Chapter XVIII Roses and Rosettes
“Us’ll go down-long awver the plough-path; then us’ll be in full time to see the butivul bride arrive,” said Tommy Bates. He stood in Sunday attire among his betters, and the sobriety of much black broadcloth was brightened by unusual adornment, for Cramphorn, Ash, Collins, Pinsent, and the rest were decorated with large rosettes of satin ribbon. Many also wore roses in their buttonholes, for one of Stapledon’s few friends was a big rose-grower at Torquay, who, from the abundance of his scented acres, had despatched countless blooms—crimson and cream, snow-white, ivory and orange-yellow, pink and regal purple—to brighten a glorious day.
But in the judgment of Ash and the elders no flower of cultivation could compare in significance or beauty with the sham sprigs of orange-blossom at the centre of the rosettes. Churdles himself also carried a bulky parcel in the tail of his coat, which added another protuberance to his gnarled form. It was not a prayer-book, as he gave Collins to understand with many nods and winks.
The party stood upon the grass plot before Bear Down—a space separated from the main great grass lands of the farm. These latter subtended the level ground and swelled and billowed under waves of colourless light that raced free as the wind over another year’s hay harvest. Far beneath, just visible above a green hedge between elms, four small peaks arose and a White Ensign fluttered from a flagstaff in the midst, where stood the village church.
Mr. Cramphorn and his friends set forth and improved the occasion with reflections upon what would follow the wedding, rather than in much consideration of the ceremony itself.
“They be gwaine straight off from the church door,” said Mr. Ash, “an’ so they’ll miss the fun of the fair up-long, though ’tis theer money as’ll furnish the junketings. A braave rally of neighbours comin’ to eat an’ drink an’ be merry by all accounts; an’ not a stroke more’n milkin’ cows an’ feedin’ things to be done to-day by man or woman.”
“They ought to bide to the eating whether or no,” said Mr. Cramphorn. “An’ I be gwaine to tell a speech, though they’ll be half ways to Exeter before I does. I hold it my duty. She’m the best mistress an’ kindest woman in the world to my knawledge, an’ my gift o’ words shan’t be denied at her solemn weddin’ feast, whether she be theer or whether she han’t.”
Mr. Collins applauded these sentiments, for his private ambitions were strong at heart under the rosy atmosphere of the hour.
“I lay you’ll tell some gude talk come bimebye,” he said. “’Tis a gert power—same as the gift of tongues in the Bible seemin’ly.”
“Theer’ll be some plum drinkin’ by all accounts,” said Mr. Ash, pouting up his little wrinkled mouth in cheerful anticipation. “Brown sherry wine for us, an’ fizzy yellow champagne an’ auld black port for the quality. An’ it’s a secret hope of mine, if I ban’t tu bowldacious in thinkin’ such a thing, as I may get a thimbleful of the auld wine—port—so dark as porter but butivul clear wi’ it, an’ a sure finder of a man’s heart-strings. I be awful set upon a sup of that. I’ve longed for fifty years to taste it, if so be I might wi’out offence. It have been my gert hope for generations; an’ if it awnly comes ’pon my death-bed I’ll thank the giver, though ’twould be a pleasanter thing to drink it in health.”
“I seed larder essterday,” said Tommy Bates. “My stars! The auld worm-eaten shelves of un be fairly bent.”
“Purty eating, no doubt,” assented Cramphorn, though as one superior to such things.
“Ess fay! Fantastic pastry, more like to cloam ornaments for the mantelshelf than belly-timber. God knaws how they’ll scat ’em apart.”
“Each has its proper way of bein’ broke up,” said Mr. Cramphorn. “Theer’s manners an’ customs in all this. Some you takes a knife to, some a fork, some a spoon. The bettermost takes a knife even to a apple or pear.”
“Things a lookin’ out o’ jellies, an’ smothered in sugar an’ transparent stuff! I’d so easy tell the stars as give a name to half of ’em. But theer was a pineapple—I knawed un by seein’ his picksher in the auld Bible, where Joseph was givin’ his brothers a spread. But they didn’t have no such pies an’ red lobsters as be waitin’ up-long. Such a huge gert cake ’tis! All snow-white, an’ crawled awver wi’ silver paper, an’ a li’l naked doll ’pon top wi’ blue eyes an’ gawld wings to un. A pixy doll you might say.”
