Chapter IV The Wedding
“’Tis the difference in our natures,” said David Bowden’s mother. “Some folk haven’t never ended their work, and some don’t never begin theirs. I’ve known men and women—as thought they were busy people too—who died without ever tasting what I call a day’s work.”
Sarah walked between Nanny Crocker and Constance Stanbury, and the matrons on her right and left admitted the truth of the remark. They had all come from church; they had seen David and Margaret made man and wife; and it was during a brief review of the immediate past and its arduous duties that Mrs. Bowden uttered her philosophical observation.
“And rabbits going on all the time, mind you,” she added. “Come what may, in season, year in, year out, Sundays only excepted, the rabbits goes over all—even a son’s wedding. ’Tis the ordering of nature and we’ve got to bend under it.”
“A very tidy little wedding,” said Mrs. Crocker, who had pardoned all parties on hearing that her son was to be best man. David owned no close intimate of his sex, and since he and Bartley were now become excellent friends, he thought upon this idea and his old antagonist agreed to the proposal. For Nanny’s son could feel, but not deeply. The past was past, and its disappointments had left no heavier scar on his mind than David’s fist upon his face. He could view the prospect of being best man at Margaret’s wedding without disturbing emotions, and he accepted the invitation gladly. True he wished once to marry her and would have been proud to do so; but when she chose elsewhere, his desire towards her perished. Other interests had taken its place, and he found himself well able to enjoy the friendship of David and Margaret without any tinge of bitterness even when the past filled his mind. It seldom intruded, for he was of the sort who lack much instinct of retrospection and, childlike, trust all their future happiness on the hope and promise of great to-morrows.
“A very tidy little wedding,” repeated Mrs. Crocker, as though uttering a challenge. The mothers of the bride and bridegroom had waited each for the other to speak upon the first utterance of this graceful compliment; but now Mrs. Stanbury responded.
“Thank you for that kind word, I’m sure,” she said. “Coming from you it will be a delight to all the parties to hear it, and I know Madge will be proud when I tell her. We was up altering her dress till the small hours, and it didn’t fit to the last. No doubt you noted that ruckle right across the back of her stays, especially when she knelt down. But I hope you won’t blame us. We did our best.”
“A thing like that is of small account,” declared Mrs. Crocker graciously. “Lord! how they’m ringing the heart out of the bells, to be sure. They never peal like that o’ Sundays.”
Mr. Moses approached and shook hands with each of the women in turn.
“No,” he said; “the fellows be ringing for the best beloved young woman in the countryside to-day; that’s why you hear what you do in the bells, my dears. Of a Sunday they’m ringing to worship and the glory of the Lord, all steady and solemn. ‘Twouldn’t be respectful to the Throne of Grace to peal so free as that.”
Then he became personal.
“When I seed you three ladies come through the coffin gate, ‘My stars,’ I said, ‘there’s a bit of summer flower garden come back into winter!’ ’Twas your bonnets, you must know. Such flowers I never did see out of nature, or in it for that matter. And in church—when the sun comed through Christ washing the Apostles’ feet—as it do about mid-day at this season, and fell on your bonnet, Mrs. Crocker, ’twas as though a dazzling rainbow had broke loose in the holy place.”
Mr. Bowden joined them and whispered to his wife. He was clad in Sunday black, but, to mark the great occasion, wore a blue-green tie with an old-fashioned garnet breastpin and chain in it.
“Did you see that scamp, Billy Screech, in church?” he asked.
“No,” she answered; “but ’tis a free country: us couldn’t forbid him to come there.”
Rhoda, the widowed Sophia in a sentimental spirit, and Dorcas followed together. All were clad in new finery and all were quite silent. Mr. Hartley Crocker approached them and took off his hat. He remarked their moods and observed that Rhoda only was cheerful. She looked superb, he thought, in her purple cloth dress and little hat of squirrel fur.
“Cheer me up,” he said. “I’ve got to propose the bride and bridegroom after the wedding, and I’m horribly frighted to have to do it. I’d almost sooner be fighting again, Miss Rhoda.”
“I doubt you’ll come well out of it,” she said
“Did I hand David the ring all right?”
“I suppose so. The ring’s in its proper place now—that’s all that matters.”
She was indifferent, but not absolutely cold. She had, he thought, forgiven him, and that made the day pleasant to him. It was the first time since the tragic moment at the Pixies’ House that she had directly spoken to Mr. Crocker; and the sound of her voice, though not very mellow, yet gave him the greatest satisfaction.
“Did you take the best man’s kiss when you was in the vestry?” asked Dorcas.
The interrogation was far from being a happy one; yet Bartley made a masterly answer, intended for other ears than those of the questioner. As a matter of fact, he had forgotten the immemorial privilege or most certainly he had exercised it. But now he was glad that he had forgotten.
