Dimbie and I—and Amelia

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.

CHAPTER XXVIII

PREPARATIONS FOR A WEDDING

The house is very quiet. Jane and Dimbie are out in the woods gathering sprays of red-tinted brambles, briony, traveller's joy, bracken, which though fading is of that golden tinge which is almost more beautiful than the green, hips and haws shining and scarlet, and clusters of berries of the mountain-ash. This collection of autumnal loveliness is for the decoration of the cottage, for is not Jane to be married to-morrow? Mother and Peter have gone for a stroll as Peter calls it, or for a gallop as mother terms it, for Peter can get up as much speed, in spite of his gouty leg, as Amelia can with my Ilkley couch.

Amelia has "run" to the village for innumerable things forgotten this morning when the grocer's boy clamoured for orders. And the Help I should imagine, from the quiet of the house, has fallen asleep over the kitchen fire. The Help, from what Amelia tells me, is very stupid and is no help at all. She puts the blacking on the scullery floor instead of on the boots. She never screws the stopper on to the Shinio bottle after use, and the contents are therefore spilled all over the place. She allows the handles of the knives to lie in water. "Does she take them off the blades?" I asked, and I received one of Amelia's halibut looks. She forgets to sprinkle tea-leaves on the carpets before brushing them, though the tea-leaves are put all ready for her in a nice clean saucer. And yet, in spite of all these enormities, Amelia permits her to remain and not help.

Before "running" to the village just now she wondered whether anything would go wrong during her temporary absence and what the Help would be up to.

"She's worse than her at Tompkinses'."

"The one who wore half a pound of tea as a bustle when she left at night?"

Amelia seemed pleased at my memory, and she then went on to explain why this Help was worse than the other. It appeared that deceit was her besetting sin. The other one openly, so to speak, wore tea as a bustle; this one you could never catch. She would leave of an evening with a face like the Song of Solomon—I did not see the connection, but did not like to interrupt—and yet butter, bacon, and tea disappeared miraculously. Amelia would search her hand-bag when the Help was washing up; she would look under the lining of her crêpe bonnet. "Crêpe!" I said. "Is she a widow?"

But Amelia said she wasn't, that the bonnet had been given to her by a late employer, and the crêpe was of the best quality. I felt remiss in not having a crêpe bonnet too to present to the Help, and asked Amelia if she thought my old yellow satin dancing frock would be of any use to her, and Amelia has gone off without replying. Perhaps she would like the frock for herself. I know she can dance, for have I not seen her executing the cakewalk in Dimbie's tea-rose slippers?

The Help is to wear a cap and collar and cuffs for to-morrow's festivities. Amelia is making her do this; and I am a little sorry for the poor Help, for she may dislike a cap very much, having a husband and four nearly grown-up children.

Amelia says that she and the Help will be able to manage the guests quite easily, and I believe her. I know that she alone would be quite equal to forty, and we are only expecting ten besides the house-party. A younger brother of Dr. Renton is to be best man; and then there will be Nanty; a Miss Rebecca Sharp, a Suffragist, and cousin to Jane; Dr. Renton's married sister and her husband; his housekeeper, who has served him faithfully like a housekeeper in a book for nearly twenty years; a Mrs. Wilbraham, an old patient, who has invited herself; and Professor Leighrail. Dimbie suggested inviting the last, and I jumped at him.

"He will entertain Nanty," I said.

"You don't want to marry them?" said Dimbie in alarm.

"Dimbie, dear," I returned, "you must try to break yourself of the habit of assuming that I am perpetually trying to marry people."

"What about Jane and the Doctor?"

"I was a girl in the schoolroom when they fell in love with one another."

"You brought them together."

"I did nothing of the kind. Jane's visit was arranged long before I knew."

He was only half convinced.

"I don't want another wedding from here," he said a little gloomily. "One is all right. I like Jane, and it has been fun and amusement for you. But if Nanty and more pattern-books arrive I shall clear off."

"Were I stronger," I said, "I should shake you."

