 | IX. Edwin Brothertoft |  |
9. IX.
Nombre de Dieden! what a fit!
Unlacing and relacing concluded, these masculine
eyes, again admitted to the maiden's bower,
are dazzled with unexpected loveliness.
There stands the lady, within the perfect
dress!!! beautiful to three points of admiration.
Sweet eighteen can bear low neck by broad day-light.
The struggle in her heart with all her wild
emotions of terror and hope was as great a
beautifier as the presence of critical wedding-guests,
the rustle of a surplice, the electric touch
of a gay gold ring, and the first clasp of the hand
of a husband.
And you, O Peter Skerrett! you have shaved
off your moustache and donned a coat much too
small, — you have made a guy of yourself for
your first interview with this angel!
Shall the personal impression she may already
have made be here revised and corrected? No;
for this is not real sunshine upon her. If she is
ever photographed, it shall be in her bright, not
for description! It is easy to see the
Brothertoft in her. She blends the tender grace
of the lady in Vandyck's picture with the quiet
dignity of the gentleman. But is there not kindling
in her face the vigor of another race, her
mother's? Perhaps a portrait now would belie
her final look.
“You are like an angel, Miss Lucy,” said Mrs.
Dewitt.
She was. She stood there in bridal robe, veil,
and wreath. Her hands were clasped firm to
control her insurgent heart. Her lips were
parted, and she was whispering to herself, “Be
brave! Be prudent!” Her eyes overlooked the
present, and saw hope in the blue sky above the
golden Highlands through her window.
Yes; like an angel.
There was a hush for a moment. The three
bad women — the pert hoyden, the false wife, and
the proud mistress of the Manor — were silenced
and abashed.
Again the old pang stirred in the mother's bosom.
Again she longed to throw herself at her daughter's
feet and pray forgiveness. But again she
gained that defeat of a victory over her womanliness.
She trampled down the weakness of repentance.
The bedlam look flickered over her
features, and she hardly restrained her furious
face and the maiden bosom that so shamed her.
“You do look just like an angel, Miss Lucy,”
Abby Dewitt asseverated, with the air of a connaisseuse
in the article. “Don't she, Sally?”
The two thereupon gave tongue to voluble
flatteries.
“Your work does you great credit, Dewitt,”
Lucy said. “Mamma, cannot we spare Abby
and Sally to go home to the farm to-night?
They deserve a holiday after this long confinement.
And to-morrow will be a busy day again.”
“Of course, my dear, if they wish it.” Mrs.
Brothertoft was glad to put her daughter under
obligation.
The women again gave tongue with thanks.
They were always, as Voltaire had said, ready to
get away for a frolic. Lucy smiled to herself at
the easy success of her stratagem. She had
packed off baggage and baggage, without suspicion.
“What a conspirator I am becoming!” she
thought. “Ah! silly Lucy, the child, the thing
to be flung away! She too can help baffle the
evil schemes against herself. When these coarse
women are gone, there will be not a soul but
friends within a mile of the house.”
Dinner was tardy to-day, after the late breakfast
following the revel.
Nine-oxygen azote by the lung-full had given
tone to Major Kerr's system. His appetite for
meat and drink were in full force again, all the
stouter for this morning's respite.
“What a lucky dog I am,” he said, “to dodge
that expedition of Vaughan's! I 'm `the soldier
tired of war's alarms,' Miss Lucy.”
“You do not care about laurels any more,”
Mrs. Brothertoft said, with her half-sneer.
“Not when I can get roses.”
His look with this brought fire into Lucy's
cheeks.
“No,” resumed he; “I should be glad enough
to help burn the dashed rebels' houses over their
heads, and them, too, in their beds. Here 's confusion
to 'em, and luck to Jack Burgoyne! I
hate the vulgar `varmint.' But I don't want to
leave a good dinner to see bonfires. I know
where I 'm well off, and going to be better.
Eh, Miss Lucy?”
Her heart began to throb and her head to
ache at once.
“This goose has got a bark on thick as an
oak-tree,” continued the valiant trencherman,
making an incision. “Give me another cut of
beef, — the red, with plenty of fat and plenty of
gravy, if you please, my mamma that shall be.
I need support when the parson opens his batteries
to-morrow. Eh, Miss Lucy? `With this
Hain't got any goods. I 'll endow you with all
my worldly debts, and tell the Jews to shift
the security. Haw, haw!”
He laughed boisterously.
This coarse pæan stirred up echoes of repulsion
in Lucy's heart.
How she longed to fling defiance at him!
Patience, — she almost bit the word in two, with
her teeth set hard upon it. One rash expression
would be ruin; but great red-hot shot of
scorn burned within her. She discovered that
there was strong language in her vocabularly.
It grew significant to her now. She was beginning
to half understand herself at last. When
the boiler grows hot, the water feels its latent
steam.
“Am I the same being?” she thought. “Am
I the meek Consent I have pitied and wept with
so long? No, I have ceased to be a spiritless nobody.
I am almost sorry that help from without
is coming to me. I should like to stand up now
and say, `Madam, of you as a woman I will not
speak, — as a mother, you are a tyrant, and I
defy you. I defy you and this brute, not half so
base as you, whom you have dared to name by
the sacred name of lover, whom you have called
in to aid you in dishonoring your child.' Yes;
I could almost say that to her now. Is it possible?
woman? I never felt what the sanctity of my
womanhood was until now, — now that I perceive
this miserable plot against it.”
This defiant mood was strong within her.
But presently, as she looked at Kerr, growing
redder with too much dinner and too much
wine, laughing at his own coarse jokes and
throwing at her with great vulgar compliments;
and when all at once, in contrast, rose the figure
of the other Major as she had painted him, —
disgust so mastered her that she sprang up,
pleaded a headache, and fled to her chamber, to
wait and hope and doubt and pray alone.
“Megrims again,” said the lover, sulkily, as
she disappeared. “I don't like it. She did n't
run away from Jack André yesterday.”
“O, let her amuse herself with headaches, if
she pleases,” said the Lady of the Manor. “I
understand the child. I saw her this morning
over her wedding-dress. She is as eager for
the happy moment as any lover could wish.”
“So you think she shams coy?”
“Yes,” said Mrs. Brothertoft; and she was
willing to believe it.
“Well, good night, pretty creature! Let it
go up stairs and think how sweet it will look
to-morrow in its silks and laces! What, are you
going too, my mamma?”
“Yes. Take your glass of wine quietly. We
will have supper late. I am going to doze a
little in the parlor. I dreamed troublesome
dreams last night.”
“By George!” said Kerr, as she closed the
door. “Splendid woman! Twice as handsome
as the Duchess of Gurgoyle! I suppose she
thinks the Kerrs will take her up when she
goes to England. No, ma'am! We can 't quite
stand that. You 've got all you can expect out
of me when you 've married off your daughter
on me. Now, then, it 's going to be solemn business,
drinking alone.”
| IX. Edwin Brothertoft | |