“No,” he answered. “There’s a lot of silly old customs better left out, Miss Dorcas. ’Tis not a comely thing for any male to kiss a bride but her father or her husband.”
This virtuous sentiment was directed at Rhoda, but she made no sign save a perceptible pursing of her lips.
Then the party, led by bride and bridegroom, passed through rows of the folk and swiftly reached the workshop of Mr. Moses near the bull-ring. It had been cleared for the occasion, and certain busy, kindly spirits had decorated it and concealed its somewhat naked and austere proportions with garlands of holly and laurel and trophies of coloured tissue paper. The place smelt of leather and cobbler’s wax; but, as Mr. Bowden had prophesied in the past, these harmless odours vanished when the meal began.
Thirty people sat down to dinner, and Reuben Shillabeer, with his immense back view presented to the company, carved at a side table. To the windows of the chamber small, inquisitive boys and girls succeeded in climbing. They pressed their noses and cheeks flat against the glass, the better to see the glories within; and, thus distorted, their small faces made an unlovely decoration. From time to time Ernest Maunder wiped his mouth, rose from his seat at the table near the entrance, and drove the little ones away with vague threats familiar in his calling; but they feared him not and all climbed up again when he returned to his plate.
There were present the whole family of the Bowdens, the family of the Stanburys and the family of the Crockers. Mr. Moses occupied a seat beside the bride’s mother, and strove, without success, to rouse a spirit of complacence and satisfaction in her; Mr. Timothy Mattacott, as Mr. Maunder’s friend, sat by Mr. Maunder; and he showed extreme deference to everybody, because this was the greatest social experience of his life; while as for Simon Snell, who had also been invited, his beard shone with pomatum, and he experienced a real satisfaction in finding himself exactly opposite Rhoda, and in regarding the meal that she made and the two full glasses of beer that she drank with it.
“Will there or won’t there be wine?” secretly asked Mrs. Crocker of Mr. Moses.
“From the large way in which everything has been carried out so far, and the loads of food over, I believe Bartholomew Stanbury has run to it,” he murmured under his breath.
And he was right.
“Afore we come to the healths, I’ll thank you to open they six bottles of brown sherry wine, Reuben,” cried out the giver of the feast in a hearty voice, when the apple tarts and cream began to be eaten.
“Only got to say the word,” responded Shillabeer.
“All’s ready.”
He was near Margaret as he spoke, and she put up her hand and stopped him.
“And you’ve got to drink too, mind,” she said. “You’ve done everything as only you could do it. I never did dream of such a wonderful dinner in all my days; and to see all these beautiful wreaths and ribbons on the ceiling! I want to be thanking everybody. ’Tis almost too much kindness.”
“Never!” he answered. “If I could put gold and diamonds in the food for you, I would; and them as hung up the adornments never did a bit of work with better appetite.”
The wine was opened and poured into thirty glasses.
“There’s only one health, or I should say two in one, to be drunk,” explained Mr. Stanbury; “and Mr. Crocker here have kindly consented to do the speechifying.”
Mrs. Bowden, rather to her own surprise, grew lachrymose with the dessert. She cheered up, however, when Bartley rose to propose the health of the bride and bridegroom. To the habitually taciturn folk about him, his flow of speech appeared astounding, and not a few agreed that, though Crocker never did any work, yet his native talents were extraordinary and might have led him to any height of achievement.
“Upon my word,” admitted the bridegroom’s father, “it can’t be denied that the chap—light-minded though he may be, here and there—has got amazing gifts. In fact, to be honest, he can turn his hand to anything—larn a trade, fight a great fight and run into mouth-speech as easy and flowing as a parson. He’s a wonder—though I say it to your face, ma’am.”
He made this handsome criticism to Bartley’s mother, and she explained how that Sheepstor as yet knew but a fraction of the truth concerning her son. That the warrener spoke thus, however, largely warmed Nanny Crocker’s heart after her second glass of brown sherry; and she told Susan later in the day that there was rather more in Elias Bowden than met the eye.
