 | CHAPTER XLV.
WEDDING BELLS. Oldtown folks |  |
45. CHAPTER XLV.
WEDDING BELLS.
THE fourteenth of June was as bright a morning as if it had
been made on purpose for a wedding-day, and of all the five
thousand inauspicious possibilities which usually encumber weddings,
not one fell to our share.
Tina's dress, for example, was all done two days beforehand,
and fitted to a hair; and all the invited guests had come, and
were lodged in the spacious Kittery mansion.
Esther Avery was to stand as bridesmaid, with me as groomsman,
and Harry, as nearest relative, was to give the bride
away. The day before, I had been in and seen both ladies
dressed up in the marriage finery, and we had rehearsed the
situation before Harry, as clergyman, Miss Debby being present,
in one of her most commanding frames of mind, to see that
everything was done according to the Rubric. She surveyed
Esther, while she took an approving pinch of snuff, and remarked
to me, aside, “That young person, for a Congregational
parson's daughter, has a surprisingly distinguished air.”
Lady Widgery and Lady Lothrop, who were also in at the inspection,
honored Esther with their decided approbation.
“She will be quite presentable at court,” Lady Widgery
remarked. “Of course Sir Harry will wish her presented.”
All this empressement in regard to Harry's rank and title,
among these venerable sisters, afforded great amusement to our
quartette, and we held it a capital joke among ourselves to
make Esther blush by calling her Lady Percival, and to inquire
of Harry about his future parliamentary prospects, his rent-rolls
and tenants. In fact, when together, we were four children, and
played with life much as we used to in the dear old days.
Esther, under the influence of hope and love, had bloomed out
into a beautiful woman. Instead of looking like a pale image of
Ellery Davenport remarked, “What a splendid contrast her
black hair and eyes will make to the golden beauty of Tina!”
All Oldtown respectability had exerted itself to be at the wedding.
All, however humble, who had befriended Tina and
Harry during the days of their poverty, were bidden. Polly
had been long sojourning in the house, in the capacity of Miss
Mehitable's maid, and assisting assiduously in the endless sewing
and fine laundry work which precedes a wedding.
On this auspicious morning she came gloriously forth, rustling in
a stiff changeable lutestring, her very Sunday best, and with her
mind made up to enter an Episcopal church for the first time in
her life. There had, in fact, occurred some slight theological skirmishes
between Polly and the High Church domestics of Miss
Debby's establishment, and Miss Mehitable was obliged to make
stringent representations to Polly concerning the duty of sometimes
repressing her testimony for truth under particular circumstances.
Polly had attended one catechising, but the shock produced
upon her mind by hearing doctrines which seemed to her to have
such papistical tendencies was so great that Miss Mehitable
begged Miss Debby to allow her to be excused in future. Miss
Debby felt that the obligations of politeness owed by a woman
of quality to an invited guest in her own house might take
precedence even of theological considerations. In this point of
view, she regarded Congregationalists with a well-bred, compassionate
tolerance, and very willingly acceded to whatever Miss
Mehitable suggested.
Harry and I had passed the night before the wedding-day at
the Kittery mansion, that we might be there at the very earliest
hour in the morning, to attend to all those thousand and one
things that always turn up for attention at such a time.
Madam Kittery's garden commanded a distant view of the
sea, and I walked among the stately alleys looking at that
splendid distant view of Boston harbor, which seemed so bright
and sunny, and which swooned away into the horizon with such
an ineffable softness, as an image of eternal peace.
As I stood there looking, I heard a light footstep behind me,
rose that she had just been gathering.
“You look as mournful as if it were you that is going to be
married!” she said.
“Tina!” I said, “you out so early too?”
“Yes, for a wonder. The fact was, I had a bad dream, and
could not sleep. I got up and looked out of my window, and
saw you here, Horace, so I dressed me quickly and ran down.
I feel a little bit uncanny, — and eerie, as the Scotch say, — and
a little bit sad, too, about the dear old days, Horace. We have had
such good times together, — first we three, and then we took
Esther in, and that made four; and now, Horace, you must open
the ranks a little wider and take in Ellery.”
“But five is an uneven number,” said I; “it leaves one out in
the cold.”
