University of Virginia Library

23. CHAPTER XXIII.
WEDDING-FINERY.

“And now, Aunt Rachel,” said Beatrice, the
morning after her arrival in Milvor; “now let
us have a little fire in your chamber, and I
will show you my shopping.”

“Dear me, child, I'm in no hurry whatever
about that. Miss Billings isn't coming until
Friday to cut my dresses, and it will be time
enough then.”

“Now, Aunt Rachel, that is clear, sheer
nonsense! You want to make me believe
that you have no curiosity even about your
wedding-dress, and I shan't believe a word of
it. Of course you want to see it, and I want
to show it, and I am not going to hurry about
it either; so I shall just go and make the fire
myself, and then call you up.”

With which declaration, Miss Wansted, her
brilliant robes exchanged for one of gray
linsey-woolsey, with a bit of blue ribbon and
the plainest of linen collars at the neck, and a
pair of cuffs to match at the wrists, ran out of
the room, and was presently seen picking up
chips in the wood-yard.

“Dear creeter,” murmured her grandmother
—“not the leastest mite of difference, for all
the silk gowns and fal-lals Israel has given

[ILLUSTRATION]

Picking up chips in the wood-yard.

[Description: 454EAF. Page 061. In-line image of a man and woman picking up kindling in a yard.] her, and all the attention the young fellers
have been paying her. I was dreadful afraid
she'd be set up in her own conceit, and not
think so much of our humble ways; but there
isn't any thing of that, as I can see.”

“You're too modest, wife,” replied the deacon,
glancing at her over the top of his Fenelon.
“I don't know why our grand-daughter
should be either daunted or too much astonished
by the ways of people richer maybe, but
no better, I hope, than those she has always
lived among.”

“Well, that's true enough, too, father,” assented
the old lady, straightening herself a
little. “The Barstows are as good as any
body—”

“So long as they behave as well,” interposed
her husband, with a quiet smile behind
his book; and Mrs. Barstow rather doubtfully
assented to the qualified self-glorification.

Beatrice, meanwhile, had filled her pretty
black silk apron with long ringlets of pineshavings,
cones of the fragrant fir-tree, splinters
and clean white chips from the heart of
the beech and buttonwood logs lying cleft in
the wood-yard, and some dry branches lopped
from the tops of the pine-trees, whose straight
trunks lay side by side, ready to be hauled to
the saw-mill; for the deacon burned his own
wood, and had some to sell to his neighbors
beside.

“Will you please bring in an armful of
wood, Jacob? Up into Miss Rachel's room,
if you please,” said the young lady, bestowing
a gracious smile upon the sinewy, wiry, and
most unlovely Yankee who at present replaced
Paul Freeman at the Old Garrison
House.

“Oh! yes, I'll fetch in as much as you want.
Kind o' chilly this morning, a'n't it?”

“Somewhat more than chilly, I think, Jacob,”
said the young lady, glancing rather
ruefully at the snowy landscape; “it looks
like midwinter yet.”

“Not if you know how midwinter had
ought to look,” bluntly replied Jacob. “See
them great white clouds banking up in the
south? You don't never see none of them in
December or January, do you? And then see
how sort of rotten the snow breaks away when
I pull a stick out o' the pile. There'll be a
change o' weather 'fore long, and I mistrust
it'll be rain. Declare for 't, I guess I'd better
go into the woods to-day, and leave this 'ere
chopping for a time when I can't do nothing
else. Wonder what the deacon 'd say?”

And Jacob, straightening himself with a
huge armful of wood, drew his right shirtsleeve
across his nose and looked inquiringly
at the sky.

“You had better go into the sitting-room
and speak to grandfather,” said Beatrice smiling;
“and if you do go to the woods, I should
like to go with you. I have not seen the
woods this whole winter.”

“Well, you can if you're a mind to, and I
suppose you'll be for riding home on the load,
so I'll carry along a buffalo for you to set on,”
replied Jacob, with composure; and Beatrice,
thanking him as politely as she ever thanked
Messrs. Laforét et Cie for less genuine courtesies,
ran into the house and up-stairs with her
light burden, soberly followed by Jacob with
his wood.

“Shan't I build the fire for you, ma'am?”
asked he, clumping carefully across the carpet,
and leaving a cake of half-melted snow at
every footfall.

“No, thank you, Jacob; I know how very
well myself. You had better speak to grandpapa;
and if you are going to the woods, send
me word by Nancy. You won't start just this
minute, will you?”

“No ma'am; I suppose I must chop up
some kin'lin'-stuff for Nancy's oven, or she'll
be in my hair. They're going to bake
to-day.”

“Well, I shall be ready in half an hour,”
said Beatrice rather breathlessly, for the large
log she was adjusting at the back of the fireplace
required all her strength. Jacob
watched her movements admiringly for a
moment, and then clumping out as carefully
as he had clumped in, went down-stairs muttering:

“A smart gal that, and as pretty as a
picter'.”

