XXII
PRESENTS AND PREPARATIONS
The opening of the boxes containing the wedding presents for Agnes had given Brenda almost ceaseless occupation for the day or two immediately before the wedding, and indeed, from their first arrival, she had taken the boxes in charge, arranging the pretty things on tables and shelves in a sitting-room that was set aside for the purpose.
“Really, Brenda, I wish that you would let Julia take charge of this,” said Agnes, mildly. “You know that you are not the most careful girl in the world, and I’m afraid that you ’ll get the cards mixed up in some way.” But Brenda had looked so grieved at the imputation that she could make a mistake in so important a matter, that Agnes had not the heart to say more. Brenda was the youngest, and the pet, and Agnes had a tender feeling as she remembered that she herself was so soon to go away, for an indefinite absence from Brenda and the rest of the family. Once or twice Brenda’s errors had been discovered through the thoughtfulness of friends who had sent a note by mail indicating the nature of their gifts. Thus old Mrs. Brown’s card, which Brenda had laid at the foot of a pair of frivolous candlesticks, was restored to its rightful place in a box of heavy silver spoons, while Miss Amsterdam’s card took its position beside the gilded candlesticks.
“It’s funny,” said Ralph Weston, “that a man should have sent you a box of embroidered doilies; they seem more like a woman’s present,” and he scanned the card which bore the name of one of his bachelor friends, Mr. Henry Filbert. Brenda happened to be in the room when Ralph said this, and she colored a little at his words. He glanced at her rather mischievously, as he held the card in his hands, and then, as she came over to the table, and looked at the gifts which had most recently arrived, she suddenly remembered.
“There, those doilies are from cousin Arabella, and Mr. Filbert’s card goes with this book. The boxes they came in were about the same size.”
“Ah,” said Mr. Weston, taking in his hands the beautiful edition of the “Complete Angler,” “this is something like. I am glad that somebody thinks of the groom on these solemn occasions. Filbert knows my weakness for old Walton, and although the box may have been directed to Agnes, I shall claim it for my own. I much prefer it to the doilies.”
Now, although none of Brenda’s mistakes were, perhaps, very serious, there were enough of them to keep the family in a state of mild excitement, and if Mrs. Barlow had had her way, she would have forbidden her younger daughter to have anything to do with any of the preparations for the wedding. But Agnes’s wedding would indeed have been altogether extraordinary, if all preparations for it had proceeded with perfect smoothness. At the last moment, barely in time to rectify the mistake, she found that some of her intimate friends had not received their invitations. Her shoemaker did not send home her slippers in time, so that at last she had to wear a pair that did not match her gown. But the wedding itself!—well there was nothing in any way to interfere with its completeness.
The groom and a party of friends came down from the city on an early train. They were to stay at the house of a friend of Mr. Barlow’s until the hour for the ceremony, which was to be precisely at twelve o’clock.
Several of the bride’s relatives were staying at her home, at Rockley, greatly to Brenda’s delight. She always rejoiced in a houseful of company, and one or two of these cousins—although they were only second cousins—were girls near her own age, and she and Julia had had great fun with them the day or two before. Philip and Tom, too, and Will Hardon had been over to call the evening before, and had tried to induce Brenda to join in one or two plans to discomfit the bride at the last moment. Brenda, indeed, might have been willing to yield to some of the suggestions, had not Julia rather persuaded her that such things were likely to prove more annoying than funny.
“Well, perhaps we won’t tie the white ribbons to the trunks, but there are other things; you know they can’t expect to get off without anything, and Ralph has been ready enough to tease us. Why, I never knew any one so fond of teasing; although for the first few days he was so very respectful to me!” said Brenda.
“He’s very good fun though,” said Philip, who had seen Mr. Weston several times at Marblehead, “and I have really taken a great fancy to him. He isn’t half bad.”
“Dear me!” cried Brenda, “what flattery for my brother-in-law-to-be. I must tell Agnes. It will quite turn her head.”
“Oh, there now!” remonstrated Philip, “you must n’t take up every word I say. You know what I mean.”