"Would you?" He laughed, holding his face to mine.

"I hope you are going to be very good to-morrow, and give Jane away nicely. You mustn't give her a push, you must hand her over gracefully to the Doctor."

Dimbie screwed up his face.

"I don't fancy the job. I wish you could be there, Marg, to give me a wink at the right moment."

"Oh, don't!" I whispered, in a momentary fit of passionate longing. "Don't remind me that I can't be there. Dimbie, I am so disappointed that I shall not see Jane married! I do so love Jane. It is—hard to bear."

As the words were uttered I would have given a kingdom to recall them. When should I learn control? Pain flitted across my dear one's face, pity and sorrow.

"Never mind!" I cried, striving to heal the wound. "I shall see her dressed. She is going to don her wedding-gown in my room, and I am to put all the finishing touches. She will kneel in front of me, and I am to pull a lock of hair out here, pat one in there, persuade a curl to wander across her forehead, tilt her hat to a more fashionable angle, and altogether make her the most beautiful Jane in the world."

But Dimbie was not to be comforted. He has gone to the woods with black care hovering very close at hand, and every effort must I strain this evening to bring back the smile to his lips. There must be no sad faces to-morrow. Jane has had a somewhat hard and lonely life, and she must embark upon her new voyage without a shadow of unhappiness. The Doctor will be good to her, I know—gentle and chivalrous. One knows instinctively when a man will be good to the woman he has married; it is in his voice, his manner, in the very way he looks at her. What Dimbie is to me he will be to her. Why should Jane and I be of the elect among women? We deserve it no more than mother and Nanty. But they will have their compensation, I verily believe. God in His goodness will reserve for all the tired, disillusioned wives of the world a little peaceful niche where they may rest from their husbands, which is another word for labours. And the husbands! I do not think that theirs is always the blame, the fault. There must be many too who would like to find a peaceful haven where they may smoke and read, and put their feet upon the chairs, and rest from the perpetual nagging and fault-finding of their wives.

*****

Amelia is back and has roused the Help, for her voice was borne to me loudly indignant. "And there is no kettle boiling for tea!" Poor Help, or sensible Help? Did she realise that if she waited long enough Amelia would put on the kettle? There are usually plenty of Amelias to put on kettles and scold Helps and tidy up the universe. And so also are there many Helps who realise this, and therefore sit with folded hands doing nothing so long as the Amelias will permit them. I don't know to whom my sympathy goes the most, the Amelias or Helps.

Peter and mother are back too, and are removing their outdoor wraps. Peter, blowing and snorting like the alligator to which Amelia likened him, has informed me that it is a beastly cold day with an east wind, that the roads in Surrey are the worst in Europe, and that mother is the slowest woman in God's universe. Mother has tip-toed back to tell me what she thinks of Peter. That his limp was so fast and furious that you might just as well try to keep up with a fire-engine, that she has made up her mind that this will be her last walk with him (mother has been saying this for many years), and that he has forbidden her to wear her new bonnet on the morrow, as—she looks a fright in it.

I have soothed her as best I can. I have told her that Dimbie shall stand by and see that she does wear the new bonnet, and that if Peter is in any way untractable he shall be locked up for the day in the shed with his own canoe, which has caused her to steal away in a state of fearful joy.

I see Jane and Dimbie coming through the gate. Jane is wellnigh lost in a tangled wealth of glorious autumn treasures, and Dimbie trails behind him an immense bough of pine. It is for me to smell, I know—to inhale the delicious, resinous scent fresh from the woods. A bit broken off is less than nothing, you must have a branch straight from the heart of the trunk. When I have felt it and held it, and smelled it and loved it, it shall stand by the grandfather clock in the hall, and it will make a beautiful decoration for to-morrow's festivities.

I must cease scribbling. They are all assembling for the last family tea. The Doctor has just arrived. Jane has a bunch of mountain-ash berries tucked into her belt. Here comes Amelia with the tea and toast, and resignation under suffering written on her brow! What has the Help been doing now?