The back-log adjusted, Beatrice pushed the
andirons close up against it, selected a solid
white-oak fore-stick to lay across them, filled
the interval between back and fore-stick with
small wood crowned with some of the dry pine-twigs
and cones, and then made a little heap
of shavings, chips, and twigs underneath.

“There,” said she, looking at the completed
edifice; “grandpapa couldn't have done it
better himself.”

Then she lighted a match, touched it to the
shavings, and seated á l'Orientale upon the
hearth-rug, watched, with well-satisfied gaze,
the flame as it devoured the shavings, then
caught upon the pine-twigs, and creeping upward
through the lattice-work of more solid
fuel, leaped hungrily upon the dried pine-needles
and fir-cones at the top, and feeding upon
them, grew strong enough to attack the heavier
sticks between the two.

“How lovely!” whispered Beatrice, selecting
half a dozen cones from the heap of kindling,
and placing them so artistically among
the sticks as to lead the flames from step to
step through the whole pyre; and then warming
her red-tipped fingers at the growing
blaze, she watched admiringly the play of the
flames, and remembered one of Mr. Chappelleford's
whimsical theories, to the effect that
every wood, in process of combustion, produces
a flame shaped like the leaf of its own
tree, and she tried to distinguish the pointed
needles of the pine, the sinuated leaves of
the oak, and the five-fingered palms of
the buttonwood, in the rustling river of
flame that now poured up the chimney. But
try as she might, the flame-leaves only reminded
her of the fantastic and airy forms of
the trees that grow in fairy-land; and after a
while, Beatrice, desisting from the effort, sat
gazing dreamily into the fire, and thinking
her own thoughts, or perhaps those of Cornelius
Agrippa, who tells us through a modern
poet:

From this reverie she was startled by the
voice of Aunt Rachel.

“Well, I declare, Beatrice, you're just the
same careless girl you used to be—picking
up chips in that black silk apron, all trimmed
off with lace and beads and fal-lals, and all
but new, I dare say. And then those French
slippers right out in the snow, and silk stockings!
Well, Beatrice, you may laugh, but it
is no better than tempting Providence, and I
don't suppose you'll say you mean to do that.”

“Why, aunty, what do you think Providence
could be tempted to do to me? Don't
you believe Providence means our Father in
Heaven, who only wishes to make us happy
and well?” asked the girl, without removing
her eyes from the blaze, where, perhaps, she
had found the creed which filled Aunt Rachel's
good Calvinistic heart with dismay.

“Beatrice Wansted!” exclaimed she, “don't
tell me that you're going to turn Free-thinker
and Radical, and all that. You've been to
hear Parker, I know you have!”

“Why, Aunty Barstow! you cruel, cruel
dear, to go and call your little Trix a Free-thinker!
Aren't you horribly ashamed of
yourself?” And the girl, jumping up, threw
her arms about her aunt's neck with a laugh
and a kiss, whirled her sacrilegiously round
the room, and finally seated her in a great
wooden rocking-chair in front of the fire, while
she herself fell upon her knees before the
great trunk which she had caused to be placed
in her aunt's room instead of her own.

“Well, I believe I was wrong, and that you
are changed in some things, Trix,” said Miss
Rachel meditatively.

“How, aunty?” asked Beatrice, bending
over the open trunk to hide a smile.

“Why, you seem to have got a way of sliding
off from things you don't want to talk
about, and that once you'd have got provoked
over,” said Miss Barstow, and Beatrice bent
still lower into the trunk.

“There, aunty, there is a new dress for

Nancy,” said she suddenly, as she drew out a
piece of woollen stuff, and laid it upon her
aunt's lap.

“For Nancy, child?”

“Yes, aunty. Uncle Israel gave me some
money to spend for wedding-finery, he said,
and I thought I would get Nancy a dress out
of it.”

“Why, it's too good. Merino, isn't it?”

“Yes, I thought it was not best to get silk
for her, although I could have bought it for
the same price as the thibet.”

“Silk indeed! I should think not!” exclaimed
Miss Barstow. “I don't desire to see
any one in my kitchen dressed out in silks or
satins. That is a pretty color; what do you
call it?”

“Bismarck-brown, aunty. It is very fashionable.”

“Just about the color I thought of for that
dress I asked you to get me. Where is that?”

And a tinge of red rose to Miss Rachel's
withered cheek as she thus betrayed her secret
impatience.

Beatrice took a huge parcel, carefully enveloped
in tissue-paper, from the trunk, and laying
it upon the bed, proceeded very deliberately
to unpin it, while she said:

“Now, Aunt Rachel, there is a good deal to
say upon the subject of that dress. In the
first place, cinnamon-brown, or chocolate, or
even Bismarck, are not the colors for a wedding-dress;
and you know you want to look
as a bride should—now, don't you?”

“Bride! At my time of life! Pho! child.”

And the reflection of the blaze or something
else glowed in a very becoming crimson upon
Miss Rachel's cheeks and lips, and danced
brightly in her eyes.