Bartley received a cheer when he rose and a still louder round when he sat down again.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “I beg leave to ask you all to drink long life and happiness to our friends David and Madge Bowden, who this day have joined hands for holy matrimony. I know ’em both and can give them both a very good character, I assure you. As for Madge, she’s just a warm, loving heart on two legs—all heart; and if you want to know what she is, don’t ask her, but ask the old people, and the terrible poor people, and them that be badly off for food and friends. They’ll tell you all about her. But you prosperous people, all sitting around here waiting to have a dash at your sherry—you don’t know nothing about her. She’s a good angel, that’s what Madge Stanbury have been ever since she could run to pick up some baby smaller than herself; and that’s what Madge Bowden will be to her dying day. As for David here, last time him and me met in company, he was the best man, I believe. No use for you to shake your head, David. Bested I was; but to-day I’m the best man and he’ve got to sing second. And I tell him to his face that he’s a right down good chap, and every good man be proud to know him. And, for my part, I think such a lot of David that I’d challenge him to fight again this day three months, but that I very well know what Madge would say about it. Besides, there’s one or two other people in the world besides David to be thought upon, and, though I know ’twould cheer Mr. Shillabeer up a lot if we could get Mr. Fogo down again and have another fight, I’m afraid we’re all too happy to want to go fighting; and we can’t all hope to have David’s luck in the ring and out. Well, he had one brave, beautiful woman in his corner when he fought me; and she helped him to beat me without a doubt; and now he has got another brave, beautiful woman in his corner, and she’ll help him to win whatever battles he may have to fight. And here’s good luck and long life and happiness and content for them and God bless the pair of ’em from this day for ever!”
Everybody rose, and David and Madge in their ignorance also rose, but were thrust back into their seats again. Immense applause welcomed Bartley’s great oratory, but for his part he kept his eyes on one face, while he drank the health that he had proposed. Rhoda, however, did not return the gaze. She had blushed faintly at the sudden allusion to herself and the cheer from the men that punctuated it; but Bartley’s craft and rhetoric quite missed her. The man seemed all of a piece to her: facile, unstable, untrustworthy—and his compliments touched her even less than he imagined. He had prejudiced himself in her eyes for ever, and it remained to be seen whether his own skill and pertinacity would prove strong enough to conquer and destroy that prejudice. It was true, as he had suspected earlier in the day, that her forgiveness was real; but her attitude towards him had been radically changed, or rather radically established, by his outrage. Before the event she had entertained no opinion, good or bad, concerning him. She was henceforth constitutionally unable to regard him as she regarded the bulk of men; and he felt this; but he also felt that he must always interest her; and there is no edifice of emotion that cannot be erected upon permanent foundations of interest.
So he hoped on and when Mr. Charles Moses, to please Mrs. Crocker, and to show the company that others of the hamlet also possessed a pretty gift of words, arose to propose the good health of Bartley himself, he listened in the best possible humour and made a reply that was full of rough and ready fun.
Health drinking became the feature of the wedding feast, despite the fact that it had been intended to eschew it. Everybody found himself or herself toasted, and every man of the company was tempted or chaffed on to his legs in turn. The wine running out, Mr. Shillabeer insisted upon a personal contribution in this sort, and sent a pot-boy for certain claret that had hung fire for some years and yet, owing to intrinsic poverty of nature, could not be said much to improve with age. Nobody liked it as well as the more generous and mellow brown sherry; but the liquid was wine and free of cost: therefore the folk consumed it, thanked the giver and invited him also to say a few words. Several shook their heads at the prospect and foresaw that the ample spectre of Mrs. Shillabeer must instantly rise to cast a chill upon the spirit of the hour; but it was Mr. Bowden himself who urged the host to speak, and Reuben straddled his legs, heaved a mighty sigh, crossed his arms and addressed the company.
“Why for you want me to say anything, Elias Bowden, I’m sure I don’t know; but I must do my share with the rest, I suppose, and I’m sure I hope, as we all hope, that this here wedding will be the beginning of a happy united life for bride and bridegroom. We, as have been in the state and had the fortune to draw a prize, like Mr. and Mrs. Bowden here, and Mr. and Mrs. Stanbury, and Mrs. Crocker, though she’s lost her prop and stay these many years, and me—we know what marriage is. But them as draw a blank, ’tis hidden from them, and the bachelor men and spinster women sprinkled about—they don’t know neither. But perhaps nobody in this company—widows or them as be still happily joined together—ever felt to marriage what I felt to it. Time and again I said to my dead partner that ’twas too good to last, and she’d laugh at me and say I was the sort that always met trouble half way. And I seed her fading out week after week; and I seed the wonnerful bulk of her dwindling; and yet I couldn’t realise what was coming till it did come. The last words she said to me—or rather she whispered ’em, for she was got far beyond speech—the last words was, ‘Don’t you take on too much, Reuben. We shall meet again in the Better Land.’ And I’m sure I hope it may be so, though I’m an unworthy creature. And I hope you won’t think that I say these things to cast down any joyful member amongst us. Far from it. I only want for these young people to remember that the more they love, the worst must they suffer if things fall out contrariwise. But whether David goes, or Margaret here be plucked off untimely, ’twill be the joy and gladness of the one that’s left to remember what it was to have a well-loved partner. And so, whatever haps, they’ll never regret this day’s work. And I hope everybody have eaten and drunken to their liking.”