“Her ought to bide an’ cut that cake herself, not dash away from church as though she’d done murder ’stead of praiseworthy matrimony,” grumbled Mr. Cramphorn. “’Tis defying the laws of marryin’ and givin’ in marriage. Theer may be trouble to it presently.”
“If they’m both of a mind, they’ll do what they please,” said Collins.
“Ay, an’ ’twon’t hurt none of us, nor make the vittles an’ drinks less sweet,” declared Samuel Pinsent.
“That’s truth,” assented Gaffer Ash; “an’ when you come to be my ripe years, Jonah, you’ll go limpin’ to meet the li’l pleasures that be left to ’e half-way, ’stead of fearin’ evil. As for the pains—fegs! they meets you half-way!”
“’Twill be a happy marriage, I should reckon,” ventured Pinsent.
“We’ll pray it will be, though he’m a thought tu deep in love for my money,” declared Cramphorn.
“Can a man love his maiden more’n enough?” asked Henry Collins in amazement; and the other answered that it might be so.
“Love be well knawn for a mole-blind state, Henery—a trick of Nature to gain her awn ends; an’ the sooner new-fledged man an’ wife see straight again better for their awn peace of mind. Maister Myles be a shade silly here and theer, though Lard knaws if ever a man’s to be forgiven for gettin’ his head turned ’tis him. A marvellous faace an’ shape to her. But ban’t the wise way to dote. She’m a human woman, without disrespect; and her sawl’s to save like poorer folk. In plain English, he’ll spoil her.”
“Couldn’t—no man could,” said Mr. Ash stoutly. “To think of a sovereign to each of us, an’ two to me by reason of my ancient sarvice!”
“You’ve toiled ’pon the land for a fearsome number of years, I s’pose, Maister Ash?” asked Tommy respectfully.
“Me? I was doin’ man’s work in the reign of the Fourth Gearge. I’ve ate many an’ many a loaf o’ barley bread, I have; an’ seed folks ride pillion; an’ had a woman behind me, on the auld-fashion saddles, myself, for that matter. An’, as for marriage, though I never used it, I’ve seed scores o’ dozens o’ marriages—sweet an’ sour. Marriages be like bwoys playin’ leapfrog, wheer each lad have got to rucksey down in turn; an’ so man an’ wife have got to rucksey down wan to t’other at proper times an’ seasons. Each must knaw theer awn plaace in the house; an’ Mrs. Loveys was right, when us gived ’em the cannel-sticks for a gift. You call home how she said, ‘I wish ’e patience wan wi’ t’other, my dearies, ’cause theer ban’t nothin’ more useful or more like to be wanted ’bout the house o’ newly married folk than that!’”
The party now mingled with those already assembled in Little Silver. A crowd drawn from Throwley, Chagford, and elsewhere stood and admired flags that waved between green-garlanded poles at the churchyard gate. Many passed from the hot sunshine into the shadow of the holy building; many had already entered it.
“Us’ll bide here till our brows be cool an’ she’ve a-come. Then us’ll go in an’ sit usual plaace, left side o’ the alley,” said Mr. Cramphorn.
Presently Myles Stapledon appeared, and a hum of friendship rose for him. He looked somewhat anxious, was clad in a grey suit, white waistcoat, and a white tie with his solitary jewel in it—an old carbuncle set in gold that had belonged to his father and adorned that gentleman’s throat or finger on the occasion of his marriage. In the bridegroom’s buttonhole was a red rosebud, and now and again his hand went nervously across to an inner pocket, where reposed the money for the honeymoon. He walked to the vestry, made certain entries in the book spread open for him, and presented Mr. Scobell with two guineas. He then entered a choir stall and sat down there, facing the eyes of the increasing company without visible emotion.