CHAPTER XXIX

JANE'S WEDDING

Nanty described it as a calm, gracious sort of wedding. There was no blare of trumpets when Jane and the Doctor plighted their troth.

"Just as it should be," said Nanty. "A wedding at all times is to me a depressing spectacle; and when accompanied by a sound of brass and tinkling of cymbals, and shawms, and ringing of bells, and thumping of wedding marches, it simply becomes ridiculous, not to mention that the making of such noises is a relic of barbarism."

Mother said a bright ray of sunshine found Jane out, and lit up and illumined her face just as she was repeating the beautiful and solemn words, "Till death us do part."

"She looked—she looked——" Mother paused for suitable words.

"As though she had been sunstruck," interposed Nanty.

Mother was mildly indignant.

"She looked like an angel, Anastasia."

Nanty gave a little grunt.

"An angel in a Paris hat, eh? But I must admit she looked rather nice. She's certainly far too good for the Doctor."

"Of course, Jane is getting on," said mother doubtfully.

"If she were sixty she would be too good for any man," pronounced Nanty decisively, and when she adopted that tone mother ceased to argue.

I was glad that the wedding morning dawned serenely beautiful. I had feared lowering skies, heavy, white mists, a dripping, gloomy, sad-faced world, but November was on her best behaviour. The sun sent mild, warm rays across the garden, and the few leaves which still clung to the trees across the fence were as splashes of gold against the brown branches and quiet, blue sky.

They bade me remain in bed till late on in the morning, so that I might be well and strong for the reception, which was a grand name to give to a gathering of a dozen or more people.

I lay and laughed at the various sounds of the household, which were carried to me through my open door—at Amelia's shrill expostulations with the Help, who seemed to be bent upon doing the wrong thing at the wrong time; at Peter's explosions as he was chivied about from pillar to post by "tiresome women who would go putting silly decorations all over the confounded place"; and at Dimbie's perpetual wailing at the disappearance of the corkscrew. "Tie it round your neck on a ribbon, Dumbarton," I could hear Peter growl; and Dimbie said it was a most excellent suggestion on the part of his father-in-law, and he would carry it out at once.

"Would you mind moving once again, General Macintosh, we must arrange the refreshments now," came Jane's voice pleading and ingratiating.

"Well, I'm not preventing you."

"But we want the table, please." And he straightway burst into my room to tell me what he thought of the institution of marriage.

"Not so much as a hole left for a cat to creep into," he said angrily.

"Jumbles is here; you can stay if you like. The easy chair by the fire is very comfortable."

He dropped into it a little ungraciously.

"So you don't like weddings?" I said with a smile.

"Like weddings!"

"Why did you come?"

"Your mother insisted. When your mother gets an idea into her head you might as well talk to a mule."

"But you needn't have come," I said gently.

He put some coal on the fire with unnecessary energy.

"What is mother doing?"

"Getting in everybody's way."

"I thought it was you who were doing that."

He vouchsafed no reply, and buried himself behind The Times, thinking, I suppose, like the ostrich, that if he covered up his head his body would not be detected.

But Jane soon routed him out.

"I have come to dress Marguerite," she announced. "Amelia is permitting it."

There was no movement from behind the paper.

"General Macintosh, I am sorry to disturb you, but the time is getting on."

"I thought Marguerite was dressed, she looks very grand."

"It is the ribbons of my nightingale which have deceived you, I have only that and my nightdress on. I can hardly appear in so scanty an attire."

"Give 'em something to talk about."

"Father," I said, "will you go." And growling and grumbling he went in search of mother, presumably to have a row.

The sunshine streamed into the room, the tits chattered, and a robin blithely showed what could be done with a range of eight notes: tweet, tweet, ta ra ra tweet, tre la, tre la, ta ra ra tweet.

"Listen, Jane," I said, "it is singing to you. Isn't it a lovely day! I'm so glad the sun is shining. Are you happy, Jane?"

