 | CHAPTER XLVI.
WEDDING AFTER-TALKS AT OLDTOWN. Oldtown folks |  |
46. CHAPTER XLVI.
WEDDING AFTER-TALKS AT OLDTOWN.
WEDDING joys are commonly supposed to pertain especially
to the two principal personages, and to be of a kind
with which the world doth not intermeddle; but a wedding in
such a quiet and monotonous state of existence as that of Oldtown
is like a glorious sunset, which leaves a long after-glow, in
which trees and rocks, farm-houses, and all the dull, commonplace
landscape of real life have, for a while, a roseate hue of
brightness. And then the long after-talks, the deliberate turnings
and revampings, and the re-enjoying, bit by bit, of every
incident!
Sam Lawson was a man who knew how to make the most of
this, and for a week or two he reigned triumphant in Oldtown on
the strength of it. Others could relate the bare, simple facts, but
Sam Lawson could give the wedding, with variations, with marginal
references, and explanatory notes, and enlightening comments,
that ran deep into the history of everybody present. So
that even those who had been at the wedding did not know half
what they had seen until Sam told them.
It was now the second evening after that auspicious event.
Aunt Lois and my mother had been pressed to prolong their stay
over one night after the wedding, to share the hospitalities of the
Kittery mansion, and had been taken around in the Kittery carriage
to see the wonders of Boston town. But prompt, on their
return, Sam came in to assist them in dishing up information by
the evening fireside.
“Wal, Mis' Badger,” said he, “'t was gin'ally agreed, on all
hands, there had n't ben no weddin' like it seen in Boston sence
the time them court folks and nobility used to be there. Old
Luke there, that rings the chimes, he told me he hed n't seen no
sech couple go up the broad aisle o' that church. Luke, says he
ye 'd better b'lieve every one on 'em had on their Sunday best.
There was the Boylstons, an' the Bowdoins, an' the Brattles, an'
the Winthrops, an' the Bradfords, an' the Penhallows up from
Portsmouth, an' the Quinceys, an' the Sewells. Wal, I tell yer,
there was real grit there! — folks that come in their grand kerridges
I tell you! — there was such a pawin' and a stampin' o'
horses and kerridges round the church as if all the army of the
Assyrians was there!”
“Well, now, I 'm glad I did n't go,” said my grandmother.
“I 'm too old to go into any such grandeur.”
“Wal, I don't see why folks hes so much 'bjections to these
here 'Piscopal weddin's, neither,” said Sam. “I tell yer, it 's a
kind o' putty sight now; ye see I was up in the organ loft, where
I could look down on the heads of all the people. Massy to
us! the bunnets, an' the feathers, an' the Injy shawls, an' the purple
an' fine linen, was all out on the 'casion. An' when our Harry
come in with Tiny on his arm, tha' was a gineral kind o' buzz,
an' folks a risin' up all over the house to look at 'em. Her dress
was yer real Injy satin, thick an' yaller, kind o' like cream. An'
she had on the Pierpont pearls an' diamonds —”
“How did you know what she had on?” said Aunt Lois.
“O, I hes ways o' findin' out!” said Sam. “Yeh know old
Gineral Pierpont, his gret-gret-grandfather, was a gineral in the
British army in Injy, an' he racketed round 'mong them nabobs
out there, an' got no end o' gold an' precious stones, an' these 'ere
pearls an' diamonds that she wore on her neck and in her ears
hes come down in the Devenport family. Mis' Delily, Miss
Deborah Kittery's maid, she told me all the partic'lars 'bout it, an'
she ses there ain't no family so rich in silver and jewels, and sich,
as Ellery Devenport's is, an' hes ben for generations back. His
house is jest chock-full of all sorts o' graven images and queer
things from Chiny an' Japan, 'cause, ye see, his ancestors they
traded to Injy, an' they seem to hev got the abundance o' the
Gentiles flowin' to 'em.”
“I noticed those pearls on her neck,” said Aunt Lois; “I
never saw such pearls.”
“Wal,” said Sam, “Mis' Delily, she ses she 's tried 'em 'long-side
of a good-sized pea, an' they 're full as big. An' the earrings
's them pear-shaped pearls, ye know, with diamond nubs
atop on 'em. Then there was a great pearl cross, an' the biggest
kind of a diamond right in the middle on 't. Wal, Mis' Delily
she told me a story 'bout them 'ere pearls,” said Sam. “For my
part, ef it hed ben a daughter o' mine, I 'd ruther she 'd 'a' worn
suthin' on her neck that was spic an' span new. I tell yew, these
'ere old family jewels, I think sometimes they gits kind o' struck
through an' through with moth an' rust, so to speak.”
“I 'm sure I don't know what you mean, Sam,” said Aunt Lois,
literally, “since we know gold can't rust, and pearls and diamonds
don't hurt with any amount of keeping.”
“Wal, ye see, they do say that 'ere old Gineral Pierpont was a
putty hard customer; he got them 'ere pearls an' diamonds away
from an Injun princess; I s'pose she thought she 'd as much
right to 'em 's he hed; an' they say 't was about all she hed was
her jewels, an' so nat'rally enough she cussed him for taking
on 'em. Wal, dunno 's the Lord minds the cusses o' these poor old
heathen critturs; but 's ben a fact, Mis' Delily says, thet them
jewels hain't never brought good luck. Gineral Pierpont, he gin
'em to his fust wife, an' she did n't live but two months arter she
was married. He gin 'em to his second wife, 'n' she tuck to drink
and le'd him sech a life 't he would n't ha' cared ef she had died
too; 'n' then they come down to Ellery Devenport's first wife, 'n'
she went ravin' crazy the fust year arter she was married. Now
all that 'ere does look a little like a cuss; don't it?”
