CHAPTER XXXII.
THE NIGHT BEFORE THE WEDDING.
Mrs. Meadowsweet wondered why Beatrice did not come home. It was thenight before the wedding. Surely on that night the bride ought to comeearly to sleep under her mother's roof.
Mrs. Meadowsweet had a good deal to say to her girl. She had made up hermind to give her a nice little domestic lecture. She thought it her dutyto reveal to her innocent Beatrice some of the pitfalls into which youngmarried girls are so apt to fall.
"Jane," she said to her handmaid, "Miss Beatrice is late."
"Eh, so she is," responded Jane. Jane was a woman of very few words. Herremarks generally took the form of an echo. Mrs. Meadowsweet thought hera very comfortable kind of body to confide in. Jane was taking away thesupper things.
"We were married ourselves, Jane, and we know what it means," continuedMrs. Meadowsweet.
Jane was a widow--her husband had been a drunkard, and she had gonethrough a terrible time with him.
She shook her head now with awful solemnity.
"We do that," she said. "It's an awful responsibility, is marriage--it'snot meant for the young."
"I don't agree with you there, Jane. How could elderly people bring uptheir families?"
"It's not meant for the young," repeated Jane. "It's a careful thing,and a troubling thing and a worreting thing is marriage, and it's notmeant for the young. Shall I leave the peaches on the table, ma'am, andshall I make fresh cocoa for Miss Beatrice when she comes in?"
"Make the cocoa with all milk, Jane, it's more supporting. I always madeit a rule to sustain Beatrice a good deal. She wears herself out--she'sa great girl for wearing herself out, and it's my duty in life to repairher. I used to repair her poor father, and now I repair her. It seems tome that a woman's province in life is to repair--first the husband, andthen the children. Jane, I was thinking of giving Beatrice a littlelecture to-night on the duties that lie before her."
"Good sakes, ma'am, I'd leave her alone. She'll find out her worritsfast enough."
"I don't agree with you, Jane. It seems to me as if the whole of amarried woman's bliss consists in this--be tidy in your dress, don'tanswer back, and give your husband a good dinner. That's what I did--Irepaired Meadowsweet, and I never riled him, and we hadn't a word, no,not a word."
"All aren't like your blessed husband, Mrs Meadowsweet. Well, ma'am,I'll go now and get the milk on for the cocoa."
She left the room, and Mrs. Meadowsweet sat on by the fire.
Presently there came a ring to the front door bell. Mrs. Meadowsweetstarted up. Bee had some--no, it wasn't Bee--it was Mrs. Morris.
Her bronchitis was almost gone to-night; her voice was high, sharp andquick.
"Well, my poor friend, and how are you?" she said.
"I wish you wouldn't call me your poor friend, Jessie," answered Mrs.Meadowsweet, with almost irritation. "I don't know what has come to thegood folks here of late--'Poor dearing,' and 'poor friending' till I'msick of the sound of it. When I was married, people didn't look likeboiled vinegar over it; neighbors were chirpy and cheery about a weddingin those days."
Mrs. Morris made no reply at all to this tirade. She sat down solemnly,and looked around her.
"Is Beatrice in?" she asked.
"No, she's not; she went to the Manor some hours ago--I'm expecting mygirl back every minute. I've several things to say to her when she doescome in, so you won't take it amiss, Jessie, if I ask you not to stay."
"No, my dear neighbor, I won't take anything amiss, from you at present,only, if I were you, I wouldn't worry Beatrice with advice to-night. Yonhave time enough for that. Time and to spare for that, poor dear."
"There you are with your 'poor dear,' again, Jessie. Now whose ring isthat at the bell? Oh, it's Bee, of course; come back at last, my girlhas. Well, Jessie Morris, I wish you good-night."
"Stay a minute, neighbor--that isn't Bee's voice." The door was opened,and Miss Peters came in.
"How are you, Mrs. Meadowsweet," she said, running up to the good ladyand giving her a kiss, which resembled the peck of an eager bird, on hercheek. "I ran on first, and Martha is following. I came to know how youare, and how you're bearing up--and is Beatrice in?"
"I do declare," said Mrs. Meadowsweet. She rose from her easy-chair."You mean to be good-natured, neighbors, but really you're enough todeave one. How am I bearing up? Am I the woman to bring ill-luck to mychild by crying at her wedding? No, she's not in--she's at the Bertrams.But there's her ring now at the hall-door. Good-night, neighbors both.You mean it kindly, but don't stay just now. I have a word or two to sayto the girl in private to-night."
"I think that's Martha's voice," said Miss Peters. "Don't say that Itold you anything, Mrs. Meadowsweet."
The door was opened, and Mrs. Butler came in.
This good woman, who led the army of the Beatricites, had now attainedto all the airs of a victorious general. Her bonnet-strings were thrownback, her face was flushed, and her throat, conspicuous by the absenceof her large white brooch, was bared to view.
"Well, my friend," she said. "Well, the time is near."
She took Mrs. Meadowsweet's fat hand, squeezed it hard, and looked withawful solemnity into her eyes.
"Good gracious," said the poor woman. "I never felt more exasperated inall my life. Any one would suppose that my girl was drowned in theharbor from the faces you one and all bring me."
"Mrs. Meadowsweet," said Mrs. Butler, "there is such a thing as havingthe body safe and well, and the character drowned."
Mrs. Meadowsweet's cheeks flushed deeply.
"I'll thank you to explain yourself, Martha Butler," she said. "Whosecharacter is drowned?"
"No one's," said Mrs. Butler. "Or at least, no one who belongs to us."
Here she waved one of her arms in theatrical style.
"I have fought for that girl," she said, "as my sister Maria can beartestimony, and my friend Mrs. Morris can vouch---I have fought for her,and I may truly say I have brought her through a sea of slander--yes,through a sea of slander--victorious. Now, who's that? Who's coming tointerrupt us?"
"It's only me, Mrs. Butler," said Beatrice. She came quietly into theroom. Her face was white, but its expression was serene, and almosthappy.
"It's you, Bee, at last," said her mother.
She went straight up to the girl, and taking one of her hands raised itto her lips.
"You have come, Bee," she said in a purring cone of delight and content."My girl has come at last, neighbors, and now I'll wish you, every one,a very good-night. I'm obliged for all sympathy, and if I don'tunderstand these new-fashioned ways about weddings with their poordears, and their poor friends, and drowning of somebody's character, andsaving of somebody else's character, it's because I'm old-fashioned, andbelong to an ancient school. Good-night, friends. Is that you, Jane?"
Jane appeared, bearing in a cup of cocoa for Beatrice.
"Jane, show these ladies out."
They all went. They hated to go, but they went, for the mantle ofinnocence and ignorance in which Mrs. Meadowsweet was so securelywrapped gave her a certain dignity which they could not resist. Janeshut the door on them, and they stood still outside the house, andwrangled, and talked, and worked themselves into a perfect rage ofexcitement and curiosity and longing. "Well, well, all surmises wouldsoon be at rest. Who would win, Beatrice or Josephine? Who would beto-morrow's bride."
"Mother," said Beatrice, when the ladies had left--she looked into herold mother's face. There was an expression in her eyes which made Mrs.Meadowsweet cry out:
"Bee, you have got a hunger at your heart. Oh, child, you want yourmammy--I never saw that look in your eyes since long, long ago, when youwere a little tot, and wanted your mammy more than anything else in allthe wide world."
"I want her now," said Beatrice.
She put her arms about her mother, and wept on her shoulder.