University of Virginia Library

26. CHAPTER XXVI.
IN WHICH A WEDDING TAKES PLACE.

“Do you know, Mr. Woodbury,” said Mrs. Blake, the same
evening, as they were all gathered together in the library,
“that I have taken an immense liking to your strong-minded
woman?”

“Indeed!” he remarked, with assumed indifference.

“Yes. I had a serious talk with her. I employed a moral
probe, and what do you think I found?”

“What?” he repeated, turning towards her with an expression
of keen interest.

“No, it would not be fair,” tantalizingly answered Mrs. Blake,
in her most deliberate tones. “I shall not betray any discoveries
I have accidentally made. She is too earnest and genuine a
nature to be disposed of with a pleasantry. I will only say
this—as far as she is wrong—which, of course, is admitting
that she is partly right, I, woman as I am, would undertake
to convince her of it. A man, therefore, ought to be able to
restore her to the true faith more easily. Yet you have been
living at Lakeside nearly a year and have not succeeded.”

“I have never tried, my friend,” said Woodbury.

“Really?”

“Of course not. Why should I? She is relentless in her
prejudices, even in those which spring from her limited knowledge
of life. The only cure for such is in a wider experience.
She cannot understand that a humane and liberal tolerance of
all varieties of habit and opinion is compatible with sincerity
of character. She would make every stream turn some kind
of a mill, while I am willing to see one now and then dash

itself to pieces over the rocks, for the sake of the spray and
the rainbows. I confess, though, that I do not think this
moral rigidity is entirely natural to her; but the very fact that
she has slowly reasoned herself into it, and so intrenched and
defended herself against attack from all quarters, makes it so
much the more difficult for her to strike her flag. If you
were to approach her position disarmed and propose a truce,
she would look upon it as the stratagem of an enemy.”

“No, no!” cried Mrs. Blake, shaking her head, with a mischievous
sparkle in her eyes; “that is not the way at all!
Don't you know that a strong woman can only be overcome
by superior strength? No white flags—no proposals of
truce—but go, armed to the teeth, and fire a train to the
mine which shall blow her fortress to atoms in a moment!”

“Bravo! What a commander is lost to the world in you!
But suppose I don't see any train to the mine?”

“Pshaw!” exclaimed Mrs. Blake, turning away in mock
contempt. “You know very well that there is but one kind
of moral gunpowder to be used in such cases. I am going to
drive into Ptolemy this afternoon with Mrs. Waldo, and I
shall make a call at the Thurston cottage. Will you go with
us?”

“Thank you, not to-day. Mr. Blake and I have arranged
to take a boat on the Lake and fish for pickerel. It is better
sport than firing trains of moral gunpowder.”

The two ladies drove into Ptolemy as they had proposed.
Mrs. Blake made herself quite at home at the Cimmerian
Parsonage, where she recognized the Christus Consolator as
an old friend out of her own bedroom, and went into raptures
over Hannah Thurston's bouquet of grasses. She mentally
determined to procure from the donor a similar ornament for
her boudoir in St. Louis, and managed the matter, indeed,
with such skill that Miss Thurston innocently supposed the
offer to make and forward the bouquet came spontaneously
from herself.

To the Widow Thurston's cottage Mrs. Blake came like a

strong, refreshing breeze. In other households, her sharp,
clear, detective nature might have uncomfortably blown
away the drapery from many concealed infirmities, but here it
encountered only naked truthfulness, and was welcome. She
bowed down at once before the expression of past trials in
the old woman's face, and her manner assumed a tenderness all
the sweeter and more fascinating that it rarely came to the
surface. She took Miss Dilworth's measure at a single glance,
and the result, as she afterwards expressed it to Mrs. Waldo,
was much more favorable than that lady had anticipated.

“He could not have a better housekeeper than she, just at
present.”

“Why, you astonish me!” Mrs. Waldo exclaimed; “why
do you think so?”