Outside came stroke of horse-hoofs and grinding of wheels. Then entered an ancient aunt of the bridegroom’s with her two elderly daughters. A second carriage held Honor’s relatives from Exeter, and a third contained Mrs. Loveys and Sally and Margaret Cramphorn; for it was Honor’s wish that her serving-maids should be her bridesmaids also, and she knew none of her sex who loved her better. Each had a bouquet of roses; each wore a new dress and now waited at the entrance for their mistress, with many a turn and twist, perk of head, and soft rustle from the new gowns. The eyes of Mr. Collins watered as he beheld Sally, and his huge breast rose, heaved up by mountainous sighs. Meantime, she had secretly handed a rosette to Mr. Greg Libby, who, in company of his old mother, adorned the gathering; and Margery too, at the first opportunity, presented the young man with a rosette. Thus it came about that Gregory gloried in dual favours and attached both to his marriage garment; whereupon two maiden hearts under dove-coloured raiment were filled with emotions most unsisterly, and all men, save one, laughed at the luck of the gilded hedge-tacker.
The glory of Little Silver church centres in an ancient screen of many colours. Upon it shall be found elaborate interlacing of blue and gold, pale blue and dark crimson; while through the arches of it may be seen the Lord’s Table under a granite reredos. Pulpit and lectern are also of the good grey stone, and to-day a riot of roses that made the little place of worship very sweet climbed the old pillars and clustered in the deep embrasures of the windows. The walls, painted with red distemper, ascended to a waggon roof; and upon pews, where the humble living stood or knelt above dust of noble dead, frank daylight entered through plain glass windows.
Along the base of the ornate screen stood figures of the saints mechanically rendered, and about one, standing upon the right hand of the choir entrance, there twined a text that indicated this figure stood for John the Baptist. “The voice of one crying in the wilderness” were those graven words; and now by chance they caught a pair of downcast eyes, as Honor Endicott bent her young head and passed onward from independence into the keeping of a man.
She came with her uncle, and those in church rose amid mighty rustlings and clink of iron-shod boots, and those outside crowded into their places. A little harmonium groaned gallantly, and Mr. Scobell billowed up the aisle from the vestry. Honor walked to meet Myles with her hand holding Mark Endicott’s. At the steps, under the screen, she stopped for him to feel the step, and as she did so caught sight of the text. Then a big, florid face, with the plainest admiration exhibited upon it, met her gaze, and she also became dimly conscious of a tall, grey man at her right elbow. The florid face belonged to Mr. Scobell, who, recollecting himself and chastening his features, frowned at the back of the church, and began the ceremony. But the grey man was waiting for her, longing for her, “to have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish,” until death should part them.
Yet the text—that voice in the wilderness—haunted her mind all the while, as it is the way with irrelevant ideas to intrude upon high moments. Presently Honor put her hand into her husband’s, felt the gold slip over her finger, and marvelled to feel how much heavier this ring was than the little toy of diamond and pearl she had been wearing of late. Then all was accomplished, and Mr. Ash and his friends quite drowned the squeak and gasp of a Wedding March, with which the vicar’s daughter wrestled upon the harmonium; for they all clattered out of church and drew up in a double line outside along the pathway. Churdles then produced his mysterious packet and exhibited a bag of rice. This was opened, and old, tremulous hands, knotted and veined like ivy-vines upon an oak, flung the grain as lustily as young plump ones, while man and wife came forth to face the benignant shower.
At the gate two stout greys and an old postillion—relic of days flown—were waiting to take Myles and his lady to Okehampton for the London train. Mark Endicott, led by Tommy Bates, stood at the carriage door; and now he felt warm lips on his blind face and a tear there.
“Be a good uncle,” whispered Honor; “and don’t weary your dear hands too much for those Brixham fishermen. Home we shall come again in a month; and how I’m going to do without you for so long, or you without me, I can’t guess.”
He squeezed her hands, and for once the old Spartan was dumb.
“God bless ’e!”
“Long life an’ happiness to ’e!”
“Good luck to the both of ’e!”
Then a jumble and buzz of many speaking together; lifting of voices into a cheer; a gap in the road, where the carriage had stood; a puff of dust at the corner by the old pound; and courageous fowls, clucking and fluttering and risking their lives for scattered rice, among crushed roses and the legs of the people.