“Yes, of course she does,” interposed Julia, “I wish that Ruth were near enough to be here to-morrow. There ’ll be quite a gathering of the clans.”
“I know some one else who would second your wish,” said Tom Hearst, gazing mischievously at Will, who reddened at the words, after a habit which he detested in himself. It seemed to him so foolish that a young man of his age should blush.
“Oh, yes,” said Brenda, “Ruth was n’t so bad after one got to know her.”
At these extraordinary words. Will started as if he would like to argue with her, and even Julia seemed surprised at Brenda’s tone, until, looking toward her, she perceived a sly smile on her face that showed that she had not uttered the words in earnest. The return of some of Mrs. Barlow’s guests, including the two younger girls, from a walk to the beach, put an end to the personal discussion, and soon the party of young people went out to the piazza, where, with their chairs arranged in a large semicircle, they passed a merry hour together. At length, when the three sophomores, or rather juniors, took their leave, Julia said, in an aside to Philip, “Now you won’t play any tricks, will you, on Agnes, to-morrow?” and Philip replied also in an aside, “Well, if you wish me not to, why, of course I won’t.”
Ever since the day at Shiloh, when they went up to inspect the newly furnished Rosa cottage, Julia and Philip had had a little more interest in each other than ever before. Philip had discovered that Julia was not only companionable, but that she was so sensible that it was well worth while to pay attention to what she said.
“Are you really going to sleep on the ‘Balloon’ to-night?” called Brenda, as the three youths were walking away.
“Yes, indeed,” responded Tom. “I ought to have told you before, that if you happen to have more guests than you can accommodate at Rockley, you might as well send them over to the boat. We have quantities of room, in fact, a whole berth to spare.”
“I noticed, all the same,” said Will, smiling, “that you advised us to have our valises sent over to the hotel, as we would find it more comfortable to dress there to-morrow.”
“Naturally, dressing for a wedding is different from anything else,” responded Tom; “and I knew that I should need all the spare room on the ‘Balloon’ to-morrow to spread around in my best togs—beg your pardon, ladies—toggery. You see, we wish to look our very best when we appear in church.”
Philip and Will were already some distance down the road, whence their voices floated with, “Good-night, ladies, good-night, ladies, good-night, ladies, we ’re going to leave you now.”
As they went to their rooms that night,—or rather to their room, since the number of guests in the house made it necessary for Brenda and Julia to share the same room,—“Julia,” said Brenda, “there’s one thing I’m very sorry for. My present to Agnes is n’t really my present.”
“Why, what do you mean, Brenda?”
“Well, you know that I am still saving up for Mrs. Rosa’s money; why, really it seems as if it would take me years, and so I never have anything to spend as I wish. Don’t you think it’s rubbing it in rather hard to make me pay it all back?”
Brenda’s tone was so melancholy, so absurdly melancholy, that Julia laughed in spite of herself. Then, fearful lest she might have offended her, responded,—
“It certainly is rather hard for you. But uncle Robert evidently wishes to teach you a lesson.”
“You see, he made me calculate just how much I could afford to spend for Agnes, and he really kept me down to ten dollars. That does n’t seem much to spend for a wedding present for your own sister, does it?”
“Oh, Agnes will never think of the cost of what you give her, and I know that she was perfectly delighted with that little cream jug. It really is as pretty as can be, and it’s heavy enough in proportion to its size.”
“Well, if it had n’t been for the fuss about this Rosa money, I should have been let spend three times as much. Oh, Julia, I ’ve hardly been able to think about it this week, we ’ve been, so busy; but if that bicycle man really is the one who took Mrs. Rosa’s money, I don’t know what I shall do. I’m beginning to hate him already.’’
“My dear!” exclaimed Julia, somewhat shocked.
“Well, I can’t help it.”
“But he has never done you any harm.”
“Ah, but it's just the same thing. I am feeling the effects of it more than any one else.”
Then, on second thought, Brenda added, “Oh, of course, you have really had to spend more money, as long as you thought it best to make it up to Mrs. Rosa. But you don’t seem to care about spending money, as I do,” and Brenda sighed a heavy sigh. “Just as soon as the wedding is over I’m going over to Salem to see how that man lives. Probably we can persuade him to give part of it back.”