“O nonsense, Sam!” said Aunt Lois, “I don't believe there 's
a word of truth in any of it! You can hatch more stories in one
day than a hen can eggs in a month.”
“Wal, any way,” said Sam, “I like the 'Piscopal sarvice, all
'ceppin' the minister's wearin' his shirt outside; that I don't like.”
“'T is n't a shirt!” said Aunt Lois, indignantly.
“O lordy massy!” said Sam, “I know what they calls it. I
know it 's a surplice, but it looks for all the world like a man in
his shirt-sleeves; but the words is real solemn. I wondered when
he asked 'em all whether they hed any objections to 't, an' told 'em
speak up jest there.”
“Why, of course 't would stop the wedding,” said Aunt Lois,
“until the thing was inquired into.”
“Wal, Jake Marshall, he said thet he 'd heerd a story when he
was a boy, about a weddin' in a church at Portsmouth, that was
stopped jest there, 'cause, ye see, the man he hed another wife
livin.' He said 't was old Colonel Penhallow. 'Mazin' rich the
old Colonel was, and these 'ere rich old cocks sometimes does
seem to strut round and cut up pretty much as if they hed n't
heard o' no God in their parts. The Colonel he got his wife
shet up in a lunatic asylum, an' then spread the word that she
was dead, an' courted a gal, and come jest as near as that to
marryin' of her.”
“As near as what?” said Aunt Lois.
“Why, when they got to that 'ere part of the service, there
was his wife, good as new. She 'd got out o' the 'sylum, and
stood up there 'fore 'em all. So you see that 'ere does some
good.”
“I 'd rather stay in an asylum all my life than go back to that
man,” said Aunt Lois.
“Wal, you see she did n't,” said Sam; “her friends they made
him make a settlement on her, poor woman, and he cleared out t'
England.”
“Good riddance to bad rubbish,” said my grandmother.
“Wal, how handsome that 'ere gal is that Harry 's going to
marry!” continued Sam. “She did n't have on nothin' but white
muslin', an' not a snip of a jewel; but she looked like a queen.
Ses I to Jake, ses I, there goes the woman 't 'll be Lady Percival
one o' these days, over in England, an' I bet ye, he 'll find
lots o' family jewels for her, over there. Mis' Delily she said
she did n't doubt there would be.”
“I hope,” said my grandmother, “that she will have more
enduring riches than that; it 's small matter about earthly
jewels.”
“Lordy massy, yes, Mis' Badger,” said Sam, “jes' so, jes'
so; now that 'ere was bein' impressed on my mind all the time.
help thinkin' on 't, when I see Tiny a wearin' them jewels, jest
how vain an' transitory everythin' is, an' how the women 't has
worn 'em afore is all turned to dust, an' lyin' in their graves.
Lordy massy, these 'ere things make us realize what a transitory
world we 's a livin' in. I was tellin' Hepsy 'bout it, — she 's so
kind o' worldly, Hepsy is, — seemed to make her feel so kind o'
gritty to see so much wealth 'n' splendor, when we hed n't none.
Ses I, `Hepsy, there ain't no use o' wantin' worldly riches, 'cause
our lives all passes away like a dream, an' a hundred years hence
't won't make no sort o' diffurnce what we 've hed, an' what we
heve n't hed.' But wal, Miss Lois, did ye see the kerridge?”
said Sam, returning to temporal things with renewed animation.
“I just got a glimpse of it,” said Aunt Lois, “as it drove to the
door.”
“Lordy massy,” said Sam, “I was all over that 'ere kerridge
that mornin' by daylight. 'T ain't the one he had up here, — that
was jest common doin's, — this 'ere is imported spic an' span new
from England for the 'casion, an' all made jest 's they make 'em
for the nobility. Why, 't was all quilted an' lined with blue
satin, ever so grand, an' Turkey carpet under their feet, an' the
springs was easy 's a rockin'-chair. That 's what they 've gone
off in. Wal, lordy massy! I don't grudge Tina nothin'! She 's
the chipperest, light-heartedest, darlin'est little creetur that ever
did live, an' I hope she 'll hev good luck in all things.”
A rap was heard at the kitchen door, and Polly entered. It
was evident from her appearance that she was in a state of considerable
agitation. She looked pale and excited, and her hands
shook.
“Mis' Badger,” she said to my grandmother, “Miss Rossiter
wants to know 'f you won't come an' set up with her to-night.”
“Why, is she sick?” said grandmother. “What 's the matter
with her?”
“She ain't very well,” said Polly, evasively; “she wanted
Mis' Badger to spend the night with her.”
“Perhaps, mother, I 'd better go over,” said Aunt Lois.
“No, Miss Lois,” said Polly, eagerly, “Miss Rossiter don't
wanter see anybody but yer mother.”
“Wal, now I wanter know!” said Sam Lawson.
“Well, you can't know everything,” said Aunt Lois, “so you
may want!”
“Tell Miss Rossiter, ef I can do anythin' for 'er, I hope she 'll
call on me,” said Sam.
My grandmother and Polly went out together. Aunt Lois
bustled about the hearth, swept it up, and then looked out into the
darkness after them. What could it be?
The old clock ticked drowsily in the kitchen corner, and her
knitting-needles rattled.
“What do you think it is?” said my mother, timidly, to Aunt
Lois.
“How should I know?” said Aunt Lois, sharply.
In a few moments Polly returned again.
“Miss Mehitable says she would like to see Sam Lawson.”
“O, wal, wal, would she? Wal, I 'll come!” said Sam,
rising with joyful alertness. “I 'm allers ready at a minute's
warnin'!”
And they went out into the darkness together.
| CHAPTER XLVI.
WEDDING AFTER-TALKS AT OLDTOWN. Oldtown folks | |