University of Virginia Library

49. CHAPTER XLIX.
THE WEDDING.

NOBODY now, Tabby, but you and I,” said Aunt
Jerry, as she re-entered her lonely house, and
taking her cat in her arms, she cried like a child
over the dumb creature, which tried in so many ways to
evince it's appreciation of this unusual caress.

She had said it was doubtful whether she went to the wedding
or not; in fact she didn't much believe she should; it
would be cold and blustering, and she should get the neuralgia,
and be in the way, and nobody would miss an old
dud like her. She should of course visit Edna once any
way, in her own house; but to the wedding she shouldn't
go. This was her decision till the receipt of a certain letter
which came to her within a few days after Edna's departure,
and which changed her intentions at once.

That was the letter, and it sent Aunt Jerry to the glass,
where she inspected herself for some little time, and decided
that she was not so very bad-looking, and she'd show him
that she was not, too! So she wrote to Edna that she had
changed her mind and was coming to the wedding; and she
went over to Livonia, and from thence to Rochester, and
having inquired for the most fashionable dressmaker in the
city, went to her at once, and told her where she was
going, and that she did not want to disgrace her relations,
and asked what she should get, and if she would make it,
and how much she would charge. The price staggered her
a little, and made her stop for a moment before committing
herself, but remembering a recent rise in stocks which had
affected her, she concluded to stand the expense, and when
next she wrote to Edna she announced that she had a new
black silk, making at Mrs. Baker's, and a gray morning
dress, velvet cloak, and black alpaca for travelling, and that
they were to be made in style, too, and she shouldn't shame
any one. She did not add that she had indulged in a handsome
set of lace and furs, and even committed the extravagance
of getting a waterfall! This last article of fashion
and luxury came near being the death of the poor old lady,

who could not make it stay on without a whole box of pins
which stuck into her head, and pulled her hair, and drove
her nearly wild as she persisted in wearing it when alone, so
as to get used to the horrid thing before going among the
fashionables. The chest upstairs, where the yellow satin and
the faded wreath were lying, was visited more than once,
and the good dame in her abstraction forgot to shut the lid,
and when she went again to her Mecca, she found that
Tabby had made the chest and its contents into a nice bed
and playhouse for the two fat, pretty kittens which for three
or four weeks had lived under the woodshed floor, and only
came out at intervals. The chest was locked after this and
not visited again before Aunt Jerry's departure for Rocky
Point, with her new clothes, and trunk, and satchel. The
dresses fitted admirably, especially the silk, which was elegant
in its way, and trailed far behind the good dame, who felt
more at home in her short alpaca suit, which made her look
full ten years younger than her wont, and a few years younger
than she really was. Some of the neighbors who enjoyed her
outfit, and the remarks she made concerning it, suggested a
round hat as a fitting accompaniment to her suit, but this
Aunt Jerry repelled with disdain, hoping she was not such a
fool as to put her old snuff-colored face under a round hat,
not she. She had a nice velvet bonnet, for which she paid
the 'bominable price of fifteen dollars; she should wear
that, and her thread-lace veil; and she looked so nice and
stylish that Edna, who was waiting for her at the station, did
not recognize her at first, and looked twice at the fashionably
dressed woman, holding so fast to her check, which the
hackman was trying to get from her.

“Why, auntie,” she cried, when the turn of the velvet
bonnet showed her Miss Pepper's face, “how pretty, and
young you look. I did not know you at first.”

“Fine feathers make fine birds,” was Aunt Jerry's reply;
but she did not seem ill-pleased with her niece's compliment
as she followed on to the little pony-carriage waiting for her,
and which Edna had driven down herself.

“Is this his,—Mr. Overton's, I mean?” Aunt Jerry asked,
in some surprise; for Edna's account of Bobtail and the
square-backed buggy did not quite tally with this stylish
turnout.

Edna explained, blushingly, that the establishment was her
own,—a gift from Roy, who had driven it up to Rocky Point
two weeks before, and left it for her use while she was
there.

“Love in the tub, just now; but wait till by and by,”
Aunt Jerry said; but Edna had no fears of the by and by;
and her face was radiant with happiness as she drove her
aunt through the main street of Rocky Point, in the direction
of Uncle Phil's.

“That is the place,” she said, as they turned the corner
which brought the old farm-house in view. “Uncle Phil
talks of building a new house in the spring,—a Gothic cottage,
—only, he says if he does, there is nobody to live in it but
himself and Aunt Becky.”