"Yes," she said simply, dropping a kiss on to my hair, which she was gently brushing. "I'm too happy to talk about it; and I must hurry, Dimbie will be here in a minute, he has got something for you."

And there he was, peeping through the door with Amelia close behind him. In his arms was a large cardboard box.

"It's a new tea-gown straight from Paris, mum," said Amelia, excitedly, as Dimbie removed the lid. "There were twenty to choose from," added Jane, "and we were over an hour in settlin' on it," completed Amelia.

Very carefully Dimbie removed all the folds of soft, white paper, and shook out the gown—a lovely mass of pearly satin, soft as the petals of a rose, and marvellous old lace of cobweb transparency and texture.

"It is too beautiful!" I whispered to him, folding my arms around his neck.

"And there is a rose for your neck, sweetheart, just the colour of your hair. Isn't he a beauty?"

I held the fragrant, yellow softness to my face, for the tears were coming, and Jane and Amelia stole softly away and left us by ourselves for ten minutes—ten minutes which would alone make the saddest life worth living, and mine was not sad because I had Dimbie.

Presently Jane came back.

"You must go, sir," she commanded, "or your wife will not be ready." And Dimbie went.

Deftly and quickly she arranged my hair, got me into the lovely gown, and fastened the rose at my breast. And while she worked she talked. She made me laugh at her description of the Help, who was sitting dazed and "amoithered" in the middle of the kitchen, drinking the strongest black tea, and regarding every onslaught of Amelia with the utmost indifference and apathy. And Amelia! She, of course, was working like a traction engine in the refreshment-room, shaking her fist at the creams and jellies, some of which refused to stand up, and persuading trails of briony to stick to their proper position on the cake and not wander away to the dishes of oyster pâtés.

"And now you are ready, and you look—well, Dimbie will tell you how you look. I will call him."

"Don't," I said, "he will stay so long, and then you will go to another room to dress, and I do so want to watch you. I shall be awfully particular about your hair."

"You won't suggest a hair-frame?"

"God forbid! You are not the type of woman for a frame. But you drag your hair too much off your temples at times, and although your forehead is low and broad and all that a forehead ought to be, I fancy a few tendrils straying across it would look sweet under your chinchilla toque, and you must humour my fancy, Jane."

Obediently she knelt down and let me do what I would with her.

"Be very careful getting into your skirt," I commanded. "Don't ruffle your hair whatever you do."

She made a comical face.

"What a fuss!" she said.

"If you don't fuss on your wedding-day you never will. And men don't like dowdy women. Come here and I will fasten your bodice. I can if you will kneel very close to me."

For a moment I rested my cheek against the soft, beautiful fur which trimmed the bolero-bodice—Nanty had indeed been generous.

"Jane, dear," I said, "I am glad you are going to be married, and that you will have no more sticky children to teach. I should like to have seen the Doctor as a bridegroom. I feel sure that he will use profane language in the stress of his emotions. Now put on your hat and walk across the room with stately mien so that I may have a good look at you." I nodded approval. "You'll do. You look sweet—a study in grey. And you are quite tall and slight in that elegant frock. I believe even Nanty will be satisfied."

She came and knelt again by my couch. How strong and yet gentle was her face! I thought. How steady and clear were her eyes! How sweet and expressive the large, sensitive mouth!

"I want to say good-bye to you alone—not before the others. I want to thank you, little, patient Marguerite, for all your goodness to me——"

"Jane," I said, "if you utter another word I shall weep, and then my eyes will be red. Be merciful to me."

"God bless you and keep you!" she murmured with a great earnestness, and then she bowed her head for a moment, and I knew that she was praying.

Mother forced an entrance.

"Peter has hidden my bonnet"—her air was tragic—"and I can't find him, he has hidden himself as well."

"He was under the pine tree in the hall when I last saw him," said Jane. "He may have slipped behind the clock."

"I'll go and see," said mother breathlessly, "I shall never be ready in time. The carriages are due now." Mother and Peter were to have one to themselves, and Dimbie was to take Jane.

She was back in a moment.