“You’d better not go without an older person,” said Julia, anxiously. “I don’t think that it would be exactly safe.”
“I ’ll take you with me,” replied Brenda, “and perhaps Amy; with two such wise persons, I could n’t possibly get into any harm. Could I?”
“I’m not so sure,” responded Julia, smiling. “We can’t always tell where harm is lurking.”
“Well, for further protection, we might take Miss South. But good-night, I’m sleepy now.”
The first of September dawned mild and pleasant. There was a slight haze in the air such as one may look for in September, a haze which may mean rain, or may not. Brenda, as she looked out toward the sea, before she was fully dressed, called to Julia, who was in a room across the hall.
“Oh, Julia, what shall we do if it rains; there are only one or two closed carriages, and—”
“Don’t worry,” and there was a laugh in Julia’s voice. “You always look on the dark side. It is n’t going to rain.”
“But it looks so kind of hazy.”
“Ah, if you were more in the habit of rising early, you’d know that it is the regular thing on a September morning for the sun to have a downcast look. By the time you have finished your breakfast, it may be scorching.”
“I don’t know,” said Brenda. “I wonder if any one else is up.”
“Well, we ought to be down as soon as possible; there will be ever so many little things for us to do.”
“Oh, I’m dressing as fast as I can; I want to see if more presents have come. There ’s an early train; and some things may have come on that.”
Brenda’s early rising on this wedding morning was rewarded by the finding of several handsome presents which had come by the late express the night before. Moreover, she was able to give directions (which, however, were not strictly followed) to the men who were decorating the house with flowers.
The long sitting-room, with its windows opening upon the piazza, was trimmed almost entirely with white chrysanthemums, which the florists had been able to get by some process known only to themselves, some time ahead of the season. Goldenrod and an abundance of glossy foliage from various shrubs were twined around the balusters, and festooned over the tops of the doors and windows. There were masses of white banked up on the mantelpieces, and the fireplaces were filled with goldenrod. There was very little, indeed, for any onlooker to alter or suggest, and whatever Brenda did say, was said rather with the intent of showing her authority, than because she expected to accomplish much by her suggestions.
The family came down and had breakfast individually, one by one. Agnes, indeed, had hers sent up to the little balcony on which her room opened.
There was bustle and confusion everywhere, and Brenda was in her element. With her mother occupied with Agnes, and a house full of visitors, Brenda felt more like the eldest daughter than had been possible for her for a long time.
From time to time she stole into the side room where the presents were still displayed on tables. They were not to be shown at the wedding, as Mr. and Mrs. Barlow, as well as Agnes, disliked this kind of ostentation, but for the gratification of the family they had been placed where those who wished could see them. During the reception, the door of the little room was to be locked, so that the gifts might not seem to be on exhibition. This arrangement suited all the family except Brenda. She thought it a great pity that all the guests were not to have the chance of inspecting the gifts.
“Why, they ’ll think that she has n’t had any presents,” and Brenda pouted as she spoke.
“If you hear any one express such a doubt,” said her father, “you might explain,” and he pinched her ear playfully. “Just tell any doubters that there has n’t been such a display at the Shore within the memory of the oldest inhabitant.”
“Oh, papa, but I do think that any one who really asks to see the presents, might be allowed to.”
“Well, I’m not really a cruel-hearted tyrant,” said her father, laughing, “and if any one of our guests really considers herself ill-treated because she (it is sure to be a girl) has not had a glimpse of the wedding-gifts, why invite her in. You know how to open the door.”
“Oh, well, of course,” said Brenda, “you understand what I mean. It would seem rather funny to have to refuse any one who had given a present. She might think that we had exchanged it, or something.”
Long before half-past eleven, the hour at which they were to start for the church, Julia and Brenda’s two young cousins from Albany, and their mother, Mrs. Tolbaird, and two or three other relatives who were staying at Mrs. Barlow’s, were seated on the front piazza. Mr. Barlow was walking around in the garden, rather uneasily,—for a wedding in the family is not as great a pleasure to the men-relatives of the bride, as to the women of the household,—when suddenly there came a loud shriek from the back of the house.
