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The Honorable Miss: A Story of an Old-Fashioned Town, a fiction by L. T. Meade |
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Chapter 25. Wedding Presents |
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_ CHAPTER XXV. WEDDING PRESENTS Notwithstanding her crushing disappointment Matty Bell did not sink into an early grave. That report which had got into the country with regard to her funeral and tombstone began to be very flatly contradicted. It was now whispered on the breeze that Matty was not only in a fair state of recovery but also that a substantial means of consolation had been opportunely found her. Not only was Gus Jenkins very much to Matty's taste, but she proved, which, perhaps, was more to the point, to suit him exactly. This hero, who was doing a thriving trade in the oil business in London, delighted in laughing, merry, giggling girls, and surely where could he find another to equal Matty in that respect. Whenever he looked at her she laughed, whenever he spoke to her she blushed and giggled. He began to consider himself a wonder of wit and fascination. Really it was no trouble at all to entertain a nice, little, soft, round thing like Matty Bell. He pronounced the shot silk a splendid robe, and asked Matty pointedly what place of amusement she would like best to see in London, and in whose presence she would most happily enjoy it. Matty could scarcely speak when this remarkable question was addressed to her, unless giggles, blushes, gasps, and "Oh, Gus, how killing you are!" could be taken as a sensible reply. Under these circumstances Mrs. Bell felt that the less she said about Captain Bertram and that old affair of his with Matty the better. She always mentioned it now as "that old affair," and whispered in strictest confidence to her friends that Gus, poor dear fellow, was so absurdly jealous of Captain Bertram that she dared not breathe the captain's name in his presence. "It's awful to see the thunder-clap that comes on Gusty's brow," the good lady would say. "And what I'm so terrified of is that if he and the captain meet they'll do each other a serious mischief. My poor child, she is the innocent cause, Well, well, she has been much sought after." When Beatrice asked the Bells to become her bride's-maids, Mrs. Bell thought the time had arrived to let bygones be bygones, and to accept the proffered honor. "It was the captain's wish, I make no doubt," she said to her husband; "he knew he hadn't a chance of winning the girl on whom his heart was set, but he thought, at least, he might have the pleasure of seeing her at his wedding, and, so to speak, looking his last on her. It's my belief, too, that he'll relieve his feelings by giving Matty a very beautiful present. She must hide it from Gusty, though; Gusty is so terrible in the jealous excess of his feelings." As Beatrice had insisted on giving her bride's-maids their dresses, no difficulty could be experienced on that head, and the Bells, notwithstanding that stormy period which had gone before, enjoyed themselves immensely during the brief season of Beatrice's engagement. Mrs. Bell certainly was happy during this time. If Matty was not engaged to Bertram she soon would be to a better man. Gusty Jenkins, as she invariably called him, was, of course, the better man now in her eyes. The three girls were being supplied with new and lovely dresses, in which Mrs. Bell assured her husband they'd look like angels wafted down fresh from the skies--for the occasion. When she said this, Bell did not agree with her, but that was not of the slightest consequence. Mrs. Bell also during these happy weeks was making a little secret hoard of money, which further considerably added to the good lady's felicity. That young visitor of the Bell's, Miss Hart, proved herself a most unobtrusive and retiring person. She was strangely reserved, no doubt, and would reveal none of the secret which she had dimly alluded to on the night of her arrival to Mrs. Bell, but she was chatty and pleasant enough to the girls when quite alone with them. She put them up to many small wrinkles with regard to their toilette, and insisted on dressing Matty's hair in a way which made it look both thick and becoming. When the Bells were quite alone she was present at their meals where she quite subjugated the hearts of Bell and his son, Albert. But when visitors appeared at the hospitable board Miss Hart would not present herself. She had a curious reserve about her, which everyone noticed at the time, and commented on largely by-and-bye. If the all-absorbing topic of the day, Beatrice's wedding, was discussed, she invariably grew grave, her face would become a shade paler than its wont, and her bright, restless eyes would be lowered. Except on one occasion, she never asked questions about the approaching wedding. On the contrary, she markedly avoided the subject. Once, however, she inquired the date of the wedding from Matty. On hearing it she turned very pale, and left the room. Matty remembered this fact by-and-bye. Once, too, Sophy saw her standing in her bedroom with her two hands pressed tightly to her side, as though something had given her an intense pain there. She was close to the window, and must have been looking out, and Sophy observed that Captain Bertram and Beatrice were walking down the street together. Notwithstanding all Mrs. Bell's coaxings, Miss Hart would never go out during the day-time, but when darkness fell, and it came early now, in the beginning of September, she would wrap her gray cloak about her, and go away for long, long walks all alone. Mrs. Bell thought this proceeding anything but proper, but Josephine Hart minded very little what any one thought about her. As the days wore on, her white face seemed to grow whiter, and her big bright eyes often looked pathetic as well as bright. She ate very little, too, and scarcely spoke at