The bells rang out; the dust died down; personages drove slowly up the hill to the banquet; certain persons walked up. Mr. Cramphorn, fearful of a love contagion in the air, convoyed his daughters home himself, and Libby, growing faint-hearted before the expression on Jonah’s face, abandoned his design of walking by Sally’s side for half the distance and with Margery for the rest. Henry Collins was also deprived of the society he craved, and by ill-fortune it chanced that Ash, Pinsent, and the two rivals found themselves in company on the journey home. Collins thereupon relieved his wounded soul by being extremely rude, and he began with a personal remark at the expense of Gregory’s best coat and emerald tie.
“All black an’ green, I see—mourning for the devil that is,” he said, in a tone not friendly.
“Aw! Be he dead then?” inquired Mr. Libby with great show of interest.
“Not while the likes of you’s stirrin’. An’ what for do ’e want to make a doomshaw of yourself—wearin’ two rosettes, like a Merry Andrew, when other men have but wan?”
“Grapes are sour with you, I reckon, Henery. You see I puts this here left bow just awver my ’eart, ’cause Sally Cramphorn gived it to me.”
Collins blazed into a fiery red, and a fist of huge proportions clenched until the knuckles grew white.
“Have a care,” he said, “or I’ll hit ’e awver the jaw! Such a poor penn’orth as you to set two such gals as them by the ears!”
“Who be you to threaten your betters? You forget as I’m a man wi’ money in the bank, an’ you ban’t.”
“Ah, so I did then,” confessed Collins frankly. “I did forget; but they didn’t. Keep your rosettes. ’Tis your gert store o’ money winned ’em—same as bullock, not farmer, gets the ribbons at Christmas fair. So, every way, it’s dam little as you’ve got to be proud of!”
Mr. Libby became inarticulate before this insult. He rolled and rumbled horrible threats in his cleft palate, but they were not intelligible, and Collins, striding forward, left him in the rear and joined Gaffer Ash and Pinsent, who dwelt peaceably on the joys to come.
“A talk of moosicians there was,” said Samuel.
“Right. The Yeomany band to play ’pon the lawn. An’ gude pleasure, tu, for them as likes brass moosic.”
“How Maister Stapledon girned like a cat when the rice went down onderneath his clean collar!”
“Ess, he did; ’twas a happy thought of mine.”
“What’s the value or sense in it I doan’t see all the same,” objected Collins, whose day had now suffered eclipse. “’Pears to me ’tis a silly act whether or no.”
“That shaws how ill you’m learned in affairs,” answered Mr. Ash calmly. “The meanin’ of rice at a weddin’s very well knawn by onderstandin’ men. ’Tis thrawed to ensure fruitfulness an’ a long family. A dark branch of larnin’, I grant ’e; but for all that I’ve awnly knawed it fail wance; an’ then ’twern’t no fault of the magic.”
But Henry had been taught to regard a full quiver as no blessing.
“If that’s what you done it for, ’twas a cruel unfriendly act,” he declared, “an’ I stands up an’ sez so, auld as you be. Devil’s awn wicked self caan’t wish no worse harm to a innocent young pair than endless childer. I knaw—who better?—being wan o’ thirteen myself; an’ if I heard that was the use of it, not a grain would I have thrawed at ’em for money.”
Churdles blinked, but was quite unmoved.
“You speak as a bachelor, my son, not to say as a fule. Black dog’s got ’pon your shoulder this marnin’. A pity tu, for ’tis a perspiring day wi’out temper. No rough language to-day. All peace an’ plencheousness; an’ a glass o’ black port, please God. Us’ll feast wi’ thankful hearts; an’ then go forth an’ sit ’pon the spine-grass in the garden an’ smoke our pipes an’ listen to the moosickers in the butivul sunshine.”
“’Pears to me,” said Gregory Libby, who had now rejoined them, “that you chaps o’ Endicott’s did ought to give some return for all this guzzling an’ holiday making.”
“Theer you’m wrong, as you mostly be, Greg,” answered old Ash with a serene smile, “for ’tis awnly a small mind caan’t take a favour wi’out worrittin’ how to return it.”