“O Horace! I hope you will find one worthy of you,” she
said. “I shall have a place in my heart all ready for her. She
shall be my sister. You will write to me, won't you? Do write.
I shall so want to hear of the dear old things. Every stick and
stone, every sweetbrier-bush and huckleberry patch in Oldtown,
will always be dear to me. And dear old precious Aunty, what
ever set it into her good heart to think of taking poor little me
to be her child? and it 's too bad that I should leave her so. You
know, Horace, I have a small income all my own, and that I
mean to give to Aunty.”
Now there were many points in this little valedictory of Tina
to which I had no mind to respond, and she looked, as she was
speaking, with tears coming in her great soft eyes, altogether too
loving and lovely to be a safe companion to one forbidden to
hold her in his arms and kiss her, and I felt such a desperate
temptation in that direction that I turned suddenly from her.
“Does Mr. Davenport approve such a disposition of your income?”
said I, in a constrained voice.
“Mr. Davenport! Mr. High and Mighty,” she said, mimicking
my constrained tone, “what makes you so sulky to me this
morning?”
“I am not sulky, Tina, only sad,” I said.
“Come, come, Horace, don't be sad,” she said, coaxingly, and
putting her hand through my arm. “Now just be a good boy,
and walk up and down with me here a few moments, and let me
tell you about things.”
I submitted and let her lead me off passively. “You see,
Horace,” she said, “I feel for poor old Aunty. Hers seems to
me such a dry, desolate life; and I can't help feeling a sort of
self-reproach when I think of it. Why should I have health
and youth and strength and Ellery, and be going to see all the
beauty and glory of Europe, while she sits alone at home, old
and poor, and hears the rain drip off from those old lilac-bushes?
Oldtown is a nice place, to be sure, but it does rain a great deal
there, and she and Polly will be so lonesome without me to make
fun for them. Now, Horace, you must promise me to go there as
much as you can. You must cultivate Aunty for my sake; and
her friendship is worth cultivating for its own sake.”
“I know it,” said I; “I am fully aware of the value of her
mind and character.”
“You and Harry ought both to visit her,” said Tina, “and
write to her, and take her advice. Nothing improves a young
man faster than such female friendship; it 's worth that of dozens
of us girls.”
Tina always had a slight proclivity for sermonizing, but a
chapter in Ecclesiastes, coming from little preachers with lips
and eyes like hers, is generally acceptable.
“You know,” said Tina, “that Aunty has some sort of a
trouble on her mind.”
“I know all about it,” said I.
“Did she tell you?”
“Yes,” said I, “after I had divined it.”
“I made her tell me,” said Tina. “When I came home from
school, I determined I would not be treated like a child by her
any longer, — that she should tell me her troubles, and let me bear
them with her. I am young and full of hope, and ought to have
troubles to bear. And she is worn out and weary with thinking
over and over the same sad story. What a strange thing it is that
that sister treats her so! I have been thinking so much about
about her last night. I dreamed that Ellery and I were standing
at the altar being married, and, all of a sudden, that lady that
we saw in the closet and in the garret rose up like a ghost
between us.”
“Come, come,” said I, “Tina, you are getting nervous. One
should n't tell of one's bad dreams, and then one forgets them
easier.”
“Well,” said Tina, “it made me sad to think that she was a
young girl like me, full of hope and joy. They did n't treat her
rightly over in that Farnsworth family, — Miss Mehitable told
me all about it. O, it was a dreadful story! they perfectly froze
her heart with their dreary talk about religion. Horace, I think
the most irreligious thing in the world is that way of talking,
which takes away our Heavenly Father, and gives only a dreadful
Judge. I should not be so happy and so safe as I am now,
if I did not believe in a loving God.”
“Tina,” said I, “are you satisfied with the religious principles
of Mr. Davenport?”
