CHAPTER XXVII
A DISCUSSION ABOUT A WEDDING-GOWN
The discussion about Jane's wedding-gown began in that pleasant hour between tea and dinner on the soft edge of the dusk, when the refreshing influence of tea still pervades one, when the fire seems to burn its brightest, when the clock ticks its softest, when the little shadows begin to creep into the corners of the room, and the familiar furniture and ornaments become a soft, rounded blur.
Nanty had been persuaded into staying for a real long evening; and John had been persuaded, against his better judgment, into putting up his horses at the "Ring o' Bells," and was in the kitchen saying pleasant and pacifying things to Amelia, no doubt.
"We shall be held up by highwaymen. John will be gagged and thrown into a ditch, and my pockets will be rifled and my jewellery stolen."
Nanty said this resignedly, nay almost cheerfully, as though a change from the ordinary routine of life would not be unacceptable to her. And mother gazed at her in fearful admiration. Heroism in any form appeals strongly to mother, though she herself is the bravest of the brave. To have lived with Peter for twenty-five years denotes some courage.
Nanty's pleasure on hearing of Jane's engagement was cloaked by a pretence at surprise and pity; but of course we all know Nanty. She had been very kind to Jane when she lived with us. "Above the ruck of ordinary governesses," she had pronounced. "Not always on the look-out for slights and snubs; a most sensible young person!" Now the sensible young person was anxious to tell her herself of the happiness which had come into her life, and had requested mother and me to keep silent on the subject "if we could." She had, however, conceded to our earnest request that the announcement should be made in our presence after the men had gone out. We knew that Nanty's observations would be amusing, and we looked forward to a pleasant half-hour. When tea had been removed Peter seemed inclined to linger, notwithstanding the unnecessary number of women around him. The arm-chair which he had annexed—(Dimbie's)—was luxurious, the fire was warm, his temper was mild. Dimbie seemed still more inclined to linger. The rug on which he was stretched was curly and soft, his hand sought mine, he liked and was always entertained by Nanty. Mother and I looked at one another and looked at Jane, and curbed our impatience. Mother glanced at Peter and opened her mouth and shut it again. The courage of Horatius was not within her this day. I did the same at Dimbie.
"What is it, dear?" he asked. "Aren't you comfy? Shall I alter your pillow?"
I assured him that I was perfectly comfortable, and at the same time ventured to suggest that it was a lovely evening on which to take a walk. Jane's approaching marriage could not be discussed before two men when one of them was Peter; for Nanty was never talkative before Peter, she said he always roused her temper to such a pitch that she could scarcely get her breath.
Dimbie agreed with my view of the evening's attractiveness, and stretched his legs luxuriously towards the fire.
I mentioned that the birch trees in the spinny would be at their best, dressed out in all their autumn glory.
He again agreed with me, and remarked that their grey boles was what peculiarly appealed to him—grey with the vivid splashes of orange and red leaves above.
The others began to look bored.
I mentioned that the squirrels would be busy gathering and storing acorns for the winter.
He said he thought it was within the range of possibility, and he put more coal on the fire.
Mother folded her hands and looked resigned, and Jane took some needlework from her basket.
"Why don't you say what you want?" said Nanty suddenly. "Men don't understand hints and beating about the bush. They are simple-minded creatures—some of them. Do you want your husband to fetch you some chocolate from the village?"
Dimbie looked at me inquiringly.
"I want you to go for a walk for an hour, and take father with you and show him the beauties of the spinny. And you might take a basket and get some blackberries."
Mother's startled and amazed countenance at the idea of Peter's going blackberrying made me laugh, and Dimbie's reproachful face moved me to pity.
"Well, Peter might go blackberrying alone and you to see the squirrels," I said confusedly.
And now Nanty laughed outright, and mother sat horror-stricken, gazing at Peter. But he by a merciful dispensation of Providence, was dozing which was a lucky thing for me.
Dimbie got up slowly and stretched himself.
"Come on, General Macintosh," he said resignedly, but Peter dozed on. Dimbie patted his leg, unfortunately the gouty one, and Peter started up swearing loudly.
"We've got to go for a walk," said Dimbie apologetically.
"Who's got to go for a walk?" demanded Peter fiercely.
"You and I. We have to go blackberrying and see the squirrels."
The look which Peter gave to Dimbie obliged me to press my mouth against the tortoise's back to keep from screaming.
Peter sat down heavily.
"I don't know whether you think you are being funny, sir, but I don't. To wake a man up from a much-needed sleep to talk about da—ahem, squirrels and blackberries seems to me to be about the most deucedly idiotic thing—"
"Hsh, father!" I said. "Dimbie wants you to go for a walk with him to the spinny. It's a lovely evening, and you might just happen to come across some squirrels and blackberries."
"But I don't want to see any squirrels or bl——"
Dimbie took him by the arm and began gently to drag him towards the door. "Come on," he said coaxingly, "we've got to go somewhere, General. They want to get rid of us. Women are——" and Peter was so interested in hearing what Dimbie thought of the senseless creatures, that he actually followed him into the hall, allowed himself to be put into his top coat, and led through the door, down the path and out of the gate.
"You can take a breath, mother, dear," I said, "or you will suffocate. And now, Jane, tell your news, they won't be back under an hour."
She drew a thread from the linen tea-cloth she was making with unswerving fingers, but the colour crept into her cheeks.
"She looks as though she were making bottom drawer things," remarked Nanty dryly.
"And that's exactly what she is doing."
"Oh! For herself?"
"Well, she'd hardly bother to make them for other people."
"I disagree with you. Miss Fairbrother is exactly the sort of kind person who would like to see a friend's drawer filled with a lot of feminine frippery."
