UNEXPECTED.
The wedding party was assembled at the Ship, which for this day
concerned itself not with outsiders, but provided only for such as
were invited to sit and drink, free of charge, to the health and
happiness of bride and bridegroom.
The invitation had been extended to the kinsfolk of Jonas in the
Punch-Bowl, as a matter of course; but none had accepted, one had
his farm, another his business, and a third could not go unless his
wife let him.
Consequently the bridegroom was badly supported. He was not the man
to make friends, and such acquaintances of his as appeared did
so, not out of friendship, but in expectation of eating and drinking
at the landlord's table.
This angered Jonas, who, in church, on looking around, had noticed
that his own family had failed to attend, but that they should
fail also at the feast was what surprised him.
"It don't matter a rush," scoffed he in Mehetabel's ear, "we can
get along without 'em, and if they won't come to eat roast duck
and green peas, there are others who will and say 'Thank'y.'"
The announcement of Jonas's engagement had been indeed too bitter
a morsel for his sister to swallow. She resented his matrimonial
project as a personal wrong, as a robbery committed on the Rocliffes.
Her husband was not in good circumstances; in fact, the family
had become involved through a marriage, to which allusion has
already been made; and had not thereafter been able to recover
from it.
She had felt the pressure of debt, and the struggle for existence.
It had eaten into her flesh like a canker, and had turned her
heart into wormwood. In her pinched circumstances, even the pittance
paid by her brother for doing his cooking and washing had been a
consideration. This now was to be withdrawn.
Sarah Rocliffe had set her ambition on the acquisition of her
brother's estate, by which means alone, as far as she could see,
would the family be enabled to shake off the incubus that oppressed
it. Content in her own lifetime to drudge and moil, she would have
gone on to the end, grumbling and fault-finding, indeed, but
satisfied with the prospect that at some time in the future her
son would inherit the adjoining farm and be lifted thereby out of
the sorry position in which was his father, hampered on all sides,
and without cheeriness.
But this hope was now taken from her. Jonas was marrying a young
and vigorous wife, and a family was certain to follow.
The woman had not the command over herself to veil her feelings,
and put on a semblance of good humor, not even the grace to put in
an appearance at the wedding.
The story must now be told which accounts for the embarrassed
circumstances of the Rocliffe family.
This shall be done by means of an extract from a periodical of the
date of the event which clouded the hitherto flourishing condition
of the Rocliffes. The periodical from which the quotation comes is
"The Royal Magazine, or Gentleman's Monthly Companion" for 1765.
"A few weeks ago a gentlewoman, about twenty-five years of age,
applied to a farmer and broom-maker, near Hadleigh, in Hants [1] for
a lodging, telling them that she was the daughter of a nobleman,
and forced from her father's house by his ill-treatment. Her manner
of relating the story so affected the farmer that he took her in,
and kindly entertained her.
"In the course of conversation, she artfully let drop that she
had a portion of L90,000, of which she should be possessed as soon
as her friends in London knew where she was.
"After some days' stay she told the farmer the best return in her
power for this favor would be to marry his son, Thomas (a lad
about eighteen), if it was agreeable to him. The poor old man was
overjoyed at the proposal, and in a short time they were married;
after which she informed her father-in-law she had great, interest
at Court, and if he could for the present raise money to equip
them in a genteel manner, she could procure a colonel's commission
for her husband.
"The credulous farmer thereupon mortgaged his little estate for
L100, and everything necessary being bought for the new married
couple, they took the rest of the money and set out for London,
accompanied by three of the farmer's friends, and got to the Bear
Inn, in the Borough, on Christmas eve; where they lived for about
ten days in an expensive manner; and she went in a coach every
morning to St. James's end of the town, on pretence of soliciting
for her husband's commission, and to obtain her own fortune. But
it was at length discovered that the woman was an impostor; and
the poor country people were obliged to sell their horses by
auction towards defraying the expenses of the inn before they
could set out on their return home, which they did on foot, last
Saturday morning."
