know that I shall hold something of yours in my hand when I am being married, I will certainly do so."

"Oh, it does make me happy, it does!" _

Read next: Chapter 7. A Wedding Present

Read previous: Chapter 5. In A Garden

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