"This is for her own," I returned. "Go on, Jane."
She put down her work.
"You seem to be telling, so you had better finish, Marguerite."
"You mean you are too shy. Well, Nanty, Jane is to be married next month. Guess to whom. You shall have three tries."
Nanty sniffed superciliously.
"I should have thought she would have had more sense. To an Indian rajah who lives in a gilded palace?"
"Wrong."
"To a man in the Service with a small pension, an enlarged liver, residing at Brighton and requiring a kind nurse?"
"Wrong again."
"To a widower—perhaps the father of the two sticky children you mentioned to me?"
"The mother is alive and extremely healthy," said Jane.
Nanty leaned back in her chair.
"I only hope the man is as nice as can be expected or hoped for. Miss Fairbrother has the appearance of a woman who would throw herself away upon a rake, hoping to reform his morals and save his soul."
Jane smiled.
"Do you think that Dr. Renton's soul is in danger?"
Nanty checked a gasp of surprise.
"I have always felt that he was a man with a hidden—something. I have wondered about it," she said, recovering herself.
"Most women wonder at single men, and they wonder still more when they are married," said mother.
"Who," I asked, laughing, "the women or the men?"
"Oh, the women!"
She spoke with an earnestness that recalled Peter and his blackberrying to my mind, and I laughed again.
"Men," said Nanty, "are necessary for the continuation of the race. I cannot see that they are of any other use in the world."
"Now I am waiting for your opinion, Marguerite," said Jane with a twinkle. "I should like to have no illusions about man before I marry him."
"I am not to be drawn," I returned. "There are men and men. The two looking for squirrels at the moment are extreme types. Perhaps there is something half-way between, and you may be fairly fortunate."
Jane smiled with a satisfied air.
"You have not congratulated me," she said to Nanty. "It is usual, I think."
"I don't congratulate people on marriage."
"You are a cynic."
"No, but my eyes are open; there was a time when they were closed like yours."
"It is a pity," said Jane softly. "I hope mine will always remain shut."
"Let us hope so," returned Nanty a little bitterly.
"I thought we were to discuss Jane's wedding gown," said mother plaintively, bringing us back to actualities.
She fetched two big bundles of patterns from a side-table and handed them to Jane.
"Before we begin," said the latter, turning again to Nanty, "won't you change your mind and congratulate me?"
"I'll congratulate Dr. Renton, if that will satisfy you."
"But it won't. I think I am quite as much, if not more, to be congratulated than he."
"Now you are being humble," said Nanty whimsically, "and I don't like humility in a woman. A woman should always remember that she is quite good enough for any man living." And with that Jane had to be satisfied.
And what a discussion followed as to the gown Jane should wear on the great day. We might have been schoolgirls. And the trouble was that no two of us agreed on any single point—colour, material, or fashion of making. When mother had soared away to silver gauze posed on chiffon, Jane said—
"Kindly remember my age, and that I am going to a wedding and not to a ball."
When Nanty even, roused to enthusiasm, had completed a dream of a princess gown of softest pastel-blue, chiffon velvet, Jane said—
"Kindly remember that I am small and dumpy."
And when I extolled the virtue of palest mauve taffeta, Jane simply laughed outright and asked me to look at her colouring.
"I'm looking," I said. "You've brown hair and bright red cheeks."
But she ignored all our suggestions.
"I shall be married in silver-grey poplin," she pronounced.
"Exactly like a servant." Nanty closed her eyes. "They always wear silver-grey. I had three parlour-maids in succession who had selected it for their wedding-gowns."
"But alpaca, surely! Mine will be silk poplin of a good quality."
But Nanty and mother refused to take any further interest in the subject, and Nanty picked up a paper.
"What about grey cloth, then—pale dove-grey?" Jane waived the silver poplin with an apparent effort.
Nanty put down the paper.
"Grey cloth with chinchilla is rather nice," she admitted grudgingly.
"I did not mention chinchilla," said Jane meekly.
"I will give the chinchilla as a wedding present if you don't mind. Grey cloth alone would be most uninteresting."
"The coat must be a bolero," said mother firmly, "lined with white satin."
"You are all evidently going to run me into a lot of money. I am not accustomed to satin linings. I thought of having Italian cloth."
"What?" shouted mother and Nanty.
"Italian cloth," repeated Jane firmly. "I hope to do the whole thing for about five pounds."
"Impossible!" said Nanty. "Fifteen would be mean and skimpy."
Jane set her mouth good-humouredly.
"Then I can't get married."
"No, you evidently can't," agreed Nanty. "It would be unfair to the man."
"It's a pity," observed Jane, "because I rather wanted to."
"A foolish desire on your part which should be checked at once."
Mother began to look worried. With a desire to cheer her up I casually inquired of Nanty if she had seen anything more of Professor Leighrail. I was unprepared for her dropping the patterns about like chaff in a wind.
"Professor Leighrail!" said mother, with widely-open eyes. "Anastasia's old lover?"
"Exactly," I replied. "He's a friend of ours, and Nanty met him here the other day. Have you seen him again?" I asked.
She did not reply.
"It is a pity when deafness overtakes people—the first sign of old age."
"She is not deaf," said mother, "and is only fifty-one."
I laughed.
"Kiss me, mother, dear," I said, "you are so practical at times. And yet some people of your age are quite romantic and sentimental."
"La, la, la, la!" sang Nanty. She leaned over my couch. "Marguerite," she said, "I should slap you if you were strong and well."
"But I'm not," I said, "so kiss me." And she did so, while whispering that the Professor had been to tea with her. "It's not proper," I said, and Nanty laughed.