Chapter V: Chambre De Toilette Et La Trousseau

“’Tis a proud chamber and a rich,
Filled with the world’s most costly things,
Of precious stones and gold;
Of laces, silks, and jewelry,
And all that’s bought and sold.”—_Howitt._

“Rosalie! what is it you are poring over, now? Good heaven! Moore’s Sacred Melodies! Now, my love, that is not the food for you to be feeding your sick fancies upon! Plague take the books! I could find it in my heart to throw every one I find into the fire! Come, throw aside that _blazée_ sentimentalist, and come with me into Miss Sutherland’s room, and try to interest yourself a little in healthful external life. Miss Sutherland’s boxes have just arrived from Paris, _viâ_ New Orleans; they have been carried up into her dressing-room; and by this time, I suppose, the men have opened them, and carried off all the rubbish of nails, and bands, and outside boxes, and we have only to go and help to set the beautiful things at full liberty.”

This was addressed by Mrs. Vivian to her step-daughter, when, on entering the chamber of the latter, she found the young invalid reclining upon a couch, and reading, as usual.

The fair girl closed her book, and smiling gently, arose, and passed her arm through that of her step-mother. And they left the chamber, crossed the hall, opened an opposite door, and entered the dressing-room of Miss Sutherland.

A scene of splendid chaos met their view. Most of the boxes had been unpacked and taken away, and their brilliant contents littered chairs, couches, ottomans, psyches, and even the carpet. And the favoured mistress of all this wealth sat in the midst of the resplendent confusion, with an air of extreme languor and indifference. At her feet sat her beautiful hand-maiden, Oriole, with a box of white satin slippers by her side, and her mistress’s small foot in her lap, fitting the fairy shoes. By her side stood her woman, Meda, holding a box of white kid gloves, from which she continued to hand out pair after pair to the young lady, who would draw one half upon her fingers, and then draw it off and let it fall, and drop her hand upon her lap with a look of extreme fatigue, as if the exertion had really been too much for her, and say, languidly—

“There, take them away; they are all too large, or too small, or something”——

“Dear India, how can you say that?” said Mrs. Vivian, approaching, and taking up a pair of gloves; “they are all exactly of a size, and all number sixes—your number—and are really beautiful gloves.”

“But I’m so tired—it is such a bore. Oriole, cease tormenting my feet, and take away those odious slippers.”

“How can you call them odious—the beauties?” said Mrs. Vivian, stooping down, and taking up a pair.

And Oriole herself echoed the question with her eyes, as she fondled her mistress’s beautiful foot, in its case of white satin, soft and light as a snow-flake.

“Oriole, did I not tell you to let my foot alone? Meda, clear away all this chaos from around me. Rosalie, my love, reach me the vinaigrette”——

“Can _I_ also do anything to serve you?” asked Mrs. Vivian, mischievously.

“Yes, dear Valeria; just see that they hang the dresses up, and put away the cases and things, while I close my eyes upon this glare, and rest.”

Mrs. Vivian arched her eyebrows, and did as she was bid, examining at her leisure the magnificent trousseau, as it was detailed off under her eye into various wardrobes and bureaus. Only once she interrupted the repose of Miss Sutherland, to ask her if the wedding-dress had come.

“Meda, tell Mrs. Vivian about it,” said the languid beauty, scarcely lifting her long lashes.

And the waiting-woman respectfully telegraphed the lady, and preceded her into the adjoining chamber, where upon the bed was laid the magnificent bridal costume of white brocaded satin, the superb veil of Honiton lace, and the beautiful chaplet of orange flowers.

Mrs. Vivian beckoned Rosalie, and when the child stood by her side, they examined it together, and the mother tried to make the daughter understand how elegant, how costly, how _recherché_ was this costume.

“And to think,” she said, “that India is so indifferent about a trousseau that would have turned my head when I was a girl. I don’t believe it _is_ indifference either; I believe it is affectation.”

“No, it is not, mamma. She is really indifferent to all this. There is something troubles her. She was not resting when she sat so still. I saw her lips tremble and her eyelids quiver.”

Mrs. Vivian cast a scrutinizing glance at the girl, thinking, “How is it that in some things she is observant?” But Rosalie, almost unconsciously, was repeating to herself the refrain of the song she had been reading:—

“All that’s bright must fade.”

“Rosalie, have done with that sentimental melancholy; it disturbs me; and it is untrue, besides. The best things are most enduring. And it is all nonsense, besides, to suppose that anything more serious than indolence troubles India. And now, my dear, do you know the programme of these bridal festivities and tour, as we arranged it yesterday?”

“No,” said the young girl, trying to be interested.