If the hundred pounds raised on mortgage had covered all the
expenses incurred, the Rocliffes might have been satisfied.
Unhappily they got further involved. They fell into the hands of
a lawyer in Portsmouth, who undertook to see them righted, but the
only advantage they gained from his intervention was the acquisition
of certain information that the woman who had married Thomas had
been married before.
Accordingly Thomas was free, and he used his freedom some years
later, when of a ripe age, to marry Sarah Kink, the sister of
Bideabout.
Rocliffe had never been able to shake himself free of the ridicule
that attended to him, after the expedition to London, and what
was infinitely more vexatious and worse to endure was the burden
of debt that had then been incurred, and which was more than
doubled through the activity of the lawyer by whom he had been
inveigled into submitting himself and his affairs to him.
As the eating and drinking proceeded, the Broom-Squire drank
copiously, became noisy, boastful, and threw out sarcastic remarks
calculated to hit those who ate and drank with him, but were mainly
directed against those of his own family who had absented themselves,
but to whose ears he was confident they would be wafted.
Mehetabel, who saw that he was imbibing more than he could bear
without becoming quarrelsome lost her pallor, and a hectic flame
kindled in her cheek.
Mrs. Verstage looked on uneasily. She was familiar with the moods
of Bideabout, and feared the turn matters would take.
Presently he announced that he would sing a song, and in harsh
tones began:--
"A cobbler there was, and he lived in a stall,
But Charlotte, my nymph, had no lodging at all.
And at a Broom-Squire's, in pitiful plight,
Did pray and beseech for a lodging one night,
Derry-down, derry-down.
"She asked for admittance, her story to tell.
Of all her misfortunes, and what her befel,
Of her parentage high,--but so great was her grief,
Shed never a comfort to give her relief,
Derry-down, derry-down. [2]
"Now, look here," said Simon Verstage, interrupting the singer,
"We all of us know that there ballet, pretty well. It's vastly
long, if I remembers aright, something like fourteen verses; and
I think we can do very well wi'out it to-night. I fancy your
brother-inlaw, Thomas, mightn't relish it."
"He's not here," said the Broom-Squire.
"But I am here," said the landlord, "and I say that the piece is
too long for singing, 'twill make you too hoarse to say purty
speeches and soft things to your new missus, and it's a bit stale
for our ears."
"It's an ill bird that befouls its own nest," said a young fellow
present.
Bideabout overheard the remark. "What do you mean by that? Was
that aimed at me?" he shouted and started to his feet.
A brawl would have inevitably ensued, but for a timely interruption.
In the door stood a well-dressed, good-looking young man, surveying
the assembled company with a smile.
Silence ensued. Bideabout looked round.
Then, with a cry of joy, mingled with pain, Mrs. Verstage started
from her feet.
"It is Iver! my Iver!"
In another moment mother and son were locked in each other's arms.
The guests rose and looked questioningly at their host, before
they welcomed the intruder.
Simon Verstage remained seated, with his glass in his hand, gazing
sternly into it. His face became mottled, red spots appeared on
the temples, and on the cheekbones; elsewhere he was pale.
Mehetabel went to him, placed her hand upon his, and said, in a
trembling voice, "Dear father, this is my wedding day. I am about
to leave you for good. Do not deny me the one and only request I
make. Forgive Iver."
The old man's lips moved, but he did not speak. He looked steadily,
somewhat sternly, at the young man and mustered his appearance.
Meanwhile Iver had disengaged himself from his mother's embrace,
and he came towards his father with extended hand.
"See," said he cheerily, "I am free to admit, and do it heartily,
that I did wrong, in painting over the stern of the vessel, and
putting it into perspective as far as my lights went. Father! I
can remove the coat of paint that I put on, and expose that
outrageous old stern again. I will do more. I will violate all
the laws of perspective in heaven and earth, and turn the bows
round also, so as to thoroughly show the ship's head, and make
that precious vessel look like a dog curling itself up for a nap.