all; but it never occurred to her or any one else to suppose that she was ill. The weather during all this period continued very fine. Never had so glorious a summer been remembered at Northbury, and the good folk said it was a lucky omen for the young bride, who was a favorite with rich and poor alike. Every one in Northbury made Beatrice a present, and she began to collect quite a curious collection of gifts. None of these presents were splendid, few of them possessed intrinsic value, but the young girl treasured them, one and all, very much; for they were to her symbols of the love which had shone about her path from her birth. Mrs. Bertram could not understand the joy Beatrice felt over the crude gifts of the fishermen's wives, nor her ecstasy when a poor girl whom she had once befriended, brought her a dozen yards of narrow and very dirty crotchet edging. Beatrice almost kissed that edging, and her eyes filled with tears as she folded it up and put it away. No such soft radiance came to them when her future mother-in-law presented her with a beautiful diamond cross, which was an old family heirloom, and must belong by right to Bertram's wife. "This is of great value," Mrs. Bertram said; "and it will suit you, my dear, you are the sort of girl who can wear diamonds, and look well in them." "But I like flowers best," said Beatrice, under her breath. She kissed Mrs. Bertram, and thanked her for her gift, which she locked away very carefully, as she knew it was of much value. But her heart was not stirred by it as it had been by the crotchet edging which Jenny Ray had made for her. Mrs. Gorman Stanley gave Beatrice a large piece of Berlin wool-work; it was not handsome, nor had it cost the good lady much, for she had picked it up years ago at an auction. Mrs. Gorman Stanley was not a generous person, and as the Berlin wool-work had always troubled her on account of its magnificence, its uselessness, and the almost certainty that the moths would get in and devour it, she thought it a good opportunity of making an effective present, and getting rid of a household care. Once that wool-work had been put together with love and pride. The impossible lilies and roses, the huge peonies, and gigantic hollyhocks which composed its pattern, had been formed, stitch by stitch, by unknown fingers, probably now crumbled to dust. The wool-work might have told a story could it speak, but it had never imparted its secrets, pathetic or otherwise, to Mrs. Gorman Stanley, and Beatrice received the gorgeous gift with little emotion, and some shrinking away from its bad taste. Mrs. Butler, after a great deal of consultation with her sister Maria, decided to give the bride-elect a huge white, carved ivory brooch. This brooch was her own favorite ornament; it was of gigantic dimensions, and consisted of an elaborate circle of flowers, supporting the word "Martha" in the centre. "You'll wear it for me, love," said Mrs. Butler, "you'll never put it on, but you'll give Martha Butler a thought." Beatrice assured her friend that this must certainly be the case. She was really grateful to Mrs. Butler, for she knew the old lady adored that brooch, and it had cost her much to deprive herself of it. Miss Peters smuggled her little gift into Beatrice's hand as they were parting. It was a yard of Honiton lace, very old, and much darned. Bee had often seen this lace round Miss Peters' little wintry throat. She kissed it when she looked at it now, and placed it very near the crotchet edging in her regard. But it would take a much longer space than this story can afford to recount all the presents that came to Beatrice Meadowsweet. From the Bertram connection the gifts were of money value, from the Northbury people they were rich with something better than money. Not one of Bee's friends forgot her at this time. September came on apace, and at last there wanted but a week of the wedding day. On a certain evening when the wind blew rather fresh from the sea, Captain Bertram asked Beatrice to walk with him. She complied. They took a long walk over the cliffs, and it was quite late and dark when they returned home. They had to pass the Manor on their way back to the Gray House, where Bertram was to stay for supper. As they walked along, talking gravely, for Beatrice did not often laugh when alone with her lover, a slender and tall figure passed them quickly in the darkness. Bertram, who was walking very close to Bee, stumbled against her, and uttered a smothered oath. "What is the matter?" she asked in astonishment. "Have you hurt yourself?" "No, I thought I recognized a face, but I must be mistaken." "That slim girl who passed us so quickly just now? I, too, fancy I have seen her before. Certainly she is a stranger here." "Don't talk about her, Beatrice. It was a casual likeness. People look so different--distorted by the darkness. To-night it is very dark. There is no moon." "Still, I can see," said Beatrice, pausing and looking back. "I can see, and I fancy the stranger is standing still and looking at us. Back there, by the hedge. Perhaps she is in trouble. Shall I run and speak to her?" "No, not for the world. Come home. Forget her." His tone was almost rough. They walked on rapidly. The high wind of a coming storm beat in their faces. Beatrice felt tired and dispirited, and Bertram's agitation and complete change of manner puzzled her. Presently they reached the house. "Here we are at last; you will be glad of your supper," she said. "No, thanks, I am not coming in." "Not coming in? You promised. Mother expects you." "Excuse me to-night, Beatrice. I have a headache. I shall go straight home. Good-night. I'll come down early in the morning." He took her hand, dropped it hastily, and almost before the door was opened, had turned away. Beatrice did not go in at once. She heard his quick, retreating steps. Presently they quickened into a run. _ |
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