“I 'm glad you asked me that, Horace, because Mr. Davenport
is a man that is very apt to be misunderstood. Nobody really
does understand him but me. He has seen so much of cant, and
hypocrisy, and pretence of religion, and is so afraid of pretensions
that do not mean anything, that I think he goes to the other
extreme. Indeed, I have told him so. But he says he is always
delighted to hear me talk on religion, and he likes to have me
repeat hymns to him; and he told me the other day that he
thought the Bible contained finer strains of poetry and eloquence
than could be got from all other books put together. Then he
has such a wonderful mind, you know. Mr. Avery said that he
never saw a person that appreciated all the distinctions of the
doctrines more completely than he did. He does n't quite agree
with Mr. Avery, nor with anybody; but I think he is very far
from being an irreligious man. I believe he thinks very seriously
on all these subjects, indeed.”
“I am glad of it,” said I, half convinced by her fervor, more
than half by the magic of her presence, and the touch of the
curls, brown in the shade and gold in the sun. Certainly,
such things as these, if not argument, incline man to be convinced
of whatever a fair preacher says; and I thought it not unlikely
that Ellery Davenport liked to hear her talk about religion.
The conversation was interrupted by the breakfast-bell, which
rung us in to an early meal, where we found Miss Debby, brisk
and crisp with business and authority, apologizing to Lady
Widgery for the unusually early hour, “but, really, so much
always to be done in cases like these.”
Breakfast was hurried over, for I was to dress myself, and go
to Mr. Davenport's house, and accompany him, as groomsman,
to meet Tina and Harry at the church door.
I remember admiring Ellery Davenport, as I met him this
morning, with his easy, high-bred, cordial air, and with that overflow
of general benevolence which seems to fill the hearts of
happy bridegrooms on the way to the altar. Jealous as I was
of the love that ought to be given to the idol of my knight-errantry,
I could not but own to myself that Ellery Davenport
was most loyally in love.
Then I have a vision of the old North Church, with its chimes
playing, and the pews around the broad aisle filled with expectant
guests. The wedding had excited a great deal of attention
in the upper circles of Boston. Ellery Davenport was widely
known, having been a sort of fashionable meteor, appearing at
intervals in the select circles of the city, with all the prestige of
foreign travel and diplomatic reputation. Then the little romance
of the children had got about, and had proved as sweet
a morsel under the tongues of good Bostonians as such spices
in the dulness of real life usually do. There was talk everywhere
of the little story, and, as usual, nothing was lost in the
telling; the beauty and cleverness of the children had been reported
from mouth to mouth, until everybody was on tiptoe to
see them.
The Oldtown people, who were used to rising at daybreak,
found no difficulty in getting to Boston in season. Uncle Fliakim's
almost exhausted wagon had been diligently revamped,
which process the good man might have been seen flying like a
meteor in an unceasing round, between the store, the blacksmith's
shop, my grandfather's, and his own dwelling; and in
consequence of these arduous labors, not only his wife, but Aunt
Keziah and Hepsy Lawson were secured a free passage to the
entertainment.
Lady Lothrop considerately offered a seat to my grandmother
and Aunt Lois in her coach; but my grandmother declined the
honor in favor of my mother.
“It 's all very well,” said my grandmother, “and I send my
blessing on 'em with all my heart; but my old husband and I are
too far along to be rattling our old bones to weddings in Boston.
I should n't know how to behave in their grand Episcopal church.”
Aunt Lois, who, like many other good women, had an innocent
love of the pomps and vanities, and my mother, to whom the
scene was an unheard-of recreation, were, on the whole, not displeased
that her mind had taken this turn. As to Sam Lawson,
he arose before Aurora had unbarred the gates of dawn, and
strode off vigorously on foot, in his best Sunday clothes, and
arrived there in time to welcome Uncle Fliakim's wagon, and
to tell him that “he 'd ben a lookin' out for 'em these two
hours.”
So then for as much as half an hour before the wedding
coaches arrived at the church door there was a goodly assemblage
in the church, and, while the chimes were solemnly
pealing the tune of old Wells, there were bibbing and bobbing of
fashionable bonnets, and fluttering of fans, and rustling of silks,
and subdued creakings of whalebone stays, and a gentle undertone
of gossiping conversation in the expectant audience. Sam
Lawson had mounted the organ loft, directly opposite the altar,
which commanded a most distinct view of every possible transaction
below, and also gave a prominent image of himself, with his
lanky jaws, protruding eyes, and shackling figure, posed over all
as the inspecting genius of the scene. And every once in a
while he conveyed to Jake Marshall pieces of intelligence with
regard to the amount of property or private history — the horses,
innocent Bostonians, who were disporting themselves below, in
utter ignorance of how much was known about them. But when
a man gives himself seriously, for years, to the task of collecting
information, thinking nothing of long tramps of twenty miles in
the acquisition, never hesitating to put a question and never forgetting
an answer, it is astonishing what an amount of information
he may pick up. In Sam, a valuable reporter of the press has
been lost forever. He was born a generation too soon, and the
civilization of his time had not yet made a place for him. But
not the less did he at this moment feel in himself all the responsibilities
of a special reporter for Oldtown.