Mrs. Vivian dropped herself into an easy chair at the side of the bed, and Rose sank upon the cushion at her feet, and laid her head in the lady’s lap; and while Valeria ran her fingers caressingly through the soft ringlets of the child, she said—

“The marriage was long ago fixed to come off on Miss Sutherland’s birthday, and she and her friends see no reason to change it now. That, you know, my dear, is on the 15th of this month—a week from to-day. The ceremony is to take place in the morning, my love, and you are to be one of the bridesmaids. Immediately after the benediction, the bridal pair are to set out upon a tour of the springs and other places of fashionable summer resort, of six weeks. You and I, Rose, are going up into the pine woods, to a quiet farm-house, to spend the hot months; for indeed, dear child, I do not think you strong enough to bear the fatigue of a northern journey, or the crowd and bustle of a watering-place.”

“Dear mamma, how much you give up for me!”

“My child, I would do anything in the world to see you restored to health and cheerfulness like other young girls.”

“But this, sweet mamma, is too much to sacrifice. It is too much for you to give up Saratoga and Nahant, where you meet so many friends and admirers, and where you enjoy and adorn society so much. Mamma, do not think of giving this pleasure up, and burying yourself for me in the pine woods. Let us go to Saratoga.”

“My love! I tell you the long, fatiguing journey, the crowded hotels, the execrable tables, the wretched attendance, and the noise and confusion, would kill you, Rosalie!”

“And then my sweet mamma would really be the rich young southern widow she is generally supposed to be,” said the girl, gazing on her young step-mother with a fond, sorrowful smile.

“Oh, Rosalie! why did you say that to me, love? Do you believe in the traditional selfishness of all step-mothers, from the days of Cinderella’s step-dame to yours? Or have you read such poetry as—

‘There’s nothing true but heaven,’

till you have lost faith in all things?—poetry that, Heaven knows, gives anything but ‘Glory to God, and peace and good will to man.’”

“Dear mamma, I am very sorry I said what I did. Oh, believe me, it was far from my heart to be so cruelly unjust as I see you must think me! _You selfish_—the most disinterested mother that ever cherished a poor, sick, troublesome child! Oh, forgive the light and thoughtless words that could be twisted into such a hint.”

“Just tell me how you came to say what you did, Rosalie, for the words trouble me.”

“Nay, never heed them, dear, kind mamma. Forget them; they were wicked words, since they gave you pain.”

“Rosalie, I insist upon knowing what put such a thought into your head.”

“Mother, sometimes I hear things not intended for my ear, which, nevertheless, I cannot help hearing”—

“Explain.”

“Why, often when I have been reclining in a shaded window-seat with a book, or lying on a distant sofa with my eyes closed, and they think I am asleep, or quite abstracted, I hear them say, ‘Poor girl, she is a trouble to herself and all around her.’ ‘She can never live to be a woman; so, if it were the Lord’s will, it were better she should die now.’ ‘Her death would be a great relief to the young widow; and, by the way, Mrs. Vivian would come into the whole property then, would she not?’ That is all, dear mamma. Do not let it disturb you. It did not disturb me the least.”

Mrs. Vivian placed her hand upon the bell. Miss Vivian gently arrested her purpose, saying—

“What are you about to do, mamma?”

“Ring, and order our carriage. I will not stay in this house, where you are so cruelly wounded, one minute longer than is required to put the horses to the carriage.”

“Dear mother, you cannot surely imagine that it is in _this_ house I have ever been injured, in word or deed?”

“Where, then, Rose? Rose, you have distressed me beyond all measure. Tell me where it is that such wanton words meet your ear?”

“Dear mother, almost everywhere where you and I sojourn for any length of time. On our own plantation; in our own house at New Orleans; at our place in the pine woods; and while we are travelling, in steamboats, in hotels—in short, wherever the great world that knows us has entered.”

The lady looked so deeply distressed, and the maiden felt so grieved to see her troubled, that she hastened to turn the conversation, by saying, gaily—

“But, mamma, you did not finish telling me about our summer arrangements. You said that immediately after the marriage ceremony, the bridal pair would set out on a tour of the northern watering-places, and that you and I should go into the pine woods. And what next?”

“We shall spend two months in the pine woods, where the terebinthine air is so strongly recommended as the great specific for weak or diseased lungs; and where the quiet and regular hours, plain, simple food, and gentle exercise, will bring back the colour to my child’s cheeks. And, after two months, when my drooping rose will be fresh and blooming again, I will take her to Charleston, South Carolina, there to meet the married pair by appointment, and who, it is to be hoped, will then be sufficiently satisfied with each other’s exclusive society, to be able to tolerate _ours_ for a little while. When we join them, we embark across the ocean, and make the tour of Europe together—winter in Sicily, and return home next spring. And by that time, I hope, the sea voyage, the change of scene and of climate, will have completely restored my darling to health!”