CHAPTER XVI.
[BETSEY AS GOOD FAIRY].
When Mary Selby and her sister Susan arrived at the Rectory of St. Euphrase, next morning, the family mind was already excited by other news; so much so, that, notwithstanding this was the first visit Judith's sisters had ever paid, and it was unexpected, they were received precisely as if they had dropped in from the next street, and their coming were an every-day occurrence. The family capacity for surprise had been forestalled.
"Only think!" cried Betsey, the irrepressible; "young Jordan has been here--Randolph, you know. I know him quite well; was at a party at their house, when I stayed with you last winter--knew him a little, before then, but not much. Well, he tells Uncle Dionysius here--that's not here, exactly, but in the study--that he ran away with Miss Rouget, the seignior's daughter. Stuck-up looking thing she is. No complexion to speak of; a snub nose. Yes, indeed, Aunt Judy, it is a snub. Nez retroussé, is it? That's because she's Miss Rouget de La Hache, and a kind of a somebody; though folks do say they've lost their money all the same--like better folks who make less moan. But, anyhow, Randolph ran away with her--fixed a fire-escape on to her bedroom window, and down she came, bag and baggage, in the dead of the night; and everybody in the house fast asleep. They went to New York, and were married before a squire, and now they have come home, and are staying with Mrs. Jordan, at The Willows. And they are going to be married all over again, from the beginning--twice over again, I should say, for he has just been speaking to Uncle Dionysius, and now he has gone to the Roman Catholic priest, with a letter from an archbishop, and no less, bidding him raise no difficulties, but just do it. Think of that! Is it not impressive? The same two people to be three times married, and always to one another! I suppose there will be no getting out of that, anyhow, as long as they live. If even they were to go to Chicago, I suppose it would take three divorce suits to separate them. They can only dissolve one marriage at a time, so I have heard. What do you think. Miss Susan?"
"I never was married, my dear. I have suffered too much from neuralgia for some years back to be able to think of marrying, or anything else."
"Well! That's not me, now. If I was to have neuralgy, I'd want a man to take care of me, all the more, 'pears to me. I'm 'takin' steps,' as uncle there says, to get the man right off; and then the neuralgy may come if it wants to, I can't help it."
Both visitors' eyes were fixed on the speaker. The recollections of their own youth furnished no such amazing expression of maidenly opinion. Betsey coloured a little, coughed, and began once more, while her uncle and aunt, taught by experience, sat silent, waiting till she should talk herself out of breath.
"The fact is, Mrs. Selby, I'm to be married immediately; as soon, that is, as I can get ready, and that depends mostly on Mademoiselle Ciseau. She'll have to make my gown, and she says she's over head and ears in orders, between so many deaths and all the marriages; for you know Matildy Stanley's going to marry--more proper if she'd be making her soul, at her time of life, than thinking of sich--and that chit Muriel--set her up--she's to be married the same day as her aunt, though they ain't no kin at all, nohow, to one another, and Matildy knows it. I call it going before their Maker with a lie in their right hand--goin' to church to be married, and tellin' such a story."
"But who are the bridegrooms, Betsey?"
"Me? I'm going to marry Mr. Joe Webb--Squire Webb, I should say, it sounds more respectful--justice of the peace, and the handsomest fellow round here about. But never mind the men, just for one minute. Everybody knows there must be a man to make a wedding, and any kind does quite well; but think of a poor girl married without a gown, or the wrong kind of one. How people would talk! You bein' from the city, will be able to give me an idea. Here are a lot of swatches the storekeeper got me from Montreal, and every one has the price marked on to it. White satin? Oh, yes, it's pretty and stylish; but I see by 'Godey's Magazine' the upper crust ain't as partial to marryin' in white as they used to be; and white satin would not be much use afterwards for apple-paring bees, and sich; that's the form our gaiety takes mostly in the country round here. Yellow? Well, I did read not long ago about a recherché nuptials, somewhere, and the bride was dressed to represent a sunflower--poetical fancy, wasn't it? Yes, yellow's a good colour--easily seen--but it soils just as bad as white, or worse, for one can say écru for dirty white, but what can be said for soiled yellow? Just nothing, for everybody sees it's gone dirty.