“Lordy massy,” he said to Jake, when the chimes began to
play, “how solemn that 'ere does sound!
The time to insure the gret reward.'
goin' to give him for ringin' them 'ere chimes; and how much de
ye think 't was? Wal, 't was jest fifty dollars, for jest this 'ere
one time! an' the weddin' fee 's a goin' t' be a hunderd guineas
in a gold puss. I tell yer, Colonel Devenport 's a man as chops
his mince putty fine. There 's Parson Lothrop down there; he 's
got a spick span new coat an' a new wig! That 's Mis' Lothrop's
scarlet Injy shawl; that 'ere cost a hundred guineas in Injy, —
her first husband gin 'er that. Lordy massy, ain't it a providence
that Parson Lothrop 's married her? 'cause sence the war that 'ere
s'ciety fur sendin' the Gospil to furrin parts don't send nothin' to
'em, an' the Oldtown people they don't pay nothin'. All they can
raise they gin to Mr. Mordecai Rossiter, 'cause they say ef they
hev to s'port a colleague it 's all they can do, 'specially sence
he 's married. Yeh see, Mordecai, he wanted to git Tiny, but he
could n't come it, and so he 's tuk up with Delily Barker. The
folks, some on 'em, kind o' hinted to old Parson Lothrop thet his
sermons was n't so interestin' 's they might be, 'n' the parson, ses
he, `Wal, I b'lieve the sermons 's about 's good 's the pay; ain't
they?' He hed 'em there. I like Parson Lothrop, — he 's a
fine old figger-head, and keeps up stiff for th' honor o' the ministry.
more 'n common folks, 'n' everybody 'll hev their say to 'em jest
's they do to anybody else. Lordy massy, there 's the orgin, —
goin' to hev all the glories, orgins 'n' bells 'n' everythin'; guess
the procession must ha' started. Mr. Devenport 's got another
spick an' span new landau, 't he ordered over from England,
special, for this 'casion, an' two prancin' white hosses! Yeh
see I got inter Bostin 'bout daybreak, an' I 's around ter his
stables a lookin' at 'em a polishin' up their huffs a little, 'n' givin'
on 'em a wipe down, 'n' I asked Jenkins what he thought he gin
for 'em, an' he sed he reely should n't durst to tell me. I tell ye,
he 's like Solomon, — he 's a goin' to make gold as the stones o'
the street.”
And while Sam's monologue was going on, in came the bridal
procession, — first, Harry, with his golden head and blue eyes,
and, leaning on his arm, a cloud of ethereal gauzes and laces,
out of which looked a face, pale now as a lily, with wandering
curls of golden hair like little gleams of sunlight on white clouds;
then the tall, splendid figure of Ellery Davenport, his haughty
blue eyes glancing all around with a triumphant assurance.
Miss Mehitable hung upon his arm, pale with excitement and
emotion. Then came Esther and I. As we passed up the aisle,
I heard a confused murmur of whisperings and a subdued drawing
in of breath, and the rest all seemed to me to be done in a dream.
I heard the words, “Who giveth this woman to be married to
this man?” and saw Harry step forth, bold, and bright, and handsome,
amid the whisperings that pointed him out as the hero of a
little romance. And he gave her away forever, — our darling,
our heart of hearts. And then those holy, tender words, those
vows so awful, those supporting prayers, all mingled as in a
dream, until it was all over, and ladies, laughing and crying,
were crowding around Tina, and there were kissing and congratulating
and shaking of hands, and then we swept out of the
church, and into the carriages, and were whirled back to the
Kittery mansion, which was thrown wide open, from garret to
cellar, in the very profuseness of old English hospitality.