“Dear me, what can that be?” cried Mrs. Tolbaird, sinking back in her chair. Mrs. Tolbaird was very nervous, and on occasion had been known to have hysterics. When the shriek came again, cousin Edward Elston, who knew her peculiarity, rushed toward her, and seized the large fan which lay in her lap. “Don’t worry,” he cried, “it can’t be anything;” but when the third shriek came, he rushed to the back of the house, where Mr. Barlow had hastened at the first sound.
In a moment Brenda had followed them, filled with curiosity; while Julia remained with Mrs. Tolbaird and the little girls on the front piazza.
“It was probably one of the servants,” she said, reassuringly. “They are very excitable. Probably the cook has seen a snake in the grass.”
“Do they have snakes here?” asked one of the younger girls, with interest.
“I have seen those tiny little green ones,” responded Julia; “but they would n’t hurt any one.”
“I think that this snake must have bitten Mary, she made such a noise,” said the second young cousin; and then, somewhat to Julia’s relief, Brenda came around the corner of the piazza, looking a little crestfallen.
Below the house, on the gravelled walk, Mr. Barlow and cousin Edward Elston quickly came in sight. They seemed to form a kind of guard over a strangely dressed woman, with black hair, who carried a basket on her arm. Some distance behind walked the housemaids, and one or two other domestics, who all were talking and gesticulating very violently.
When Mr. Barlow reached the gate, he pointed up the road, and seemed to give Thomas some orders. The woman started in the direction of the railway station, which was not so very far from the house, and Thomas followed at a little distance behind.
“There,” said Mr. Barlow, finally, wiping his brow as he walked up to the steps. “So that was a friend of yours, Brenda; I should really like to know how you have found a chance to extend your acquaintance among gypsies.”
“I never saw her but once, papa; she is n’t a friend.”
“Well, she said that you had asked her to come over here to see you, and she certainly had your name and address written in your own hand on a piece of paper.”
Now, with all her faults, Brenda was never untruthful, and even at this trying moment, with Mrs. Tolbaird looking at her in surprise, she would not tell what was not true.
“Yes,” she said, almost ready to break into tears; “yes, I did.”
“Well, it’s rather a pity that she should have come at this particular time. If she had stayed a few moments longer in the smoking-room, she might have helped herself to anything that she particularly fancied among the wedding presents.”
Brenda could say nothing in reply.
“It was your fault, too, that the door of the smoking-room was unlocked. The woman may have meant no harm in entering it directly from the piazza. She was not supposed to know what there was inside. But it was no wonder that Mary, coming up from the garden, should have screamed to see a strange gypsy standing in the midst of the wedding presents. I only hope that she did not steal anything.” At the thought of such a catastrophe, Brenda cried out, “Oh, have her arrested, papa, perhaps she did! Oh, what will Ralph and Agnes say!”
“There, there, it is more than probable that no harm has been done. When you admitted that you knew her, and had invited her to come over here, I could not treat her exactly like a criminal. Besides, Mary says that the woman had been there but a minute. But how did you happen to know her?”
“It was when Nora and I were on our bicycles. We had our fortunes told.”
“Well, well,” said Mr. Barlow, “I thought that Nora had more sense.”
“Oh, it was I who thought of it,” said Brenda; “but I never supposed that she would really come to the house. She said that she would like to buy old clothes.”
“There,” said Mr. Elston, looking down the road, “there are my men just below the stable. They are to be a guard for the house while the rest of us are at the wedding. With your leave, Robert, I ’ll give them their directions.”
“Now, Brenda,” said Mr. Barlow, as the skipper and mate were marshalled into the house to form a guard for the wedding gifts, “this day must not be in any way overcast, and so I hope that you will put the last half-hour out of your mind, at least for the present. Later, I may have more to say on the general subject of gypsies,” and he smiled indulgently. “Not a word to Agnes, either,” he continued, as the ripple of voices from upstairs, and the closing of doors made them realize that the bride was coming. 