“I have no particular reason for thinking so,” Mrs. Blake
answered; “it's a presentiment.”

Mrs. Waldo turned away her eyes from Dobbin's ears
(which she always watched with some anxiety, although the
poor old beast had long since forgotten how to shy them back),
and inspected her companion's face. It was entirely grave
and serious. “Oh,” she said at last, in a puzzled tone, “that's
all?”

“Yes, and therefore you won't think it worth much.
But my presentiments are generally correct: wait and see.”

The Blakes remained over a Sunday, and went, as it was
generally surmised they would, to the Cimmerian Church.
The attendance was unusually large on that day, embracing,
to the surprise of Mrs. Waldo, the Hamilton Bues and Miss
Ruhaney Goodwin. On the entrance of the strangers into
the church, a subdued rustling sound ran along the benches
(pews were not allowed by the Cimmerians), and most of the
heads turned stealthily towards the door. The immediate
silence that followed had something of disappointment
in it. There was nothing remarkable in the tall, keen-eyed
lady in plain black silk, or the stout, shrewd-faced, gray-whiskered
man who followed her. Miss Josephine's flat straw

hat and blue silk mantilla attracted much more attention
among the younger members of the congregation. After the
hymn had been given out, however, and the first bars of the
triumphant choral of “Wilmot” (according to the music-books,
but Carl Maria von Weber in the world of Art) were
heard, a new voice gradually took its place in the midst of
the accustomed and imperfectly according sounds, and very
soon assumed the right of a ruler, forcing the others to keep
step with it in the majestic movement of the choral. Not
remarkably sweet, but of astonishing strength and metallic
sonority, it pealed like a trumpet at the head of the ill-disciplined
four battalions of singers, and elevated them to a
new confidence in themselves.

The voice was Mrs. Blake's. She professed to be no singer,
for she knew her own deficiencies so well, that she never attempted
to conceal them; but her voice had the one rare
element, in a woman, of power, and was therefore admirably
effective in a certain range of subjects. In society she rarely
sang any except Scotch songs, and of these especially such as
dated from the rebellion of 1745—those gloriously defiant
lays, breathing of the Highlands and the heather and bonnie
Prince Charlie, which cast an immortal poetic gleam over the
impotent attempt to restore a superannuated dynasty. Had
she lived in those days Mrs. Blake might have sung the slogan
to the gathering clans: as it was, these songs were the only
expression of the fine heroic capacity which was latent in her
nature. She enjoyed the singing fully as much as her auditors
the hearing, and, if the truth could be distinctly known, it is
quite probable that she had prompted Mr. Waldo in his selection
of the hymn. Her participation in it threw the whole
Cimmerian congregation on her side, and the Hamilton Bues
privately expressed their belief that the clergyman had taken
an undue advantage of his opportunities as a guest at Lakeside,
to instil his heretical ideas of baptism into the minds of
Mr. and Mrs. Blake. It transpired afterwards, however, that
the latter were Episcopalian, both by faith and inheritance.

The day at last arrived for the breaking up of the new
household, to the great regret of all its members. Miss Josephine
tore herself with difficulty from the library, only partially
consoled by the present of “Undine” and “Sintraim.”
George wanted to stay with Bute and learn to trap musk-rats
and snare rabbits. Mr. Waldo half sheathed his teeth with
his insufficient lips and went back to his plain fare with a sigh
of resignation. The ladies kissed each other, and Woodbury
would assuredly have kissed them both if he had known how
charitably they would have received the transgression. Bute
was embarrassed beyond all his previous experience by the
present of half a dozen silver tea-spoons which Mrs. Blake
had bought in Ptolemy and presented to him through her boy
George.

“You are going to begin housekeeping, I hear,” said she,
“and you must let George help you with the outfit.”

Bute colored like a young girl. “They're wuth more'n the
silver, comin' to us that-a-way,” he said at last. “I'll tell
Carrie, and we sha'n't never use 'em, without thinkin' o' you
and George.”

