Chapter Nineteen.
My Mother’s Wedding-Dress.
Never did a girl prepare for a gay visit with a sadder heart. I had not an idea what I was going to. Mr Gray was rich, and I felt certain that his villa was what my father would term “pretentious.” By this would be meant that he had large rooms instead of small, good furniture instead of shabby, good meals instead of bad, and in the place of loneliness and gloom, brightness and company.
This I was sure of, for Mr Gray’s eyes sparkled as if he lived well and cheerily, and the pleasant sunshine of hospitality shone all over his expressive features.
I was going to a gay house then—a “company” house.
I ran down-stairs early the next morning and told my mother of my invitation, and of my acceptance of it.
She seemed a little surprised, then, after a pause, she said she was pleased.
“Go, and have a good time, Rosamund,” she said; “it is quite right that girls should enjoy themselves; but oh! my love,” an anxious shadow coming across her face, “what have you got to wear?”
“Plenty of things, mother,” I retorted, “lashin’s and lavin’s, as they say in Ireland.”
“But you have no evening dress, Rose. At Mr Gray’s the girls are sure to dress for the evening.”
“Oh, I can manage,” I said.
“But you have not got an evening dress, my darling; all the girls will have evening dresses.”
“One girl must do without,” I retorted in a stout voice which concealed many qualms of the heart.
“One girl must not do without,” replied my mother. “Come with me, Rosamund. Rose, did I ever show you my wedding-dress?”
My mother laughed gaily; her eyes were bright.
“I did not know your wedding-dress was in existence, mother,” I said.
“Yes, it is, and well preserved,” she replied. “Come up-stairs with me, and you shall see it.”
I followed my mother into her bedroom. She unlocked a great square wooden trunk, which stood in one of the windows, and laying aside many folds of tissue paper, took from the depths of the trunk a brocaded silk dress of heavy make and rich texture. She laid the dress on the bed, and looked at me with pink spots on each of her cheeks.
“There!” she said; “there! Geoffrey gave me the dress, and he saw me in it. You may suppose that Geoffrey knew how to choose good things. You could not buy silk like that now. Geoffrey pinned a rosebud just here. Do you notice the tiny, yellow stain? And then he kissed me on my forehead. We were good friends that day, although Geoffrey, dear Geoffrey, had a strange look in his eyes. I remembered the look afterwards; but we were good friends, very great and affectionate friends. I never saw him again—never. Well, Rosamund, what do you think of your mother’s wedding-dress?”
I was examining it all over. It was quaint in make, and the silk had the faint yellow tinge which years of lying by always produces. The sleeves were high and puffed. There was a ruffle of very soft and exquisite lace round the V-shaped body. The waist was long, with a pointed stomacher, and the skirt below was full and wide.
Never was there a dress less like the mode in vogue at the time of which I write.
“The dress is out of date, perhaps, but it is very good in itself,” said my mother. “It will fit you, Rosamund, for your figure is small and dainty, like mine used to be. Will you wear your mother’s wedding-dress, even if it is a little out of the fashion?”
“Yes, I will wear it,” I said. “Give it to me, and I will take it away with me.”
“But you must have other things to match,” said my mother. “Wait a moment; you must have other things to suit the dress.”
She rushed again to her trunk; she looked like a girl in her excitement.
“These are my wedding—shoes,” she said, “and these white silk stockings go with the shoes. This petticoat, with the deep embroidery, will have to be worn under the full skirt of the dress. Oh, Rose, how glad I am now that I did not cut this petticoat up! Rose, I should like to see you dressed for your first dinner-party!”
I kissed my mother, gathered up the poor old-world mementoes of lost youth and love, and ran away to my own room. I took with me on my visit a larger trunk than I had at first intended, for my mother’s wedding silk must not be crushed or injured.
I arrived at the Grays’ house about an hour before dinner.
The villa was less of a villa and more of a mansion than even I had imagined. There was a wide entrance hall, and an open roof overhead, and a square well-staircase, which opened on to galleries which led to the bedrooms. The spring light had nearly faded when I arrived at the house, but the soft and cheerful blaze of coloured lamps gave the brightest and most picturesque effect. There were flowers everywhere, and vistas of pretty things from open doorways, and little peeps of wide conservatories, and a distant faint clatter of glasses and silver in the far-off dining-room.
Mr Gray came out himself to bid me welcome. He was followed by his wife and two daughters, Nettie and Tottie. Nettie and Tottie were round and fat and fair and insignificant-looking. Mrs Gray was also round and fat, but she had a matronly dignity about her, and a comfortable, homely manner which made me take to her at once.
