University of Virginia Library

34. CHAPTER XXXIV.
THE WEDDING.

The neighborhood had decreed it. There was but one
just, proper, and satisfactory conclusion to all these events.
The decision of Kennett was unanimous that its story
should be speedily completed. New-Garden, Marlborough,
and Pennsbury, so far as heard from, gave their hearty
consent; and the people would have been seriously disappointed
— the tide of sympathy might even have been
checked — had not Gilbert Barton and Martha Deane prepared
to fulfil the parts assigned to them.

Dr. Deane, of course, floated with the current. He was
too shrewd to stand forth as a conspicuous obstacle to the
consummation of the popular sense of justice. He gave,
at once, his full consent to the nuptials, and took the necessary
steps, in advance, for the transfer of his daughter's
fortune into her own hands. In short, as Miss Lavender
observed, there was an end of snarls. The lives of the
lovers were taken up, as by a skilful hand, and evenly
reeled together.

Gilbert now might have satisfied his ambition (and the
people, under the peculiar circumstances of the case, would
have sanctioned it) by buying the finest farm in the neighborhood;
but Martha had said, —

“No other farm can be so much yours, and none so welcome
a home to me. Let us be satisfied with it, at least
for the first years.”

And therein she spoke wisely.

It was now the middle of May, and the land was clothed

in tender green, and filled with the sweet breath of sap
and bud and blossom. The vivid emerald of the willow-trees,
the blush of orchards, and the cones of snowy bloom
along the wood-sides, shone through and illumined even
the days of rain. The Month of Marriage wooed them in
every sunny morning, in every twilight fading under the
torch of the lovers' star.

In spite of Miss Lavender's outcries, and Martha's grave
doubts, a fortnight's delay was all that Gilbert would allow.
He would have dispensed with bridal costumes and merrymakings,
— so little do men understand of these matters;
but he was hooted down, overruled, ignored, and made to
feel his proper insignificance. Martha almost disappeared
from his sight during the interval. She was sitting up-stairs
in a confusion of lutestring, whalebone, silk, and cambric;
and when she came down to him for a moment, the
kiss had scarcely left her lips before she began to speak of
the make of his new coat, and the fashion of the articles
he was still expected to furnish.

If he visited Fairthorn's, it was even worse. The sight
of him threw Sally into such a flutter that she sewed the
right side of one breadth to the wrong side of another, attempted
to clear-starch a woollen stocking, or even, on one
occasion, put a fowl into the pot, unpicked and undressed.
It was known all over the country that Sally and Mark
Deane were to be bridesmaid and groomsman, and they
both determined to make a brave appearance.

But there was another feature of the coming nuptials
which the people did not know. Gilbert and Martha had
determined that Miss Betsy Lavender should be second
bridesmaid, and Martha had sent to Wilmington for a purple
silk, and a stomacher of the finest cambric, in which to
array her. A groomsman of her age was not so easy to
find; but young Pratt, who had stood so faithfully by Gilbert
during the chase of Sandy Flash, merrily avowed his
willingness to play the part; and so it was settled without
Miss Lavender's knowledge.

The appointed morning came, bringing a fair sky, mottled
with gentle, lingering clouds, and a light wind from
the west. The wedding company were to meet at Kennett
Square, and then ride to Squire Sinclair's, where the ceremony
would be performed by that magistrate; and before
ten o'clock, the hour appointed for starting, all the surrounding
neighborhood poured into the village. The
hitching-bar in front of the Unicorn, and every post of
fence or garden-paling, was occupied by the tethered
horses. The wedding-guests, comprising some ten or fifteen
persons, assembled at Dr. Deane's, and each couple,
as they arrived, produced an increasing excitement among
the spectators.

The fact that Alfred Barton had been formally pardoned
by his wife and son, did not lessen the feeling with which
he was regarded, but it produced a certain amount of forbearance.
The people were curious to know whether he
had been bidden to the wedding, and the conviction was
general that he had no business to be there. The truth is,
it had been left free to him whether to come or not, and he
had very prudently chosen to be absent.

Dr. Deane had set up a “chair,” which was to be used
for the first time on this occasion. It was a ponderous
machine, with drab body and wheels, and curtains of drab
camlet looped up under its stately canopy. When it appeared
at the gate, the Doctor came forth, spotless in attire,
bland, smiling, a figure of sober gloss and agreeable odors.
He led Mary Barton by the hand; and her steel-colored
silk and white crape shawl so well harmonized with his
appearance, that the two might have been taken for man
and wife. Her face was calm, serene, and full of quiet
gratitude. They took their places in the chair, the lines
were handed to the Doctor, and he drove away, nodding
right and left to the crowd.