“The nigger, you mean,” Aunt Jerry said, rather crisply;
and, as one of the ponies shied a little just then, Edna
said no more of the Gothic cottage, but gave her attention
to her horses, until they drew up before the unpretentious
building, which Aunt Jerry eyed sharply, keeping her veil
closely drawn over her face, and feeling a decided trembling
in her knees, as she walked through the gate and up to the
front door, where she intended waiting till Edna could tie her
ponies, and was ready to usher her in.

But,—greatly to her surprise,—the door swung open, seemingly
by itself,—for she saw no living being; only a voice,
which came from behind the door, and sounded a little

smothered, said to her: “Walk in, Jerry, and make yourself
at home.”

Then she walked in; and, as the owner of the voice
emerged into view, and offered her his hand, she said: “How
do you do, Philip?” as naturally as if it had been yesterday
they parted, instead of thirty years before.

Poor Uncle Phil had been quite as much exercised on the
subject of his wardrobe as Aunt Jerry had been with hers.
He wanted to go decent to the wedding, and not disgrace
Dotty's grand relations, he said. “He'd been looking like
a codger long enough, and he meant to fix up, and pay the
fiddler.” Nothing in Rocky Point, however, would answer
his purpose; and when Edna suggested Millville, he sneered
at that, and even spoke contemptuously of Albany and its
tailors! Where did Roy get his clothes made? Wan't it in
New York, and why couldn't he go there as well as anywhere?
Accordingly the old man went to New York, from which
place he returned so metamorphosed that the boys in the
streets followed him as a natural curiosity, and the men hollowed
after him to know what had happened, as he walked
from the depot home, arrayed in his new suit of clothes,
which made him look so trim and youthful, with his turn-over
collar, and his necktie, and soft hat. Even his shoes and
shirts were city made; and he looked very nice, and very
much ashamed as he hurried home, glad to be out of sight of
the curious, impertinent boys, and wondering what they
would say “to his t'other suit,—his very best, with the little
tail-coat, and the stove-pipe hat,” for he had indulged in these
extravagances, as they were safe in the trunk which the backman
left at the door.

Edna was delighted to see him, and complimented him
greatly on his personal appearance, and never dreamed why
all this change had been made by her eccentric uncle, or
guess how nervous and excited he was on the day when Aunt

Jerry was expected. She had asked him to accompany her
to the depot, but he had declined, and after she was gone
had donned his second-best suit, and put on one of his new
neckties, and indulged in cuffs and cuff-buttons, and a white
pocket-handkerchief, which he grasped in his hand as tightly
as if it had been the spar which was to keep him from drowning.
When he heard the whistle of the train, he was sitting
in his arm-chair by the fire, but quick as if he had been shot,
he sprang to his feet, exclaiming: “The Lord help me!”
while, in the palms of his hands, and under his hair, were
little drops of sweat, wrung out by sheer nervousness and excitement.
He saw the carriage when it turned the corner,
but the young girl with the jaunty hat and feather, holding
the reins so skilfully, and managing the horses so well, was
nothing to him then. He only saw the tall, erect woman at
her side, with the veil over her face, and the rich furs about
her shoulders.

“Straight yet as an Injun, and as gritty, too, I'll bet you,”
he said to himself, as, stationing himself by the window, he
watched Aunt Jerry's descent from the vehicle, and then as
he saw her come up the walk, he ran behind the door and
opened it for her with the salutation we have recorded elsewhere.

Edna was close behind, so close indeed, that she saw
the look in Uncle Phil's face, and heard Aunt Jerry's, “How
do you do, Philip?” and in an instant the truth flashed
upon her, taking her breath away and rendering her speechless
for a moment. Then confronting them both, she exclaimed;
“Oh, Uncle Phil,—Aunt Jerry,—I never knew,—I never
guessed,—I never thought,—”

“Well, don't think now, or if you do, keep your thoughts
to yourself,” was Aunt Jerry's characteristic reply, as she
walked into the sitting-room with Uncle Phil following after
her, standing first on one foot, then upon the other, spitting

a great deal, and flourishing his handkerchief almost in her
face in his zeal to make her welcome.

“Come upstairs,” Edna said; and glad to escape from the
curious eyes of the fidgety little man, whom she had mentally
pronounced “fat and pussy,—just as I knew he was,”
Aunt Jerry accompanied her niece to her room, while Uncle
Phil said softly to himself: “Yes, yes; better go before I
bust the biler; good-lookin' craft, though, you bet,” and he
nodded at the figure-head of the tall clock in the corner as
if that knew and appreciated his feelings.

Alone with her aunt, Edna could not refrain from saying,
“Aunt Jerry, it was Uncle Phil; I saw it in his face; I
know it all; I wish, I believe—”

“You needn't wish nor believe anything, for as true as
you do, I'll take my duds home in double-quick time. I
ain't quite such an old fool as that. Philip Overton and I
have had our day, and lost it; let us alone;” Aunt Jerry answered
so fiercely that Edna came to a sudden halt with her
intentions of doing something for this odd, lonely couple,
whose lives had once been so near to flowing in the same
channel, but had drifted so far apart.