Will that satisfy you?"
All the guests were silent, and fixed their eyes anxiously on the
taverner.
Iver was frank in speech, had lost all provincial dialect, was
quite the gentleman. He had put off the rustic air entirely. He
was grown a very handsome fellow, with oval face, full hair on his
head, somewhat curling, and his large brown eyes were sparkling
with pleasure at being again at home. In his whole bearing there
was self-confidence.
"Simon!" pleaded Mrs. Verstage, with tears in her voice, "he's
your own flesh and blood!"
He remained unmoved.
"Father!" said Mehetabel, clinging to his hand, "Dear, dear
father! for my sake, whom you have loved, and whom you lose out
of your house to-day."
"There is my hand," said the old man.
"And you shall have the ship again just as suits your heart,"
said Iver.
"I doubt," answered the taverner, "it will be easier to get the
Old Ship to look what she ort, than it will be to get you to look
again like a publican's son."
The reconciliation on the old man's side was without cordiality,
yet it was accepted by all present with cheers and handshakings.
It was but too obvious that the modish appearance of his son had
offended the old man.
"Heaven bless me!" exclaimed Iver, when this commotion was somewhat
allayed. He was looking with undisguised admiration and surprise
at Mehetabel.
"Why," asked he, pushing his way towards her, "What is the meaning
of all this?"
"That is Matabel, indeed," explained his mother. "And this is her
wedding day."
"You married! You, Matabel! And, to-day! The day of my return!
Where is the happy man? Show him to me."
His mother indicated the bridegroom. Mehetabel's heart was too
full to speak; she was too dazed with the new turn of affairs to
know what to do.
Iver looked steadily at Jonas.
"What!" he exclaimed, "Bideabout! Never, surely! I cannot mistake
your face nor the look of your eyes. So, you have won the
prize--you!"
Still he looked at Jonas. He refrained from extending his hand in
congratulation. Whether thoughtlessly or not, he put it behind his
back. An expression passed over his face that the bride observed,
and it sent the blood flying to her cheek and temples.
"So," said Iver, and now he held out both hands, "Little Matabel,
I have returned to lose you!"
He wrung her hands, both,--he would not let them go.
"I wish you all joy. I wish you everything, everything that your
heart can desire. But I am surprised. I can't realize it all at
once. My little Matabel grown so big, become so handsome--and,
hang me, leaving the Old Ship! Poor Old Ship! Bideabout, I ought
to have been consulted. I gave Matabel her name. I have certain
rights over her, and I won't surrender them all in a hurry. Here,
mother, give me a glass, 'tis a strange day on which I come home."
Dissatisfaction appeared in his face, hardly to be expected in one
who should have been in cloudless radiance on his return after
years of absence, and with his quarrel with the father at an end.
Now old acquaintances crowded about him to ask questions as to how
he had lived during his absence, upon what he had been employed,
how the world had fared with him, whether he was married, and if
so, how many children he had got, and what were their respective
ages and sexes, and names and statures.
For a while bride and bridegroom were outside the circle, and
Iver was the centre of interest and regard. Iver responded
good-humoredly and pleaded for patience. He was hungry, he was
thirsty, he was dusty and hot. He must postpone personal details
till a more convenient season. Now his mind was taken up with the
thought, not of himself, but of his old playmate, his almost
sister, his--he might dare to call her, first love--who was
stepping out of the house, out of his reach, just as he stepped
back into it, strong with the anticipation of finding her there.
Then raising his glass, and looking at Matabel, he said: "Here's
to you, Matabel, and may you be very happy with the man of your
choice."
"Have you no good wish for me?" sneered the Broom-Squire.
"For you, Bideabout," answered Iver, "I do not express a wish. I
know for certainty that you, that any man, not may, but must be
happy with such a girl, unless he be a cur."