"I've got it. Amelia found it. He says he never touched it, and that it was the Help."

And now Dimbie came banging at the door.

"Time's up," he shouted. "How much longer are you going to prink, Jane?" Then popping his head in, "Peter will be smashing the wedding presents if you don't all hurry up."

"I'm ready. What do you think of your wife, sir?" said Jane.

I covered my face with my hands at the look in his eyes.

"Wheel me to the drawing-room," I whispered to him, "you don't go so fast as Amelia; and put me right in the window, so that I may see you all coming down the path."

"What a lovely Marguerite!" he murmured, shutting the door. "I must kiss my little wife. Why, even your cushions are gold! You look like a golden lily."

"The carriages are waiting," I said.

"I shall come home the very minute I have given Jane away; I shan't wait to the end. You will be lonely."

And Dimbie little knew how earnestly during the next quarter of an hour I longed for the loneliness he had predicted. Never had I more fervently yearned to be by myself, for as soon as ever Jane and Dimbie had driven away the Help appeared. She came slowly and deliberately into the room and seated herself on a chair opposite to the couch. She wore the black crêpe bonnet, a black dress, black kid gloves, and she carried a black parasol and a prayer-book.

"Good afternoon," I said politely.

"Good afternoon," she returned.

"Are you going—to a funeral?"

She stared at me with hard, black eyes.

"I've come to the reception."

"Oh!" I said.

"Master said me and 'Melia could hear their health drunk—the bride and bridegroom's."

"But they are not here yet."

"No," she said, still staring at me unwaveringly.

"Where's Amelia?" The Help alarmed me.

"'Melia's gone to the wedding, and then she's going to run 'ome before the others to make the tea and coffee."

"Couldn't you make it?" I cried with sudden relief.

"No, 'Melia's going to make it. She said I was to look after you and see that you wanted for nothin'."

"I don't require anything, thank you; if I do, I will ring."

She did not move.

I closed my eyes.

"I do not require anything at present, thank you," I repeated.

There was no movement, and I opened my eyes. The Help was still staring at me unflinchingly—not a flicker of an eyelid, not a movement of a muscle.

I felt I was going to scream.

"Don't you think,—perhaps, it would be advisable—will you be so good as to see to the potatoes?"

I clasped and unclasped my hands feverishly.

"What pertaters?"

"Oh—er—the potatoes we are going to eat."

"We're not goin' to eat no pertaters. 'Melia never told me. There's to be tea, coffee, jelly, and champagne."

"But shan't we require some later on with our dinner?"

She shook her head.

"It's to be 'igh tea. There'll be no time for dinner."

"But I should like potatoes."

The Help looked doubtful.

"I love potatoes."

"I'll ask 'Melia when she comes in."

"There is no occasion to ask Amelia. Won't you go now, please, Mrs.——?"

She still stared at me steadfastly.

"There's plenty of time; pertaters only takes half an hour."

"It's not enough," I cried sharply.

"I've boiled 'undreds of 'em—Skerry blues, magnums, queen of them all, Cheshires—none of 'em takes more than half an hour."

I closed my eyes and clung to the tortoise. "Oh, when would Dimbie come?" I moaned to myself. I lay thus for some minutes. It seemed ridiculous, absurd to be frightened of a mere Help. I told myself this over and over again. At length I ventured to open one eye. I longed to know if the Help were still staring at me. She was, and I shut it again quickly. What was I to do? When would the wedding be over? I opened my eye again. The Help was staring harder than ever. Most wickedly I wished that she could be struck dead by lightning. But it was unlikely, the day was brilliantly fine and sunny. Now I put a handkerchief over my eyes. I would not look at the Help. The gate banged. I heard Dimbie's step, and he came into the room, but I dare not remove the handkerchief.

"What is it?" he cried anxiously. "Are you poorly, Marguerite?"

"Come here," I said.

He stooped down.

"Is the Help still staring?" I whispered.

"Yes."

"Can you get her out of the room?"

He began to laugh.

"Can you?" I repeated.

"Of course."