The farewells were said, and Lakeside relapsed into its accustomed
quiet. The borrowed chambermaid was returned to
the Ptolemy House, and the old Melinda alone remained in
the kitchen, to prepare her incomparable corn-cake and broiled
chicken. Bute was now able, with proper precautions, to
walk about the farm and direct the necessary labor, without
taking part in it. Woodbury resumed his former habit of
horseback exercise, and visited some of his acquaintances in
Ptolemy and the neighborhood, but the departure of his
pleasant guests left a very perceptible void in his life. He
had sufficient resources within himself to endure solitude,
but he was made, like every healthily-constituted man, for
society.

Thus a few days passed away, and Bute's convalescence
began to take the hue of absolute health. He now visited
Ptolemy every day or two, to watch the progress made in a

certain silver-gray dress, and to enjoy the exquisite novelty of
consulting Miss Dilworth about their future household arrangements.
The latter sometimes, from long habit, reassumed,
her former air of coquetry, but it was no longer tantalizing,
and an earnest word or look sufficed to check her. A charming
humility took the place of her affected superiority, and
became her vastly better, as she had sense enough to discern.
Her ringlets had disappeared forever, and her eyelids gradually
recovered strength for an open and steady glance. In
fact, her eyes were prettier than she had supposed. Their
pale beryl-tint deepened into brown at the edges, and when
the pupil expanded in a subdued light, they might almost have
been called hazel. In Spain they would have been sung as
“ojos verdes” by the poets. On the whole, Bute had chosen
more sensibly than we supposed, when we first made Miss
Dilworth's acquaintance.

The arrangements for the wedding were necessarily few and
simple. Woodbury first proposed that it should be solemnized
at Lakeside, but Mrs. Waldo urged, that, since her husband
was to officiate on the occasion, it would be better for many
reasons—one of which was Mrs. Babb's recent death—that it
should take place at the parsonage. Miss Dilworth was secretly
bent on having a bridesmaid, who should, of course, be
Hannah Thurston, but was obliged to relinquish her project,
through the unexpected resistance which it encountered on
the part of Bute. “None of the fellows that I could ask to
stand up with me would do for her,” said he.

“Why not Mr. Woodbury?” suggested Miss Carrie.

“He! Well—he'd do it in a minute if I was to ask him, but
I won't. Between you and me, Carrie, they can't bear each
other; they're like cats and dogs.”

“Bute! a'n't you ashamed?”

“What? O' tellin' the truth? No, nor a'n't likely to be.
See here, Carrie, why can't we let it alone? Mr. Waldo'll tie
us jist as tight, all the same, and when it's over you won't
know the difference.”

“But—Bute,” Miss Carrie persisted, “I think she expects
it of me.”

“She ha'n't set her heart on it, I'll be bound. I'll ask her.
Miss Hannah!”

The two were in the open air, at the corner of the cottage
nearest the garden. The window of the little sitting-room
was open, and Bute's call brought Miss Thurston to it.

“Oh, Bute, don't!” pleaded Miss Dilworth, ready to cry,
but he had already gone too far to stop. “Miss Hannah,”
said he, “we're talkin' about the weddin'. I'm thinkin' it'll
be jist as well without waiters. Carrie'd like to have you for
bridesmaid, and I'm sure I'd be glad of it, only, you know,
you'd have to stand up with somebody on my side, and there's
nobody I could ask but Mr. Max, and—and I'm afraid that
wouldn't be agreeable, like, for either o' you.”

“Bute!” cried Carrie, in real distress.

Bute, however, was too sure of the truth of what he had
said to suspect that he could possibly give pain by uttering it.
The first rude shock of his words over, Hannah Thurston felt
greatly relieved. “You were right to tell me, Arbutus,” said
she; “for, although I should be quite willing, at another time,
to do as Carrie wishes, no matter whom you might choose as
your nearest friend, I think it best, at present, that there
should be as little ceremony as possible. I will talk with you
about it afterwards, Carrie.” And she moved away from the
window.

