Part 17 (1/2)

”I wasn't thinking of them. I was thinking of Miss MacDonald.”

”I'm thinking of her too,” answered Mrs. James, as seriously as if she were deciding something important. ”If you don't mind on your _own_ account, why----”

He laughed. ”Oh, as to _that_!----Well, come along, Miss MacDonald----”

”Barrie,” I reminded him.

”Barrie! On with our wedding toggery, and let's be quick, if we don't want an audience.”

He called the photographer rather sharply, and put him out of his suspense. ”You must thank the ladies' kind hearts,” he said. ”They can't bear to have your scheme end in smoke. Tell us what you want us to do, and we'll do it--anything in reason. But you mustn't expect the bride to show her face. She must keep it turned aside.”

”That'll be all right,” said the man, ”though, of course, we should have preferred----But after your great kindness we mustn't ask too much----”

”Certainly you must not,” Sir S. caught him up. And then the other photographer, who had darted across the road to the chaise on hearing the good news, opened a bundle that lay on the seat, and hauled out the contents.

Mrs. James began to be interested in the game, and the people who lived in the houses were delighted that they were not to lose their hoped-for excitement. Luckily, as it was lunching-time for most travellers, the road was empty, and it seemed likely that we might finish our play without spectators. The only moving things in sight at the moment, except our own group, were one cat, two dogs, and a vehicle even more quaint than the chaise in front of the Blacksmith's Shop. It was a coach like Cinderella's, though not so pumpkiny. It was drawn by two nice brown horses who might have begun life as rats. On one rode a postilion, and out of a window leaned an old man in a tall hat and a brown coat with bra.s.s b.u.t.tons and a high velvet collar and ruffles at the wrist.

His hair was powdered, and he wore a white stock wound round his throat.

If we had met him on the road, without an explanation, we should have thought that we had gone mad, or had seen a ghost; but now we knew him for the bride's angry parent pursuing her relentlessly with a coach and pair. It did sound odd to hear this fine old English aristocrat bawl out in a common voice, ”Ain't ye ready yet--what?”

One of the photographers ran along the road and explained and gesticulated. The coach stopped at a distance. I flew into the Blacksmith's Shop to put on my wedding things, and Sir S. disappeared next door with clothes under one arm and a hat under the other. I should think no bride and bridegroom ever dressed in such a scramble.

Mrs. James, dimpling and fussing, hustled me into a green brocade gown which smelt of moth powder, and was so big that it went on easily over my frock. Then came a purple silk cloak with wide flowing sleeves and a romantic hood. One of the photograph men stood by to direct us; and when Mrs. James was putting the hood over my head, he stopped her. ”Madam, if I might ask the young lady to take the pins out of her hair,” he begged, quite red with eagerness, ”we shall get a great dramatic effect if it tumbles down with the pulling back of the hood, just as her lover helps her out of the chaise.”

Her lover indeed! Sir S. would have glowered; but I laughed, and out came the hairpins, for the good of the game. I have always had to ”make believe” all alone, so it was extra fun having such a grand playfellow as Sir Somerled--whether he liked it or not. And I determined that I would _make_ him like it! I wanted him to play properly, and not be stiff and disagreeable and grown up. He was ready before I was, and waiting; for it took a little while stuffing all my hair safely into the hood, and practising how to let it fall at the right moment. I hadn't quite realized that my playmate was really handsome, in his dark, proud way, till I saw him in a wavy brown wig with a ribbon-tied queue, a broad-brimmed hat that sat das.h.i.+ngly on one side, shadowing his face; a blue overcoat with a cape, and high boots drawn up to his knees. He looked so splendid, and so young that suddenly my heart beat as if I were really and truly in love.

”If you should look at yourself in the gla.s.s,” I said, feeling shy, yet, wis.h.i.+ng him to know that he was nice, ”you'd never say again that you've outgrown romance. No one would suspect you of being anything so dull as a millionaire. You ought to paint your own portrait in that costume.”

”Thanks,” said he, ”I'd rather do you in yours.” But I think he was pleased.

The photographer and the postilion both came forward to help, but Sir Somerled wouldn't let his bride be touched by them. He handed me into the chaise himself, and sat down by my side. Off trotted our horses to a little distance, and turned round again. The show was ready to begin.

Meanwhile, the others had been busy. They'd placed an anvil, real or imitation, on the green in front of the house, for the pictures were all to be taken out of doors. The blacksmith had begun to hammer away at a horse-shoe, and that was our signal to dash up to the door. He stopped hammering, pushed back his hat, and greeted us in pantomime. Sir Somerled, playing his part well since it must be played, swung me out of the chaise with an arm round my waist. Down fell my hood and my hair, blowing round his face and hiding mine. He kissed my hand as the blacksmith ran off into the house to get his book; and by this time I was almost as wildly excited as if we had eloped. The camera was grinding out photographs of everything that happened, no doubt, but just then I forgot all about it, or that any one was looking at us. We clasped hands over the anvil, Sir Somerled and I. As the blacksmith made the motions of marrying us in haste, I looked across at my playfellow, and at the same instant my playfellow looked across at me. I wanted him to smile, and he would not! ”Please _pretend_ you're delighted to marry me,” I mumbled. ”Can't you see by my face how glad I am to get _you_?”

”So should I be to get you, if I were the fairy prince,” said he, in so kind a voice it was a pity the biograph couldn't snap it. I squeezed his hand to thank him for playing up to me, and he squeezed mine to show that he understood. I felt suddenly that we were the best and truest of friends. Even meeting my mother can't make up for losing him out of my life, though he has been in it such a short time, and strayed in only by accident.

Whole we stood hand in hand, along came the red coach. Out leaped the father, as the postilion drew his horses up, and the bride sought refuge in the bridegroom's arms. It did seem real, and exciting!

”Too late! We're married,” said I. But even that was not the end of the play. The father had to threaten the bridegroom with his pistol, and the bride had to throw herself between the two men. I can see now what fun actresses have. I was quite sorry when it was all over and the biograph men were packing up to go.

”We don't know how to thank you enough, miss,” said the one who appeared to be the leader, ”for persuading the gentleman. If you'll give us your address we'll send you reduced copies of the series of pictures.”

An address! I didn't know what to answer, for at present I possess no such thing, though I thought it would sound queer to say so. I looked for Sir Somerled, but he had walked away down the road to our motor, which was hiding from the camera. His back was turned to me, but I could see that his suit-case had been taken down from its place, and he was putting something in it.

”I don't know whether I ought to mention this, miss,” said the biograph man, ”but you might be interested to know that the gentleman has bought the costume you wore in the wedding-scene, and paid a good price for it.

That's what he's packing away now, I presume.”

”Oh! And did he buy his own costume, too?” I asked.

”No, miss, only yours. I thought you might like to know.”