Now the horses were brought up in pairs, and the
younger guests began to mount. The people gathered

closer and closer; and when Sam appeared, leading the
well-known and beloved Roger, there was a murmur which,
in a more demonstrative community, would have been a
cheer. Somebody had arranged a wreath of lilac and
snowy viburnum, and fastened it around Roger's forehead;
and he seemed to wear it consciously and proudly. Many
a hand was stretched forth to pat and stroke the noble animal,
and everybody smiled when he laid his head caressingly
over the neck of Martha's gray.

Finally, only six horses remained unmounted; then
there seemed to be a little delay in-doors. It was explained
when young Pratt appeared, bold and bright, leading
the reluctant Miss Lavender, rustling in purple splendor,
and blushing — actually blushing — as she encountered
the eyes of the crowd. The latter were delighted. There
was no irony in the voice that cried, — “Hurrah for Betsy
Lavender!” and the cheer that followed was the expression
of a downright, hearty good will. She looked around from
her saddle, blushing, smiling, and on the point of bursting
into tears; and it was a godsend, as she afterwards remarked,
that Mark Deane and Sally Fairthorn appeared at
that moment.

Mark, in sky-blue coat and breeches, suggested, with his
rosy face and yellow locks, a son of the morning; while
Sally's white muslin and cherry-colored scarf heightened
the rich beauty of her dark hair and eyes, and her full,
pouting lips. They were a buxom pair, and both were too
happy in each other and in the occasion, to conceal the
least expression of it.

There now only remained our hero and heroine, who immediately
followed. No cheer greeted them, for the wonderful
chain of circumstances which had finally brought
them together, made the joy of the day solemn, and the
sympathy of the people reverential. Mark and Sally represented
the delight of betrothal; these two the earnest
sanctity of wedlock.

Gilbert was plainly yet richly dressed in a bottle-green
coat, with white waistcoat and breeches; his ruffles, gloves,
hat, and boots were irreproachable. So manly looking a
bridegroom had not been seen in Kennett for many a day.
Martha's dress of heavy pearl-gray satin was looped up
over a petticoat of white dimity, and she wore a short cloak
of white crape. Her hat, of the latest style, was adorned
with a bunch of roses and a white, drooping feather. In
the saddle, she was charming; and as the bridal pair slowly
rode forward, followed by their attendants in the proper
order, a murmur of admiration, in which there was no envy
and no ill-natured qualification, went after them.

A soft glitter of sunshine, crossed by the shadows of
slow-moving clouds, lay upon the landscape. Westward,
the valley opened in quiet beauty, the wooded hills on
either side sheltering, like protecting arms, the white farm-houses,
the gardens, and rosy orchards scattered along its
floor. On their left, the tall grove rang with the music of
birds, and was gay, through all its light-green depths, with
the pink blossoms of the wild azalea. The hedges, on
either side, were purple with young sprays, and a bright,
breathing mass of sweet-brier and wild grape crowned the
overhanging banks, between which the road ascended the
hill beyond.

At first the company were silent; but the enlivening
motion of the horses, the joy of the coming summer, the
affectionate sympathy of Nature, soon disposed them to a
lighter mood. At Hallowell's, the men left their hoes in
the corn-field, and the women their household duties, to
greet them by the roadside. Mark looked up at the new
barn, and exclaimed, —

“Not quite a year ago! Do you mind it, Gilbert?”

Martha pointed to the green turf in front of the house,
and said with an arch voice, —

“Gilbert, do you remember the question you put to me,
that evening?”

And finally Sally burst out, in mock indignation, —

“Gilbert, there 's where you snapped me up, because I
wanted you to dance with Martha; what do you think of
yourself now?”

“You all forget,” he answered, “that you are speaking
of somebody else.”

“How? somebody else?” asked Sally.

“Yes; I mean Gilbert Potter.”

“Not a bad turn-off,” remarked Miss Lavender. “He 's
too much for you. But I 'm glad, anyhow, you 've got
your tongues, for it was too much like a buryin' before, and
me fixed up like King Solomon, what for, I 'd like to
know? and the day made o' purpose for a weddin', and
true-love all right for once't — I 'd like just to holler and
sing and make merry to my heart's content, with a nice
young man alongside o' me, too, a thing that don't often
happen!”

They were heartily, but not boisterously, merry after
this; but as they reached the New-Garden road, there
came a wild yell from the rear, and the noise of galloping
hoofs. Before the first shock of surprise had subsided, the
Fairthorn gray mare thundered up, with Joe and Jake upon
her back, the scarlet lining of their blue cloaks flying to
the wind, their breeches covered with white hair from the
mare's hide, and their faces wild with delight. They yelled
again as they drew rein at the head of the procession.

“Why, what upon earth” — began Sally; but Joe saved
her the necessity of a question.

“Daddy said we should n't go!” he cried. “But we
would, — we got Bonnie out o' the field, and put off!
Cousin Martha, you 'll let us go along and see you get
married; won't you, now? Maybe we 'll never have
another chance!”