At length the important day arrived. Bute woke when the
cocks crowed three o'clock, and found it impossible to get to
sleep again. His new clothes (not made by Seth Wattles)
were in the top drawer of the old bureau, and Melinda had
laid some sprigs of lavender among them. He tried to
imagine how he would look in them, how he would feel during
the ceremony and afterwards, how curious it must be to have
a wife of your own, and everybody know it. He pictured to
himself his friends on the neighboring farms, saying: “How's
your wife, Bute?” when they met, and then he thought of

Mother Forty, and what a pity that she had not lived long
enough to know Carrie Wilson—who, of course, would be a
very different creature from Carrie Dilworth; but he always
came back to the new clothes in the top bureau-drawer, and
the duty of the day that was beginning to dawn. Then, he
heard Pat.'s voice among the cattle at the barn; then, a stirring
in the kitchen under him, and presently the noise of the
coffee-mill—and still it was not light enough to shave! More
slowly than ever before the sun rose; his toilet, which usually
lasted five minutes, took half an hour; he combed his hair in
three different ways, none of which was successful; and finally
went down to breakfast, feeling more awkward and uncomfortable
than ever before in his life.

Woodbury shook hands with him and complimented him on
his appearance, after which he felt more composed. The
preparations for the ride to Ptolemy, nevertheless, impressed
him with a certain solemnity, as if he were a culprit awaiting
execution or a corpse awaiting burial. A feeling of helplessness
came over him: the occasion seemed to have been
brought about, not so much by his own will as by an omnipotent
fate which had taken him at his word. Presently Pat.
came up grinning, dressed in his Sunday suit, and announced:
“The hosses is ready, Misther Bute, and it'll be time we're
off.” After the ceremony Pat. was to drive the happy pair to
Tiberius, where they proposed spending a honeymoon of two
days with the bride's old aunt. He wore a bright blue coat
with brass buttons, and Melinda had insisted on pinning a
piece of white ribbon on the left lappel, “Kase,” as she remarked,
“down Souf ole Missus always had 'um so.”

Woodbury mounted his horse and rode off, in advance,
through the soft September morning. At the parsonage he
found every thing in readiness. Mrs. Waldo, sparkling with
satisfaction, rustled about in a dark-green silk (turned, and
with the spots carefully erased by camphene), vibrating incessantly
between the little parlor where the ceremony was to
take place, and the bedroom up-stairs, where the bride was

being arrayed under the direction of Hannah Thurston.
Nothing, as she candidly confessed, enlisted her sympathies so
completely as a wedding, and it was the great inconvenience
of a small congregation that her husband had so few occasions
to officiate.

“Promise me, Mr. Woodbury,” she said, as she finally
paused in her movements, from the impossibility of finding
any thing else to do, “that you will be married by nobody but
Mr. Waldo.”

“I can safely promise that,” he answered: “but pray don't
ask me to fix the time when it shall take place.”

“If it depended on me, I would say to-morrow. Ah, there
is Bute! How nicely he looks!” With these words she went
to the door and admitted him.

Bute's illness had bleached the tan and subdued the defiant
ruddiness of his skin. In black broadcloth and the white silk
gloves (white kids, of the proper number, were not to be
found in Ptolemy) into which he had been unwillingly persuaded
to force his large hands, an air of semi-refinement overspread
the strong masculine expression of his face and body. His
hair, thinned by fever and closely cut, revealed the shape
of his well-balanced head, and the tender blue gleam in his
honest eyes made them positively beautiful. Mrs. Waldo
expressed her approval of his appearance, without the least
reserve.