"Well, do so quickly, please."

His voice rang out pleasantly and commandingly—

"Will you go and tell Amelia, please, that when the carriage returns I shall be glad if she will give the coachmen some dinner—some meat and potatoes."

Would the Help think that we were all in a conspiracy to make her boil potatoes?

"'Melia is not here."

"Where is she?"

"At the weddin'."

"Well, then, you go and get the dinner ready, please."

She looked at her black dress and gloves and parasol.

"I didn't know as there was to be cookin'. I've got my best dress on."

"You can put on an apron," I said gently.

She wavered.

Dimbie opened the door for her as he would have opened it for a duchess, and looked at her.

She rose, carefully placed her parasol and prayer-book on the chair in order to reserve it for future use, and unwillingly went out of the room.

"Move the chair quickly," I gasped, "and hide the parasol and prayer-book. That woman must never be permitted to stare at me again or I shall go mad. How could you tell her that she might come in to hear the health of the bride and bridegroom drunk?"

"She asked me. What could I say?" said Dimbie ruefully.

"And dressed up as though she were going to a funeral——"

Dimbie began to laugh.

"And is she going to hand tea to the guests in a crêpe bonnet?"

"Can't say, you are the mistress of the house."

"Oh, Dimbie, what shall I do? I daren't tell her to remove it."

"Wait till Amelia comes home. She'll manage her."

Amelia came rushing through the gate, and I signalled to her from the window.

"Yes, mum!"

"The Help is—wearing a crêpe bonnet. I thought you said she was to wear a cap and collar and cuffs?"

"So she is, mum. She must have slipped into that bonnet the minute my back was turned. She'll be out of it in a jiffy, I'll see to that. She's that deceitful, she'll wear me into my grave. And the weddin' was that beautiful! Miss Fairbrother looked——"

"I think I hear a carriage," I interrupted; and Amelia miraculously flew into her cap and apron, and the next moment announced—

"Doctor and Mrs. Renton."

Jane advanced to the couch with outstretched hands. Her eyes were shining and her lips smiling.

"Did your husband swear?" I asked as she kissed me.

"Certainly not," said the Doctor. "How's my patient to-day?"

"Quite well, thank you," I replied. "Now that you've got Jane safely tied up you'll begin to remember that you have some patients hanging on your words. Jane, he mustn't let his practice go to the wall. You have to live, you know."

"There's another carriage," said Dimbie, looking through the window. "Ah, and here's Nanty!—what a howling swell!—and a whole host of people I don't know."

"Jane, I am frightened of Miss Rebecca Sharp. Stand by me when you introduce us. I am not used to Suffragettes," I said.

And a most delightful half-hour followed, while we discussed Jane's and Amelia's united efforts at refreshments. Dimbie would not permit my being wheeled to the refreshment-room and noise, so my cake and champagne were brought to the drawing-room, and I was entertained in turn by Nanty and Professor Leighrail, the Doctor and Jane, Miss Rebecca Sharp, who was most mild and unassuming, Mr. Tom Renton, the best man, who ran to a heavy moustache and pimples, and even Peter came for a moment to give me his opinion of Amelia's jelly.

Nanty and the Professor interested me greatly. She, resplendent in purple velvet and old lace, was composed and sarcastic; he genial, happy, and detached.

"Down with all weddings!" was the gist of her conversation.

"Do all you can to encourage them," said the Professor cheerfully.

"Disillusionment and misery are the inevitable sequence." Nanty nibbled at the almond on a piece of wedding-cake.

"Happiness and a fuller life are the natural result." The Professor waved his glass in the air.

She regarded him with amusement.

"And you really think so?"

"I do, madam."

"You are optimistic."

"There was a time when I believed that the world contained no happiness."

"And now?"

"Now I am older, and think that most people are as happy as they will allow themselves to be."

"But the sin, the suffering?"

"Many sufferers are happy." (His glance rested for a second upon me.) "And as for the sinners—well, surely they wouldn't sin if they didn't enjoy it?"