This incident produced great amusement. The boys
received the permission they coveted, but were ordered to
the rear Mark reminding them that as he was soon to be

their uncle, they must learn, betimes, to give heed to his
authority.

“Be quiet, Mark!” exclaimed Sally, with a gentle slap.

“Well, I don't begrudge it to 'em,” said Miss Lavender.
“It 's somethin' for 'em to remember when they 're mengrown;
and they belong to the fam'ly, which I don't; but
never mind, all the same, no more do you, Mr. Pratt; and
I wish I was younger, to do credit to you!”

Merrily trotted the horses along the bit of level upland;
and then, as the land began to fall towards the western
branch of Redley Creek, they saw the Squire's house on a
green knoll to the north, and Dr. Deane's new chair already
resting in the shade of the gigantic sycamore at the door.
The lane-gates were open, the Squire's parlor was arranged
for their reception; and after the ladies had put themselves
to rights, in the upper rooms, the company gathered together
for the ceremony.

Sunshine, and hum of bees, and murmur of winds, and
scent of flowers, came in through the open windows, and
the bridal pair seemed to stand in the heart of the perfect
spring-time. Yet tears were shed by all the women except
the bride; and Sally Fairthorn was so absorbed by the
rush of her emotions, that she came within an ace of saying
“I will!” when the Squire put the question to Martha.
The ceremony was brief and plain, but the previous history
of the parties made it very impressive. When they
had been pronounced man and wife, and the certificate of
marriage had been duly signed and witnessed by all present,
Mary Barton stepped forward and kissed her son and
daughter with a solemn tenderness. Then the pent-up
feelings of all the others broke loose, and the amount of
embracing which followed was something quite unusual for
Kennett. Betsy Lavender was not cheated out of her due
share; on the contrary, it was ever afterwards reported
that she received more salutes than even the bride. She
was kissed by Gilbert, by Mark, by her young partner, by

Dr. Deane, and lastly by the jolly Squire himself, — to say
nothing of the feminine kisses, which, indeed, being very
imperfect gifts, hardly deserve to be recorded.

“Well!” she exclaimed, pushing her ruffled hair behind
her ears, and smoothing down her purple skirt, “to think
o' my bein' kissed by so many men, in my old days! —
but why not? — it may be my last chance, as Joe Fairthorn
says, and laugh if you please, I 've got the best of
it; and I don't belie my natur', for twistin' your head away
and screechin' is only make-believe, and the more some
screeches the more they want to be kissed; but fair and
square, say I, — if you want it take it, and that 's just
what I 've done!”

There was a fresh rush for Miss Lavender after this,
and she stood her ground with commendable patience,
until Mark ventured to fold her in a good-natured hug,
when she pushed him away, saying, —

“For the Lord's sake, don't spile my new things!
There — go 'way, now! I 've had enough to last me
ten year!”

Dr. Deane soon set out with Mary Barton, in the chair,
and the rest of the company mounted their horses, to ride
back to Kennett Square by the other road, past the quarries
and across Tuffkenamon.

As they halted in the broad, shallow bed of the creek,
letting their horses drink from the sparkling water, while
the wind rollicked among the meadow bloom of golden
saxifrage and scarlet painted-cup and blue spiderwort
before them, the only accident of the day occurred; but
it was not of a character to disturb their joyous mood.

The old Fairthorn mare stretched her neck to its utmost
length before she bent it to drink, obliging Joe to
lean forwards over her shoulder, to retain his hold of the
short rein. Jake, holding on to Joe, leaned with him, and
they waited in this painful posture till the mare slowly
filled herself from the stream. Finally she seemed to be

satisfied; she paused, snorted, and then, with wide nostrils,
drank an equal amount of air. Her old sides swelled;
the saddle-girth, broken in two places long before, and
mended with tow-strings, suddenly parted, and Joe, Jake,
saddle and all, tumbled down her neck into the water.
They scrambled out in a lamentable plight, soused and
dripping, amid the endless laughter of the company, and
were glad to keep to the rear for the remainder of the
ride.

In Dr. Deane's house, meanwhile, there were great preparations
for the wedding-dinner. A cook had been brought
from Wilmington, at an unheard-of expense, and the village
was filled with rumors of the marvellous dishes she was to
produce. There were pippins encased in orange-peel and
baked; a roasted peacock, with tail spread; a stuffed rock-fish;
a whole ham enveloped in dough, like a loaf of bread,
and set in the oven; and a wilderness of the richest and
rarest pies, tarts, and custards.