Soon afterwards, a rustling was heard on the stairs; the
door opened, and Miss Carrie Dilworth entered the parlor with
blushing cheeks and downcast eyes, followed by Hannah
Thurston, in the white muslin dress and pearl-colored ribbons
which Woodbury so well remembered. The bride was really
charming in her gray, silvery silk, and a light-green wreath
crowning her rippled hair. Orange-blossoms were not to be
had in Ptolemy, and there were no white garden-flowers in
bloom except larkspurs, which of course were not to be
thought of. Hannah Thurston, therefore, persuaded her to
content herself with a wreath of the myrtle-leaved box, as the

nearest approach to the conventional bridal diadem, and the
effect was simple and becoming.

Each of the parties was agreeably surprised at the other's
appearance. Bute, not a little embarrassed as to how he
should act, took Miss Dilworth's hand, and held it in his own,
deliberating whether or not it was expected that he should
kiss her then and there. Miss Dilworth, finding that he did
not let it go, boldly answered the pressure and clung to him
with a natural and touching air of dependence and reliance.
Nothing could have been more charming than the appearance
of the two, as they stood together in the centre of the little
room, he all man, she all woman, in the most sacred moment
of life. They expressed the sweetest relation of the sexes, he
yielding in his tenderness, she confiding in her trust. No
declaration of mutual rights, no suspicious measurement of
the words of the compact, no comparison of powers granted
with powers received, but a blind, unthinking, blissful, reciprocal
self-bestowal. This expression in their attitude and their
faces did not escape Hannah Thurston's eye. It forced upon
her mind doubts which she would willingly have avoided, but
which she was only strong enough to postpone.

Pat. had already slipped into the room, and stood awkwardly
in a corner, holding his hat in both hands. The only other
stranger present was Miss Sophia Stevenson, who had kindly
assisted the bride in the preparation of her wardrobe, and who
differed from her sister spinster, Miss Ruhaney Goodwin, in
the fact that she was always more ready to smile than sigh.
All being assembled, Mr. Waldo came forward and performed
the simple but impressive ceremony, following it with an
earnest prayer. Miss Carrie lifted up her head and pronounced
the “I will” with courage, but during the prayer she bent it
again so that it partly rested against Bute's shoulder. When
the final “Amen!” was said, Bute very gently and solemnly
kissed his wife, and both were then heartily congratulated by
the clergyman, who succeeded in closing his lips sufficiently
to achieve the salute which an old friend might take without

blame. Then there were hearty greetings all round: the certificate
of marriage was signed and given to the wife for safekeeping,
as if its existence were more important to her than
to the husband; and finally Mrs. Waldo prepared what the
Hon. Zeno Harder would have called a “coe-lation.” Woodbury
had been thoughtful enough to send to the parsonage a
bottle or two of the old Dennison Madeira, rightly judging
that if Mrs. Babb had been alive, she would have desired it
for the reason that “she” would have done the same thing.
On this occasion all partook of the pernicious beverage except
Hannah Thurston, and even she was surprised to find but a
very mild condemnation in her feelings. The newly-wedded
couple beamed with a mixture of relief and contentment;
Carrie was delighted at hearing herself addressed as “Mrs.
Wilson,” and even Bute found the words “your wife,” after
the first ten minutes, not the least strange or embarrassing.

Presently, however, the wife slipped away to reappear in a
pink gingham and a plaid shawl. The horses were ready at the
door, and Pat. was grinning, whip in hand, as he stowed away
a small carpet-bag, containing mingled male and female articles,
under the seat. A few curious spectators waited on the plank
side-walk, opposite, but Bute, having gone through the grand
ordeal, now felt courage to face the world. As they took
their seats, and Pat. gave a preliminary flourish of his whip,
Mrs. Waldo produced an ancient slipper of her own, ready to
hurl it at the right moment. The horses started; the slipper
flew, whizzed between their heads and dropped into the bottom
of the carriage.

“Don't look back!” she cried; but there was no danger of
that. The road must have been very rough, for Bute was
obliged to put his arm around his wife's waist, and the dust
must have been very dense, for she had raised her handkerchief
to her eyes.

“Will you take care of me to-day?” said Woodbury to the
Waldos. “I shall not go back to Lakeside until evening.”