“Do, aunt. Everything is all ready, and nobody will be here for an hour yet. Nothing can be nicer than the rooms, and nothing ever was done so well before. I’m only thinking how lonely you’ll be when we’re gone.”
“It’ll be only for six weeks.”
“But six weeks is such a long time.”
“What would it have been if he had taken you up to London, my pet? Are you sure your mother wouldn’t like a fire in her room, Dorothy?”
“A fire in September, aunt?”
“People live so differently. One never knows.”
“They never have but one fire at Nuncombe, aunt, summer or winter.”
“That’s no reason they shouldn’t be comfortable here.” However, she did not insist on having the fire lighted.
Mrs. Stanbury and Priscilla came first, and the meeting was certainly very uncomfortable. Poor Mrs. Stanbury was shy, and could hardly speak a word. Miss Stanbury thought that her visitor was haughty, and, though she endeavoured to be gracious, did it with a struggle. They called each other ma’am, which made Dorothy uneasy. Each of them was so dear to her, that it was a pity that they should glower at each other like enemies. Priscilla was not at all shy; but she was combative, and, as her aunt said of her afterwards, would not keep her prickles in. “I hope, Priscilla, you like weddings,” said Miss Stanbury to her, not knowing where to find a subject for conversation.
“In the abstract I like them,” said Priscilla. Miss Stanbury did not know what her niece meant by liking weddings in the abstract, and was angry.
“I suppose you do have weddings at Nuncombe Putney sometimes,” she said.
“I hope they do,” said Priscilla, “but I never saw one. Tomorrow will be my first experience.”
“Your own will come next, my dear,” said Miss Stanbury.
“I think not,” said Priscilla. “It is quite as likely to be yours, aunt.” This, Miss Stanbury thought, was almost an insult, and she said nothing more on the occasion.
Then came Hugh and the bridegroom. The bridegroom, as a matter of course, was not accommodated in the house, but he was allowed to come there for his tea. He and Hugh had come together; and for Hugh a bedroom had been provided. His aunt had not seen him since he had been turned out of the house, because of his bad practices, and Dorothy had anticipated the meeting between them with alarm. It was, however, much more pleasant than had been that between the ladies. “Hugh,” she said stiffly, “I am glad to see you on such an occasion as this.”
“Aunt,” he said, “I am glad of any occasion that can get me an entrance once more into the dear old house. I am so pleased to see you.” She allowed her hand to remain in his a few moments, and murmured something which was intended to signify her satisfaction. “I must tell you that I am going to be married myself, to one of the dearest, sweetest, and loveliest girls that ever were seen, and you must congratulate me.”
“I do, I do; and I hope you may be happy.”
“We mean to try to be; and some day you must let me bring her to you, and show her. I shall not be satisfied, if you do not know my wife.” She told Martha afterwards that she hoped that Mr. Hugh had sown his wild oats, and that matrimony would sober him. When, however, Martha remarked that she believed Mr. Hugh to be as hardworking a young man as any in London, Miss Stanbury shook her head sorrowfully. Things were being very much changed with her; but not even yet was she to be brought to approve of work done on behalf of a penny newspaper.
On the following morning, at ten o’clock, there was a procession from Miss Stanbury’s house into the Cathedral, which was made entirely on foot;—indeed, no assistance could have been given by any carriage, for there is a back entrance to the Cathedral, near to the Lady Chapel, exactly opposite Miss Stanbury’s house. There were many of the inhabitants of the Close there, to see the procession, and the cathedral bells rang out their peals very merrily. Brooke, the bridegroom, gave his arm to Miss Stanbury, which was, no doubt, very improper—as he should have appeared in the church as coming from quite some different part of the world. Then came the bride, hanging on her brother, then two bridesmaids—friends of Dorothy’s, living in the town; and, lastly, Priscilla with her mother, for nothing would induce Priscilla to take the part of a bridesmaid. “You might as well ask an owl to sing to you,” she said. “And then all the frippery would be thrown away upon me.” But she stood close to Dorothy, and when the ceremony had been performed, was the first, after Brooke, to kiss her.
Everybody acknowledged that the bride was a winsome bride. Mrs. MacHugh was at the breakfast, and declared afterwards that Dorothy Burgess—as she then was pleased to call her—was a girl very hard to be understood. “She came here,” said Mrs. MacHugh, “two years ago, a plain, silent, shy, dowdy young woman, and we all said that Miss Stanbury would be tired of her in a week. There has never come a time in which there was any visible difference in her, and now she is one of our city beauties, with plenty to say to everybody, with a fortune in one pocket and her aunt in the other, and everybody is saying what a fortunate fellow Brooke Burgess is to get her. In a year or two she’ll be at the top of everything in the city, and will make her way in the county too.”
The compiler of this history begs to add his opinion to that of “everybody,” as quoted above by Mrs. MacHugh. He thinks that Brooke Burgess was a very fortunate fellow to get his wife.
XCVIII
Acquitted
During this time, while Hugh was sitting