There was a splendid lunch laid out in the parlor, with all
confectioners and caterers could furnish.
Ellery Davenport had indeed tendered the services of his
French cook, but Miss Debby had respectfully declined the
offer.
“He may be a very good cook, Ellery; I say nothing against
him. I am extremely obliged to you for your polite offer, but
good English cooking is good enough for me, and I trust that
whatever guests I invite will always think it good enough for
them.”
On that day, Aunt Lois and Aunt Keziah and my mother and
Uncle Fliakim sat down in proximity to some of the very selectest
families of Boston, comporting themselves, like good republican
Yankees, as if they had been accustomed to that sort of thing all
their lives, though secretly embarrassed by many little points of
etiquette.
Tina and Ellery sat at the head of the table, and dispensed
hospitalities around them with a gay and gracious freedom; and
Harry, in whom the bridal dress of Esther had evidently excited
distracting visions of future probabilities, was making his seat
by her at dinner an opportunity, in the general clatter of conversation,
to enjoy a nice little tête-à-tête.
Besides the brilliant company in the parlor, a long table was
laid out upon the greensward at the back of the house, in the
garden, where beer and ale flowed freely, and ham and bread
and cheese and cake and eatables of a solid and sustaining description
were dispensed to whomsoever would. The humble
friends of lower degree — the particular friends of the servants,
and all the numerous tribe of dependants and hangers-on, who
wished to have some small share in the prosperity of the prosperous
— here found ample entertainment. Here Sam Lawson
might be seen, seated beside Hepsy, on a garden-seat near the
festive board, gallantly pressing upon her the good things of
the hour.
“Eat all ye want ter, Hepsy, — it comes free 's water; ye can
hev `wine an' milk without money 'n' without price,' as 't were.
Lordy massy, 's jest what I wanted. I hed sech a stram this
the baker's. Thought I should ha' caved in 'fore they got through
with the weddin'. These 'ere 'Piscopal weddin's is putty long.
What d' ye think on 'em, Polly?”
“I think I like our own way the best,” said Polly, stanchly,
“none o' your folderol, 'n' kneelin', 'n' puttin' on o' rings.”
“Well,” said Hepsy, with the spice of a pepper-box in her
eyes, “I liked the part that said, `With all my worldly goods, I
thee endow.'”
“Thet 's putty well, when a man hes any worldly goods,” said
Sam; “but how about when he hes n't?”
“Then he 's no business to git married!” said Hepsy, definitely.
“So I think,” said Polly; “but, for my part, I don't want no
man's worldly goods, ef I 've got to take him with 'em. I 'd
rather work hard as I have done, and hev 'em all to myself, to
do just what I please with.”
“Wal, Polly,” said Sam, “I dare say the men 's jest o' your
mind, — none on 'em won't try very hard to git ye' out on 't.”
“There 's bin those thet hes, though!” said Polly; “but 't ain't
wuth talkin' about, any way.”
And so conversation below stairs and above proceeded gayly
and briskly, until at last the parting hour came.
“Now jest all on ye step round ter the front door, an' see
'em go off in their glory. Them two white hosses is imported
fresh from England, 'n' they could n't ha' cost less 'n' a thousan'
dollars apiece, ef they cost a cent.”
“A thousand!” said Jenkins, the groom, who stood in his best
clothes amid the festive throng. “Who told you that?”
“Wal!” said Sam, “I thought I 'd put the figger low enough,
sence ye would n't tell me perticklers. I like to be accurate
'bout these 'ere things. There they be! they 're comin' out the
door now. She 's tuk off her white dress now, an' got on her
travellin' dress, don't ye see? Lordy massy, what a kissin' an' a
cryin'! How women allers does go on 'bout these 'ere things!
There, he 's got 'er at last. See 'em goin' down the steps! ain't
they a han'some couple! There, he 's handin' on 'er in. The
mornin'. Good luck go with 'em! There they go.”
And we all of us stood on the steps of the Kittery mansion,
kissing hands and waving handkerchiefs, until the beloved one,
the darling of our hearts, was out of sight.
| CHAPTER XLV.
WEDDING BELLS. Oldtown folks | |