"I do not agree with your philosophy."

"Madam, I am open to argument."

"The room is too warm for discussion."

"It is pleasant in the garden, and there are some late roses. Will you come?"

Nanty hesitated.

He held out his arm.

"The sunshine is inviting."

"Perhaps it is," she admitted; and laying a beautifully-gloved hand lightly upon his arm, she went out with him.

Dimbie came in and found me smiling.

"What is it, girl?"

His eyes followed mine through the window.

"Humph!" he said.

"He asked her to go and look at the roses."

"And now I suppose you are happy?"

"Nanty's and the Professor's desire for roses does not affect my happiness," I said gravely.

"Liar!" He laughed, stroking my hair.

And now the bride and bridegroom came to say "good-bye." The Doctor held back while Jane kissed me and said, "I'll come back soon, little old pupil; and I will drive over the day after our return and tell you everything." Her eyes were full of unshed tears. The Doctor held my hand in a strong, close grip, and they were gone.

Through the window I could see everyone assembled on the path. Confetti was in the air, congratulations, good-byes. The Help with her cap all askew, into which Amelia had insisted upon her changing, hurled rice and a slipper at the retreating cab. And so Jane and the Doctor drove away to happiness.

CHAPTER XXX

THE DEATH OF A LITTLE BLACK CHICKEN

A day has come, still, cold and grey, when you say, "There is snow in the air," and you are not sorry. The first snow is curiously attractive. Before, you are a little doubtful as to the season. Is it late autumn—there are still a few leaves on the beech tree—or has winter arrived? You would like to know; you object to being in uncertainty about your seasons. And then the snow comes one night very softly but very surely, and you wake in the morning to find that the thing is accomplished—winter has come. Your furs are reached out, your last thin frock is laid away, your eider-downs are aired, and you are quite resigned, you have no regrets. The summer brought you treasures in abundance, scattered largess with prodigal hand. But winter is no niggard. It gives you branches of trees stripped of their greenery, but beautiful in their form and shape. You had forgotten that the apple tree had a delicious crook here, a bend of the knee there, and a graceful arm with finely-turned wrist held out to its neighbours in the field in a spirit of friendship. And winter gives you brown fields—sad, you were about to say, but your pen halts at the word. They are not sad, they are but resting and waiting. "All things must rest." Those quiet, brown fields have done their work, they have yielded great riches, they have given of their best. Now is their season of peace, and they will be ready after their winter sleep for more work.

Winter gives you red suns and clear, frosty nights. It gives you the friendship of little birds who in summer are shy and not to be won. You are not deceived by their sudden overtures; it is not you, you know. It is the cocoa-nut hanging in front of the window, and the crumbs on the lawn, and the succulent bit of mutton-fat suspended from the apple tree. But you are glad to have them at any price; the tits' joyful chatter and the wrens' hurried warble, and the clear, sweet note of the robin enliven the atmosphere. They make no pretence of being fine musicians, like their sometime friend the thrush; but they say, "What's the good of being a singer if you keep your mouth or bill shut for six months in the year?" And I smile behind my hand and partly agree with them, though I dare not let the thrush hear me. I gave him a great welcome in the spring, and he would think me faithless were I now to speak of him disparagingly.

And winter brings in its wake great glowing fires and warm, lamplit rooms, and a feeling of snug cosiness when the curtains are drawn.

They have pushed my couch close to the fire, for I am a shivery mortal these days, and from my corner I can see the grey sky, the still, bare trees, and I can feel the hush in the air which ever precedes the snow.

Anxiously I hope that Dimbie will be home before it comes, for he is many miles from here—gone at my request to satisfy a longing, a desire of mine which has been with me for many weeks, which has lain very close to my heart, and which has now become so insistent that it cannot be hushed. It has been with me by day, I have whispered it in the long hours of the night, "How fares the tiny black chicken?" Has it suffered, lived on since that cruel moment when my bicycle crushed it to earth, or was its life snatched away from it? If it has lived it will be a big chicken now. The soft down will have become feathers, the wee legs will have grown long and thin.