Then the bride insisted that Reuben should himself have some dinner.
“If ’twas anybody else proposed it, I should certainly refuse,” he said; “but since you want for me to do it, and my inwards are hollow as a drum, I’m quite agreeable to pick a bone and drink a quart.”
Bartholomew Stanbury now spoke. He thanked everybody for coming, praised the dinner and the wine, declared it to be the second most joyful day in his life, and explained that the first had been when he himself was married. He confirmed Mr. Shillabeer’s view of matrimony, staggered the publican by advising him to look round and find a second; and concluded by proposing the health of Mr. Charles Moses, who was among the oldest and best thought upon residents of Sheepstor, and who to-day had specially distinguished himself by lending his famous shop for the wedding breakfast. “Free of charge he done it, mind you,” explained Mr. Stanbury, “just out of the goodness of his heart he turns all his tools and leather and what not out of this here place, and lets me have it for the feast; and I wish to publicly thank the man afore you, neighbours, and let everybody know the sort he is.”
In reply, Mr. Moses, who usually became reminiscent after successful feeding, traced briefly the history of Sheepstor in so far as his own family helped to make that history. In addition to being a staunch Church of England man, Mr. Moses unconsciously subscribed to a still more venerable creed. He worshipped his ancestors, and now detailed the great and picturesque part played by his great-grandfather, his grandfather and his father in the development and elevation of the village.
“Once,” said he, “we were merely a little bit of a hamlet at Dartymoor edge, and scarce a man farther off than Tavistock knew ought about us. But my forbears and others like ’em rose up in our midst and toiled and laboured for the good of the town, and each did his appointed part, until—well—all I say is, look at us now! Sheepstor stands as high as any other place of note that ever I heard about in the kingdom, and we be carrying on the good work in the good old way.”
With the recollections of Mr. Moses, which were much protracted, light began to wane, and certain prominent members of the party prepared to wend homewards, while yet their wild roads might be seen. All rose, and there began great hand-shaking and well-wishing, together with some laughter and some shedding of tears. Reuben broached a bottle of whisky for the men and tea was brought in for the women. All the young people had long since departed, because the entertainment from their standpoint ended with the eating. Now nearly a score of pipes began to glow, and the wedding guests set out on many roads. The adult Bowdens departed homewards, and Elias carried his wife on his arm and strove to cheer her. Her son, Drake, had unhappily intruded himself largely upon these final emotional moments, and she refused to be comforted. With a quintessential distillation of pessimism worthy of Mrs. Stanbury’s self, Sarah declared that somehow during Mr. Shillabeer’s speech it had been borne in upon her that Margaret’s firstborn would prove a failure.
“Stuff and nonsense—silly woman! ’Tis your digestion,” said the master of the Warren House. “I very well knowed how ’twould be when I seed you taking that sour purple muck they call claret atop of the good old-fashioned sherry. No stomach could be expected to endure one on top of t’other, and you’re fairly paid out for it.”
Mrs. Stanbury was very silent on the way home, but Bart and his father did the talking. Both assured Constance that the entertainment might be considered absolutely and brilliantly successful from first to last. She, however, expressed a multiplicity of doubts.
“The loin of pork was done to rags, and the stuffing tasted of nought,” she said. “’Tis things like that are remembered months after all that went right be quite forgotten. And I hope to God they’ve got the cottage walls dry, and that leak over the ope-way made good. When I was up there a fortnight agone to see the wall-papers, you’d never have said mortals could live in the place inside two weeks.”
“Madge vowed ’twas all right when I drove her over with her boxes a bit ago,” declared Bart. “The house will be very vitty after they’ve lived in it a week or two.”
Of course, the first to leave Sheepstor were bride and bridegroom. In a trap hired from ‘The Corner House’ David carried Margaret off to her home. Their possessions were already stored at ‘Meavy Cot.’ Fires had been burning for a week and everything was made ready for the married pair.
David’s last words were addressed to Rhoda.
“Mind,” he said, “a fortnight from to-day us shall be ready; and I’ll come up to Ditsworthy in my new cart for you and your box. But we all shall meet afore then, no doubt.”
He drove his wife away under a wild evening sky, amid blessings and cheers and cries of “Godspeed.” Some of the voices were shrill and tearful, some merry, some deep and gruff. The trap trundled along; Madge flashed a white handkerchief; then she and her husband were swallowed up by the roaming, red light that misted under the sunset.
“A happy omen, souls,” said Mr. Stanbury. “For the sun have been shining ever since it rose. A cloudless marriage day is all to the good, I believe; and though the sky may offer for rain afore midnight, nought of the day can be marred now.”