Whether all these rumors were justified by the dinner,
we will not undertake to say; it is certain that the meal,
which was spread in the large sitting-room, was most bountiful.
No one was then shocked by the decanters of Port
and Canary wine upon the sideboard, or refused to partake
of the glasses of foamy egg-nog offered to them from
time to time, through the afternoon. The bride-cake was
considered a miracle of art, and the fact that Martha divided
it with a steady hand, making the neatest and cleanest
of cuts, was considered a good omen for her married
life. Bits of the cake were afterwards in great demand
throughout the neighborhood, not so much to eat, as to
dream upon.

The afternoon passed away rapidly, with mirth and
noise, in the adjoining parlor. Sally Fairthorn found a
peculiar pleasure in calling her friend “Martha Barton!”
whereupon Mark said, —

“Wait a bit, Martha, and you can pay her back. Daddy

Fairthorn promised this morning to give me a buildin'
lot off the field back o' the corner, and just as soon as
Rudd's house is up, I 'm goin' to work at mine.”

“Mark, do hush!” Sally exclaimed, reddening, “and
before everybody!”

Miss Lavender sat in the midst, stately, purple, and so
transformed that she professed she no longer knew her
own self. She was, nevertheless, the life of the company;
the sense of what she had done to bring on the marriage
was a continual source of inspiration. Therefore, when
songs were proposed and sung, and Mark finally called
upon her, uproariously seconded by all the rest, she was
moved, for the last time in her life, to comply.

“I dunno what you mean, expectin' such a thing o' me,”
she said. “'Pears to me I 'm fool enough already, settin'
here in purple and fine linen, like the Queen o' Rome, —
not that I don't like singin', but the contràry, quite the
reverse; but with me it 'd be a squawk and nothin' else;
and fine feathers may make fine birds for what I care,
more like a poll-parrot than a nightingale, and they say
you must stick thorns into 'em to make 'em sing; but I
guess it 'll be t' other way, and my singin' 'll stick thorns
into you!”

They would take no denial; she could and must sing
them a song. She held out until Martha said, “for my
wedding-day, Betsy!” and Gilbert added, “and mine, too.”
Then she declared, “Well, if I must, I s'pose I must.
But as for weddin'-songs, such as I 've heerd in my younger
days, I dunno one of 'em, and my head 's pretty much
cleared o' such things, savin' and exceptin' one that might
be a sort o' warnin' for Mark Deane, who knows? — not
that there 's sea-farin' men about these parts; but never
mind, all the same; if you don't like it, Mark, you 've brung
it onto yourself!”

Thereupon, after shaking herself, gravely composing her
face, and clearing her throat, she began, in a high, shrill,

piercing voice, rocking her head to the peculiar lilt of the
words, and interpolating short explanatory remarks, to
sing —

THE BALLAD OF THE HOUSE—CARPENTÈR.

“She says, —
“He goes on sayin', —
“Then she, —
“So look out, Mark! and remember, all o' you, that they're
talkin' turn about; and he begins —
“Now, Mark, here comes the Moral:

The shouts and laughter which greeted the conclusion
of Miss Lavender's song brought Dr. Deane into the room.
He was a little alarmed lest his standing in the Society
might be damaged by so much and such unrestrained merriment
under his roof. Still he had scarcely the courage
to reprimand the bright, joyous faces before him; he only
smiled, shook his head, and turned to leave.

“I 'm a-goin', too,” said Miss Lavender, rising. “The
sun 's not an hour high, and the Doctor, or somebody, must
take Mary Barton home; and it 's about time the rest o'
you was makin' ready; though they 've gone on with the
supper, there 's enough to do when you get there!”

The chair rolled away again, and the bridal party remounted

their horses in the warm, level light of the sinking
sun. They were all in their saddles except Gilbert
and Martha.

“Go on!” he cried, in answer to their calls; “we will
follow.”

“It won't be half a home-comin', without you 're along,”
said Mark; “but I see you want it so. Come on, boys
and girls!”

Gilbert returned to the house and met Martha, descending
the stairs in her plain riding-dress. She descended
into his open arms, and rested there, silent, peaceful, filled
with happy rest.

“My wife at last, and forever!” he whispered.

They mounted and rode out of the village. The fields
were already beginning to grow gray under the rosy amber
of the western sky. The breeze had died away, but the
odors it had winnowed from orchard and meadow still
hung in the air. Faint cheeps and chirps of nestling life
came from the hedges and grassy nooks of bank and
thicket, but they deepened, not disturbed, the delicious
repose settling upon the land. Husband and wife rode
slowly, and their friendly horses pressed nearer to each
other, and there was none to see how their eyes grew
deeper and darker with perfect tenderness, their lips more
sweetly soft and warm, with the unspoken, because unspeakable,
fortune of love. In the breath of that happy
twilight all the pangs of the Past melted away; disgrace,
danger, poverty, trial, were behind them; and before them,
nestling yet unseen in the green dell which divided the
glimmering landscape, lay the peace, the shelter, the life-long
blessing of Home.