"What room is that?" he enquired.
"That's what we used to call 'the bride's room,' sir," replied Mrs. Spruce, smoothing down her black skirts with an air of fussy importance, and heaving a sigh; "Miss Maryllia's mother was to have had it. Don't be afraid to step inside, Passon; everythink's been turned out and aired, and there's not a speck of damp or dismals anywhere, and you'll see for yourself what a time we're 'avin' though we're gettin' jes' a bit straight now, and I've 'ad Nancy Pyrle as is 'andy with her pencil to mark things down as they come to 'and. Step inside, Passon Walden,—do step inside!"
But Walden, held back by some instinctive fastidiousness, declined to move further than the threshold of this hitherto closed and sacredly guarded chamber. Leaning against the doorway he looked in wonderingly, with a vague feeling of bewilderment, while Mrs. Spruce, trotting busily ahead, gave instructions to a fresh-faced country lass, who, breathing very hard, as though she were running, was carefully shaking out what seemed to be a fairy's robe of filmy white lace, glistening with pearls.
"Ye see, Passon, this is what all my trouble's about;"—she said— "Fancy 'avin' to unpack all these grand clothes, and sort 'em as they comes, not knowin' whether they mayn't fall to bits in our 'ands, some of 'em bein' fine as cobwebs, an' such body linen as was never made for any mortal woman in St. Rest, all lace an' silk an' little ribbins! When the trunks arrived an' we got 'em into the 'all, I felt THAT faint, I do assure ye! For me to 'ave to unpack an' open 'em, and take out all the things inside,—ah, Passon, it's an orful 'sponsibility, seein' there's jewels packed among the dresses quite reckless-like, rubies an' sapphires an' diamants, somethin' amazin', and we've taken a reg'lar invent'ry of them all lest somethin' might be missin', for the Lord He only knows whether there might not be fifty thousand pounds of proputty in one of them little kicketty boxes, all velvet and satin, made just as if they was sweetmeats, only when ye looks inside ye sees a sparklin' stone glisterin' at ye, and ye know it's wuth a fortune! I do assure ye, Passon, I've never seen such things in all my life! Miss Maryllia must be mortal extravagant, for there's enough in one o' them boxes to feed the whole village of St. Best for several years. Ah! Passon, I do assure ye, I've thought of Scripter many a time this mornin'; 'Whose adornin' let it be the adornin' of a meek and quiet spirit,' which is a hornament and no mistake!"
Walden made no remark. It never even occurred to him just then that Mrs. Spruce was unconsciously rendering in her own particular fashion the text he had chosen for the next day's sermon. Never in all his life before had he experienced such strongly mingled sensations of repulsion and interest as at that moment. With a kind of inward indignation, he asked himself what business he had to be there looking curiously into a woman's room, littered with all the fripperies and expensive absurdities of a woman's apparel? Above all, why should he be so utterly ridiculous and inconsequential in his own mind as to find himself deeply fascinated by such a spectacle? In all the years he had passed with his sister, so long as she had lived, he had never seen such a bewildering disorder of feminine clothes. He had never had the opportunity of noting the pathetic difference existing between the toilette surroundings of a woman who is strong and well, and of one who is deprived of all natural coquetry by the cruel ravages of long sickness and disease. His sister, beautiful even in her incurable physical affliction, had always borne that affliction more or less in mind, and had attired herself with a severely simple taste,—her bedroom, where she had had to pass so many weary hours of suffering, had been a model of almost Spartan-like simplicity, and her dressing-table was wont to be far more conspicuous for melancholy little medicine-phials than for flashing, silver-stoppered cut-glass bottles, exhaling the rarest perfumes. Then, since her death, Walden had lived so entirely alone, that the pretty vanities of bright and healthy women were quite unfamiliar to him.
The present glittering display of openly expressed frivolity seemed curiously new, and vaguely alarming. He was angry with it, yet in a manner attracted. He found himself considering, with a curious uneasiness, two small nondescript pink objects that were lying on the floor at some distance from each other. At a first glance they appeared to be very choice examples of that charming orchid known as the 'Cypripedium,'—but on closer examination it was evident they were merely fashionable evening shoes. Again and again he turned his eyes away from them,—and again and again his glance involuntarily wandered back and rested on their helpless-looking little pointed toes and ridiculously high heels. Considered from a purely 'sanitary' point of view, they were the most wicked, the most criminal, the most absolutely unheard-of shoes ever seen. Why, no human feet of the proper size could possibly get into them, unless they were squeezed—-
"Yes, squeezed!"—repeated Walden inwardly, with a sense of unreasonable irritation; "All the toes cramped and the heels pinched—everything out of joint and distorted—false feet, in fact, like everything else false that has to do with the modern fashionable woman!"
There they lay,-apparently innocent;—but surely detestable, nay even Satanic objects. He determined he would have them removed— picked up—cast out—thrust into the nearest drawer, anywhere, in fact, provided they were out of his stern, clerical sight. Mrs. Spruce was continuing conversation in brisk tones, but whether she was addressing him, or the buxom young woman, who, under her directions was shaking out or folding up the various garments taken out of the various boxes, he did not know, and, as a matter of fact, he did not care. She sounded like Tennyson's 'Brook,' with a 'Men may come and men may go, but I go on for ever' monotonousness that was as depressing as it was incessant.
He determined to interrupt the purling stream.
"Mrs. Spruce," he began,—then hesitated, as she turned briskly towards him, looking like a human clothes-prop, with both fat arms extended in order to keep well away from contact with the floor a gauzy robe sparkling all over with tiny crystalline drops, which, catching the sunbeams, flashed like little points of flame.