Thus it was a very strange divided house upon the eve of this marriage. To add to the confusion, there was great squabbling over the settlements, which Pat Torrance, eager though he was to secure the bride, whom his pride and self-will, as well as what he believed to be his love, had determined to have at all costs, was by no means so liberal about as the Earl thought necessary. He fought this out step by step, even venturing to hint, like the brute he was, that it was no beauty or belle whom he was marrying, and cutting down the requirements of her side in the most businesslike way. Lady Lindores had been entirely silenced, and looked after the indispensable matters of her daughter’s trousseau without a trace of the usual cheerful bustle attending wedding preparations; while Carry seemed to live in a dream, sometimes rousing up to make an appeal to her father’s pity, but mostly in a sort of passive state, too heartbroken to be excited about anything. Edith, young and curious, moved about in the midst of it all in the activity of her independence, as yet touched by none of these things. She was a sort of rebellion impersonated, scarcely comprehending the submission of the others. While Carry wept she stood looking on, her face flushed, her eyes brilliant. “I would not do it,” she said. These words were constantly on her lips.
“How could you help doing it?” poor Carry cried, turning upon her in the extremity of her despair. “Oh, have a little pity upon me, Edie! What can I do? I would sooner die. If there is anything you can think of—anything! But it is all past hope now. Papa will not even listen to me. Rintoul tells me I am a fool. He—” but here Carry’s voice was broken with a shudder. She could not speak of her bridegroom but with a contraction of her heart.
“I don’t know what I should do, but I should not do this,” said Edith, surveying her sister from the height of untried resolution. “Nobody can force you to say Yes instead of No; nobody can make you do a thing you are determined not to do. Why do you do it? you can’t want not to do it at the very bottom of your heart.”
Carry gave her a look of anguish which brought the girl to her knees in compunction and remorse. “Oh, forgive me, Car! but why, why do you do it?” she cried. Lady Lindores had come softly in to give her child her good night kiss. It was within a few days of the wedding. She stood and looked at the group with tears in her eyes—one girl lying back white, worn, and helpless in her chair; the other, at her feet, glowing with courage and life.
“Speak to her, mamma,” cried Edith, “as long as there is any hope.”
“What can I say?” said the mother; “everything has gone too far now. It would be a public scandal. I have said all that I could. Do not make my poor child more unhappy. Carry, my darling, you will do your duty whatever happens: and everything becomes easier when it is duty—”
“But how is it duty?” said rebellious Edith. “I would not do it!” she cried, stamping her foot on the floor.
“Edith, Edith! do not torture your sister. It is easy to say such things, but how are you to do them? God knows, I would not mind what I did if it was only me. I would fly away with her somewhere—escape from them all. But what would happen? Our family would be rent asunder. Your father and I”—Lady Lindores’s voice quivered a little—“who have been always so united, would part forever. Our family quarrels would be discussed in public. You, Edith—what would become of you? Your prospects would all be ruined. Carry herself would be torn to pieces by the gossips. They would say there must be some reason. God knows, I would not hesitate at any sacrifice.”
“Mamma, do not say anything more; it is all over. I know there is nothing to be done,” said Carry, faintly. As for Edith, she could not keep still; her whole frame was tingling. She clenched her small fists, and dashed them into the air.
“I would not do it! I would just refuse, refuse! I would not do it! Why should you do it?” she cried.
But between these two there was no talking. The younger sister flew to her own room, impelled by her sense of the intolerable, unable to keep still. She met her brother by the way, and clutched him by the arm, and drew him with her within her own door. “I would not do it, if I were Carry,” she said, breathless. “You might drag me to church, if you liked, but even there I would not consent. Why, why does she do it?” Edith cried.
“Because,” said Rintoul the experienced, “she is not such a fool as she looks. She knows that after the first is over, with plenty of money and all that, she will get on first-rate, you little goose. Girls like something to make a fuss about.”
“Oh, it is a great deal you know about girls!” cried Edith, giving him a shake in the violence of her emotion. But he only laughed, disengaging himself.
“We’ll see what you’ll do when it comes to your turn,” he said, and he went off along the passage whistling. It did not matter to him that his sister was breaking her heart. But why, why, oh why does she do it? Edith dozed and woke again half-a-dozen times in the night, crying this out into the silence. To refuse, surely one could do that. Papa might scold, there might be scenes and unhappiness, but nothing could