This morning I found courage to voice my request, to tell Dimbie of my longing. At the first word he started, and his face became set. He walked to the window and drummed on the panes.

"You don't mind, Dimbie? You'll go for me?" I pleaded.

"But why? Why do you want to know?"

"I cannot tell," I replied. "It may be silly, morbid, but I feel as though—one or two things might be made clear to me if I knew."

He did not speak for a long time. His back was to me, and I could not see his face. Presently he said, without looking round, "I'll go. I cannot refuse you anything, Marg. But I don't like it. The chicken may be gone."

"Gone?"

"Well—dead."

"And if it is," I said softly, "I shan't mind. I shall know—and be satisfied."

He came and knelt by the couch.

"But won't you be lonely, girl?"

I shook my head.

"Are you better to-day, sweetheart? Do you think you are any stronger? That wedding was too much for you."

Each day my dear one abuses poor Jane's wedding. I had been overtired that night, faint, with a singing in my cars and the sound of many waters surging around me. And each day also he says, "You are a little stronger, I think, don't you?" But he does not wait for an answer. Sometimes it is better to leave a question unanswered.

Oh, my husband, will you ever know, ever understand how much happiness you have given to me? Before I knew you life was an arid wilderness. I was but young, but there was always Peter. Afterwards I came to a garden of roses and lilies set about with the tender green of spring. And our year! How wonderful it has been! Sorrow came to us, but joy entered a little later. Sorrow we thrust forth, and joy crept still closer, and has remained with us even to the end. Sorrow will dog Dimbie's footsteps for a little season, but joy will triumph over all—"for here we have no continuing city."

*****

Dimbie came home as the first snowflake brushed the window-pane. In the firelight he knelt and told me of the strange thing that had happened. He found the cottage, and as he entered the little chicken turned over on its side, stretched its legs and died. A child with golden hair leaned over it and wept bitterly.

"And had it suffered?" I whispered.

He shook his head.

"The woman said not, but it was lamed. The child from the day of the accident cared for it, tended it, nursed it. It slept in a box in the kitchen, and became very tame. The woman is a widow, and this little one the only child."

"Did you tell her of—me?"

"Yes," said Dimbie gently.

I laid my cheek to his, and he stroked my hair in his old, dear fashion. And we sat thus, and once again told each other the old, old story of our love. The soft snow brushed the window-pane, the corners of the room became shadowy and mysterious, and hand in hand we waited for the light which always follows the darkness.

AN AFTERWORD

The pen has fallen from Marguerite's hand never again to be taken up. And we who wait for the lifting of the veil find it hard not to question the why and the wherefore.

Hers was a beautiful, blameless life. Her suffering was borne with a great patience and cheerfulness, and we cry and cry again, "Why should this be?"

Jane Renton's philosophy is simple: "God wanted her more than we."

But to me it seems such love as theirs—of husband and wife—should have been allowed to continue yet a little while longer. Jane says it will outlast the ages. To Jane has been given a faith, an understanding which has been withheld from many. Her eyes can see while ours are blinded with tears.

I have her husband's sanction to give her simple story to the world. "It may help to brighten the life of some other sufferer, and she would be glad," I said, and he bowed his head.

The last night of her life was one of silver, as she herself would have described it, for the moon turned the earth with its soft mantle of snow into silver sheen. We drew back the curtains and pushed the bed still nearer to the window. Dimbie's arms pillowed her head. From unconsciousness she kept creeping back to moments of consciousness, and she would speak a little. Once she murmured something about a little black chicken, and always the word "Dimbie" was upon her lips. At the last we left them alone. By and by Dimbie came out of the room and passed out into the moonlit night. She would be glad that it was so, that there was the moonlight, and that while her spirit winged its way to eternal light there was a reflection of its brightness left for her Dimbie.

NANTY.

THE END.

********

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THE OPENED SHUTTERS. By Clara Louise Burnham. Frontispiece by Harrison Fisher.

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