After Mr Gray had shaken me warmly by both my hands, Mrs Gray kissed me, and Nettie and Tottie came up, each to one side of me, and in this manner I was conveyed across the hall, and into a cheerful little boudoir, where three anxious women’s voices pressed hot tea and buttered cakes on my notice.
I drank my tea and ate hot muffins, and felt that the pleasant and luxurious surroundings of my present habitation suited me uncommonly well. After staring at me for half a minute Tottie made an abrupt observation.
“Two or three people are coming to dinner,” she said; “only gentlemen, however, friends of papa’s.”
“Oh, Tottie!” exclaimed Nettie, giving her sister a knowing look. “Friends of papa’s indeed! What next? Are they all only papa’s friend’s?”
Tottie shrugged her shoulders—she looked pleased and conscious—perhaps she expected me to quiz her; but that was not at all the kind of thing I felt capable of doing.
“Some gentlemen are coming to dinner,” resumed Tottie, after an expectant pause, “so perhaps you would like to come up to your room in good time to dress, Miss Lindley?”
I assented at once.
“I shall be very glad to go to my room,” I said.
Tottie preceded me up the shallow stairs. She ushered me into a large bedroom supplied with every modern comfort. It was getting well on into April now, but a bright fire burnt in the grate, and the room was further rendered cheerful with electric light. I had the key of my old-fashioned trunk in my pocket, so it was not yet unpacked; but to my surprise two dinner dresses lay on the bed. One was of soft creamy silk; the other pink, a kind of almost transparent muslin. Both were simple in outline and graceful. Even a brief glance showed me that they were exquisitely finished, and must have cost a large sum. Beside the dresses lay gloves, a fan, small shoes, and delicate openwork stockings. In a box were some beautiful freshly-arranged flowers, a spray for the hair, and another for the front of the dress.
“Oh dear, dear!” exclaimed Tottie. She rushed to the bed and stood silent, the colour mounting high into her cheeks. “That accounts for it,” she said, when she could find her astonished breath. “That accounts for the mysterious box, and for papa’s manner. Does papa take you to the dressmaker, Miss Lindley? How very, very odd that he should superintend your toilet!”
Tottie looked at me with intense curiosity as she spoke. I knew that my cheeks were burning, and that a burst of angry words was crowding to my lips. With a violent effort I restrained them.
“Your father is very civil,” I said, after a pause. “He has evidently fetched this box home. I am much obliged to him for his trouble. Now perhaps, Miss Gray, you will let me get ready for dinner?”
Tottie blushed and stepped away from the bed as if my manner half frightened her.
“Of course,” she said. “I forgot how time was flying. But can I do nothing to help you? Shall I send Dawson, our maid, to you presently to help you to put on one of your pretty dresses?”
“No, thank you,” I replied. “I always prefer to dress myself.”
With some difficulty I saw Tottie out of the room. Then I locked the door, and with a violent effort kept my hands from tearing those pretty and dainty robes. My heart was full of the most ungovernable anger. I felt that kind-hearted Mr Gray had offered me an insult. I must be sacrificed, and Mr Gray must deck me for the altar. No, no, not quite that; not this lowest depth of all. How thankful I was that I had my mother’s wedding-dress in my trunk.
I dressed myself slowly and with care. I was determined to look well. I was determined to show Mr Gray that Rosamund Lindley was not altogether dependent on him for her chance of looking nice—for looking what she was, on her mother’s side at least, a lady of old family and proud descent.
Remembering Hetty’s advice, I piled my dark hair high on my head; then I put on the dainty silk stockings and shoes with their funny pointed toes; the rich embroidered petticoat came next; over all, the dress. The skirt was very full, but the silk was so soft and rich that it fell gracefully. It showed a peep of my shoes, with their seed pearl ornaments, as I walked. Behind, it was cut away in a pointed train. My mother’s wedding-dress fitted me to perfection. The old ruffles of lovely lace lay softly against my young throat. More ruffles of lace half concealed half showed my arms. I did not need bracelets, and I clasped no ornament of any kind round my neck.
As I was completing my toilet the dinner gong sounded solemn and loud through the house. I had heard the hall-door bell ring two or three times. I knew that the guests had arrived. Still I lingered, putting final touches. At the last moment I pinned a bunch of the softest blush roses, which must have come straight from the Riviera, in the front of my dress. There was no need to add anything further. A glance in the mirror revealed to me that the roses which lay near my heart matched in hue those which tinted my cheeks. For the time being I was beautiful—I was a picture, a walking picture out of long ago. I was glad to be the last to enter the drawing-room. I wanted to startle Mr Gray; to show him that he had presumed. I had no thought to give to any one else at that moment.