They were wholly unlike each other, Edna thought, as
she watched them closely during the evening, when with the
first reserve worn off, they talked together of old friends
whom in their youth they had known, and who were now
many of them dead and gone. It was strange what a softening
effect the talking of these old times had upon Aunt
Jerry, who hardly seemed herself as she sat there with the
firelight falling on her smooth hair, and giving a rosy tinge
to her cheek. Her eyes were always bright, and they shone
now with much of their olden fire, and made Uncle Phil
“squirm,” as he expressed it, whenever they rested on him.

“If I only could bring them together. I mean to get
Roy to help me,” Edna thought; and when next day Roy

came, the story was eagerly told to him, and his assistance
asked in the matter.

Roy was interested, of course, but declared himself no
match-maker. He had been more than thirty years making
one for himself, he said, and he advised Edna to let
the old couple do as they liked, adding that he was not at
all sure it would be a good or happy thing for two people so
peculiar to come together. This was a damper to Edna's
zeal, and she affected to pout for a little, but soon forgot it
all in her delight at the diamonds which Roy had brought to
her. They had been his mother's, and had always attracted
great attention from their size and brilliancy, but she never
cared to wear them again, and at her request they had been
reset for Edna, who tried their effect with Roy standing by
and admiring her sparkling face more than the flash of the
rich jewels, and proving his admiration by a kiss, notwithstanding
that Aunt Jerry was looking on, and pursing up her
mouth with so queer a look that Roy kissed her too, whereupon
Uncle Phil, who had come in just in time to see the
last performance, exclaimed in an aside: “By George, the
chap has more pluck than I have,” while Aunt Jerry deliberately
wiped and rubbed her cheek, and said, “I should
s'pose you'd as soon kiss a piece of sole leather.”

They were very gay and merry at Uncle Phil's during the
few days which preceded the wedding; and nothing was
wanting to complete their happiness but the presence of
Maude and Jack. From them, however, a kindly message
came on the very morning of the bridal; and Edna read it
with Roy's arm around her waist, and Roy's face looking
over her shoulder. Only a few friends from Rocky Point
were invited to the lunch given at the house after the ceremony;
but all were welcome to go to the church, which was
filled to its utmost capacity. Ruth Gardner presided at the
organ, and did herself great credit with the music she made,

as the party went up the aisle,—Uncle Phil and Edna, Roy
and Aunt Jerry, whose rich black silk was stepped on two
or three times by those who followed in her train. Mrs.
Churchill was not there. She was far from well; and as
there was to be a grand reception at Leighton that evening,
she preferred to receive her children at home, and staid to
see that everything was in readiness for them when they
arrived. Uncle Phil was at first a little stiff in his New
York clothes, and wondered what the chaps did who dressed
up every day; but this soon wore off, and he was the merriest
and youngest of the party which took the train for Albany,
going thence down the river to Leighton, which they
reached just as the twilight shadows were beginning to fall,
and the stars looked out upon another Christmas Eve.

It was not a crowded party, but very pleasant and select;
and Edna moved among her guests like some little fairy,
clad in her bridal robes of sheeny satin and fleecy lace, with
only pearls upon her neck and arms, and the wedding-ring
upon her finger. It was a far different bridal from her first
one; and she felt it to be so, and wondered if it was
wicked for her to be so happy, when just a little way from
the bright lights and sounds of festivity Charlie lay sleeping,
with the young moon shining on his grave. Roy, too,
thought of Georgie, in far-off Greenwood, and thought of
her, too, with a softer, tenderer regret than Edna could give
to Charlie; for he only knew of the good there had been in
her; the bad was buried with her, and he remembered her as
she had seemed at the last,—amiable, loving, and good. But
he could not wish to exchange his bride for her; and once,
when they were standing a little out of sight, and a thought
of what had almost been, came over him, he involuntarily
wound his arm tightly around Edna, and drew her to him in
a quick, passionate embrace, as if he would thus assure himself
that she was a reality, and not a myth which would vanish
from his side.

The chimes from the church tower had pealed the hour of
midnight, and Merry Christmas had passed from lip to lip,
ere the party broke up, and the last guest was gone. An
hour later, and every light had disappeared from Leighton;
but the moon and the stars which heard the angels sing
eighteen hundred years ago shone over the place, and
seemed to breathe a benediction upon the newly-wedded
husband and wife, whom all had pronounced so well-suited
to each other.