“Time of life, indeed! No one would take
you for a day over thirty to see you now,
aunty. But about the dress. I don't think
Miss Billings is quite so good a dressmaker as
we have in town, although she is a very nice
old lady; and, besides, you have so much to
do, you know. So the amount of the whole
is, that Uncle Israel told me to get a dress, and
have it made up and trimmed, as his present
to you, and here it is.”

With which summary introduction, Beatrice,
a little flushed herself—for what woman is
quite iron-clad against the cunningly feathered
arrows of the genius of Dress?—unfolded and
shook out upon the bed the folds of a moire
silk, tinted like the soft gray clouds that float
so lovingly across the blue of a June sky. The
dress was fashioned in a quiet modification of
the style of the day, and was doubtfully pronounced
by the modiste who wrought under
Miss Wansted's directions—“Very, very plain
indeed, although of splendid material.”

Miss Barstow's verdict was different:

“Why, Beatrice - Beatrice Wansted!” exclaimed
she, holding up both hands, and staring
at the shining folds of moire with a look
divided between awe and admiration.

“It is fit for Eugeny with her crown on!”

“I hope it will fit you even better, aunty
dear; and that the day when you first wear it
will make you happier than any queen,” said
Beatrice, kissing her aunt with dewy eyes.

“And here,” continued she, bringing forth a
carton tied across with blue ribbons, “here is
a little present from me to go with the dress.”
And with dexterous fingers she drew forth
and adjusted upon the silk a collar, sleeves,
and head-dress of fine Mechlin lace ornamented
with knots of blue ribbon.

“Blue ribbons for me, Trix?” exclaimed
Miss Barstow feebly.

“Yes, aunty, they make such a lovely contrast
with the pearl-gray of the dress, and you
know you must not be married all in gray.
You asked me about a bonnet, or a veil, and
so I thought perhaps you would fancy this
head-dress, which has, you see, a sort of veil
hanging at the back, and for other occasions
you can alter it a little, or take off the veil.”

“That dress cost a great deal more than
twenty dollars, Beatrice!” said Miss Barstow
severely; and her niece could not restrain a
little laugh.

“It isn't pretty to ask the price of a present,
you know, dearie,” said she; “and I thought
perhaps you would like to spend the twenty
dollars in something for grandmamma; so I
bought this nice black silk for her to wear at
the wedding, and this cap to go with it. But
Uncle Israel rather scolded me for doing it,
because he said it was not business-like to
spend the money sent us for a certain purpose
in another way. So if you would prefer the
money, I have it all ready; or if you would
like to make the present to grandmamma, you
can do that.”

“I should like to make the present to grandmamma,
and you were a very thoughtful,
good girl to think of it,” said Miss Rachel,
well pleased, as Beatrice had foreseen that she
would be.

“And what will you wear yourself?” pursued
she, glancing at the nearly - emptied
trunk.

“Oh! I brought down two dresses, and you
must tell me which you like best,” said Beatrice
carelessly; and produced from the depths
of the box a mauve silk, and one of sky-blue,
both of them fresh and handsome.

“Two silk gowns at once, Beatrice!” exclaimed
her aunt reprovingly. “I am afraid
your uncle is teaching you extravagance and
a love of dress.”

“Oh! no, aunty; but we went out so much,
I had to have a variety, you know,” said Beatrice
apologetically; and while her aunt still
examined the dresses with disapproving admiration,
Nancy opened the door to say:

“Jacob wants to know if you're going into
the woods with him, Beatrice. He's 'most
ready.”

“Say Miss Beatrice, Nancy,” suggested her
mistress sharply; “and don't wait with your
oven cooling. I heard you taking out the fire
ten minutes ago. What about the woods,
Trix?”

“Oh! I am going, certainly,” said Beatrice,
hastily bundling the packages back into the
trunk.

“Not in that dress, Beatrice!”

“No, indeed, aunty. I saw one of my last
winter's poplins in the closet of my chamber.”

And Miss Wansted, disappearing before further
disapproval could be spoken, presently
returned, dressed in a simple short dress and
a warm coat.

“See here, aunty,” said she, mischievously
raising her skirts high enough to show a very
jaunty pair of Knickerbockers nearly meeting
the tops of her high Polish boots.

“Well, I never! Why, Beatrice Wansted,
if I shouldn't be ashamed!” exclaimed the
spinster, turning nearly as scarlet as the obnoxious
garments.

“Why, aunty! why should I be ashamed?”
laughed Beatrice.

“Why, to wear those things. Almost like
—really, now, they do remind me—”

“Of what, aunty?”

“Why, child, a gentleman's pantaloons,”
whispered Miss Barstow, the scarlet turning
crimson.

“Not a bit of it, aunty! Pantaloons are
tight to the leg and tie with strings round the
ankles; and what gentlemen wear are called
trowsers; and these are nothing like either,
and are called Knickerbockers.”

“Beatrice! say limbs, and not legs; and
don't talk so glibly about things no young
woman should ever mention,” said Miss Barstow
severely.