CHAPTER XXXI.
In the little bustle of preparation which ensued, there was, of course, a good deal of dressmaking to do, and Miss Richardson, the dressmaker from the village, who was Mr. Sugden’s landlady, was almost a resident at the Cottage for the following week. She set out every morning in her close black bonnet and black shawl, with her little parcel of properties—including the last fashion book, done up in a very tight roll. She helped Maryanne, and she helped Francesca, who was more difficult to deal with; and she was helped in her turn by the young ladies themselves, who did not disdain the task. It was very pleasant to Miss Richardson, who was a person of refined tastes, to find herself in such refined society. She was never tired remarking what a pleasure it was to talk to ladies who could understand you, and who were not proud, and took an interest in their fellow creatures; and it was during this busy week that Kate acquired that absolute knowledge of Miss Richardson’s private history with which she enlightened her friends at a later period. She sat and sewed and talked in the little parlour which served for Kate’s studies, and for many other miscellaneous purposes; and it was there, in the midst of all the litter of dressmaking, that Mrs. Anderson and the girls took their afternoon tea, and that even Mrs. Eldridge and some other intimate friends were occasionally introduced. Mrs. Eldridge knew Miss Richardson intimately, as was natural, and liked to hear from her all that was going on in the village; but the dressmaker’s private affairs were not of much interest to the Rector’s wife—it required a lively and universal human interest like Kate’s to enter into such details.
It was only on the last evening of her labours, however, that Miss Richardson made so bold as to volunteer a little private communication to Mrs. Anderson. The girls had gone out into the garden, after a busy day. All was quiet in the soft April evening; even Mr. Sugden had not come that night. They were all alone, feeling a little excited by the coming departure, a little wearied with their many occupations, a little sad at the thought of leaving the familiar place. At least, such were Mrs. Anderson’s feelings, as she stood in the verandah looking out. It was a little more than twilight, and less than night. Ombra was standing in a corner of the low garden wall, looking out upon the sea. Kate was not visible—a certain wistfulness, sadness, farewell feeling, seemed about in the very air. What may have happened before we come back? Mrs. Anderson sighed softly, with this thought in her mind. But she was not unhappy. There was enough excitement in the new step about to be taken to keep all darker shades of feeling in suspense. ‘If I might make so bold, ma’am,’ said Miss Richardson, suddenly, by her side.
Mrs. Anderson started, but composed herself immediately. ‘Surely,’ she said, with her habitual deference to other people’s wishes. The dressmaker coughed, cleared her throat, and made two or three inarticulate beginnings. At length she burst forth—
‘The comfort of speaking to a real lady is, as she don’t mistake your meaning, nor bring it up against you after. I’m not one as interferes in a general way. I do think, Mrs. Anderson, ma’am, as I’m well enough known in Shanklin to take upon me to say that. But my heart does bleed for my poor young gentleman; and I must say, even if you should be angry, whatever he is to do, when you and the young ladies go away, is more than I can tell. When I saw his face this morning, though he’s a clergyman, and as good as gold, the thing as came into my head—and I give you my word for it, ma’am—was as he’d do himself some harm.’
‘You mean Mr. Sugden? I do not understand this at all,’ said Mrs. Anderson, who had found time to collect herself. ‘Why should he do himself any harm? You mean he will work too much, and make himself ill?’
‘No, ma’am,’ said Miss Richardson, with dignity. ‘I don’t apologise for saying it, for you’ve eyes, ma’am, and can see as well as me what’s been a-going on. He’s been here, ma’am, spending the evenings, take one week with another, five nights out of the seven—and now you and the young ladies is going away. And Miss Ombra—but I don’t speak to one as can’t take notice, and see how things is going as well as me.’
‘Miss Richardson, I think we all ought to be very careful how we talk of a young man, and a clergyman. I have been very glad to see him here. I have always thought it was good for a young man to have a family circle open to him. But if any gossip has got up about the young ladies, it is perfectly without foundation. I should not have expected from you——’
‘Oh! Mrs. Anderson, ma’am!’ cried the dressmaker, carried away by her feelings. ‘Talk to me of gossip, when I was speaking as a friend! an ’umble friend, I don’t say different, but still one that takes a deep interest. Foundation or no foundation, ma’am, that poor young gentleman is a-breaking of his heart. I see it before I heard the news. I said to myself, “Miss Ombra’s been and refused him;” and then I heard you and the young ladies were going away. Whether he’s spoken, and been refused, or whether he haven’t had the courage to speak, it ain’t for me to guess; but oh! Mrs. Anderson, ma’am, speak a word of comfort to the poor young gentleman! My heart is in it. I can’t stop, even if I make you angry. I’m not one to gossip, and, when I’m trusted, wild horses won’t drag a word out of me; but I make bold to speak to you—though you’re a lady, and I work for my bread—as one woman to another, ma’am. If you hadn’t been a real lady, I wouldn’t have dared to a-done it. Oh, if you’d but give him a word of good advice! such as we can’t have everything we want; and there’s a deal of good left, even though Miss Ombra won’t have him; and he oughtn’t to be ungrateful to God, and that. He’d take it from you. Oh! ma’am, if you’d give him a word of good advice!’
Miss Richardson wept while she spoke; and at length her emotion affected her companion.