“’TIS a rare sight this, granfer, for a weddin’. I only wish as how my
old mother what’s bedridden upstairs—her’s ninety, come Thursday—could
crawl down along and glad her aged eyes wi’ it. But that’s more a’most
than we can claim o’ the Almighty, seein’ she’s kept her bed now for nigh
on five years. Not but what she’s rare and hearty still, and can eat her
bread an’ cheese and drain a pot of beer most as well as I can. ’Tis a
wonderful strong and lusty constitution, to _be_ sure. Her eyesight
don’t fail her—only her limbs ain’t so strong as once they was. And no
wonder, what wi’ lyin’ a-bed all this ’ere time, which she thinks more
comferable and gives less trouble. Wi’ her pipe, too, most allus a
goin’, and some day there’ll be the ’ouse o’ fire along o’ it, I’m
afeard. And how cleverly she do hid’ en, to be sure—right under piller
or blanket ’e goes, smokin’ hot—soon as ever she hears passon’s footstep
on the stairs. Talk of good ’bacca hurtin’ a man. They Lunnon doctors
should come and ha’ a look at she, and they’ll see an ole woman what’s
smoked her ounce of shag a day for twenty years to _my_ sure and sartain
knowledge.”
“Aye, ’tis a grand sight truly this ’ere weddin’, and a credit to the
village and yerself, Michael. Such a company o’ rare young maids and
lusty young fellows I don’t know as ever I see’d congregated together in
one room. And the beer and the sperrits you’ve provided for ’em! I’ve
been into that there wash-house of yourn, and made glad my eyes wi’ as
rare a cask of strong beer—none of your fourpenny ale, I allow—and as
neat a keg o’ sperrits as ever I cast eyes on. The wenches to-night need
have comeliness and grace to tempt the young fellows out o’ that there
shed. For ale and sperrits is better nor beauty, Michael; ’tis so at
least when men be gettin’ in the vale, the likes o’ you and I. And
what’s more, I’ll go and sample it, just that I may tell the others what
’tis like, ’fore as ever the dancin’ begins. Not but what I likes a
funeral better nor a weddin’. ’Tis quieter and more sober-like, and you
takes your vittles more peaceable. None of this ’ere het an’ dust an’
potheration what comes o’ the dancin’. No, gi’ I a funeral for comfort,
specially when ye be a bit aged. Not but what ’tis disperitin’, and
craves a mortal lot of stimmilent to carry one thro’ wi’ it. An’ some
there be what doesn’t hold wi’ feastin’ on the dead. But ’tis mostly
they of a savin’ sullen nature, what grudges the vittles, an’ finds no
comfort in thanksgivin’ an’ the voice o’ merriment.”
The fun was at its height, and the ale cask and the spirit keg would have
been valued at one half their original cost, when the company were
startled by two hurriedly-repeated knocks at the door, and a young girl
stood panting in their midst. No wedding guest this—rather a ghost in
all but the strong and youthful grace of budding womanhood.
“Heaven help us! What’s happened to ’e, Meg? Why on earth do you bust
in upon a house o’ merriment lookin’ like a corpse? Out wi’ it, lass,
and don’t stand gapin’ there, scarin’ us out of our wits, for all the
world like a frighted owl.”
“’Tis the p’leece!” she cried.
“Be ye gone stark starin’ mad, you fule of a girl? We ain’t that drunk
and disorderly yet that we need fear to look a p’leeceman in the face.
P’leece indeed—to a decent respectable woman what’s had no dealin’s wi’
such truck, time out of memory.”
“’Tain’t the drink—’tis the copper off the ship that was wrecked while
ago on the Rudge. Some of us ha’ been handlin’ it, and they’re a-comin’
round to every house in the village, wi’ a search-warrant they calls it,
and they’re at top o’ street now, an’ ’ll be punchin’ at your door afore
you can say Jack Robinson.”
Fear—was it fear for themselves or for others?—had sobered the guests on
the instant. Silent and shamed they slunk away into corners, as if they
prayed for the earth to swallow them, or were assisting at a funeral
instead of a wedding.
Only the mistress of the house retained her self-possession. With a nod
at her husband to follow her she retreated with him for consultation into
an adjoining room. When they returned—“We’ve been thinkin’ this ’ere
matter over,” she said, “and there’s nowt to be done but a corpse in the
house.”
“Sakes alive!” cried grandfer, “and whose is the corpse? Not mine, I
tell ’e straight. I be as full o’ life and health as the youngest among
’e. Not but what they tell I that I be nearin’ life’s end. Not a bit of
it, says I; I be younger and lustier, I be, than this time last year, and
lustier then than the year afore. I be intended, I allow, to follow
Methusalum, and show what we can do now-along when we sets ourselves
serious to the job of livin’.”
“Stop yer silly nonsense, you old fule,” cried the dame, “we’ve no time
to listen to your fulery, and none of us wants yer corpse. Not but what
a corpse we must have—or maybe a dyin’ man’ll do. Then they wont dare
search the house, and we’ll ha’ time to pick up the odds and ends of
copper and bury it in the garden. Bad luck that ever I set eyes on it.
And ’tis young Ned there that must be the dyin’ man. He’s far and away
the most nesh and tender-lookin’ of all of us. And crop his hair short,
and lay him in bed wi’ a bandage full over his face, and no one’ll know
whether he’s dyin’ or dead. And he was allus that weakly and bad in his
breath that we can say he was taken wi’ heart disease, or summat, along
o’ the dancin’, and no one’ll be the wiser. Besides, ’tis he what took
the copper, so ’tis only fair as he should be at the trouble o’ savin’
on’t. An’ we’ll put ye in Arabella’s room, Ned—sure ’tis no shame to do
so for as how ye be a wedded couple. An’ ’tis safer the copper’ll be,
seein’ it be stored under her bed, the main of it; not but what there’s
two sheets as was flatter nor the rest, an’ they lies ’twixt mattress and
blanket. Rare an’ uncomferable ’twill be for ye to lay on, but ’tis
yourself what made the bed an’ you must lay on’t. An’ we’ll come an’ let
’e out as soon as ever the p’leece be gone, an’ ’twon’t be long as
they’ll stay, soon as ever they hears we’ve dead an’ dyin’ in the house.
Up wi’ ’e, Ned, and we’ll have ’e tucked up afore as ever they come nigh
the place. Sure ’tis no falsity neither, for what wi’ the scare and the
fright ye looks most dead already, so help me, ye does.”
It was not till the end of this harangue that Ned’s temper broke loose,
though an angry flush that flamed on his delicate cheek had showed he was
nearing the end of his self-control.
“Shame on ye, woman,” he cried, as the last of the guests filed out of
the room, “shame on ye to belie me thus afore the face of your own
daughter, and her my wedded wife. I’d a’ saved the copper for ye
willingly—rot the stuff—and I’ll save it now if I can. An’ I’ve kept
silence afore all your company rather than let ’em know you was lying.
But I’ll not begin wedded life wi’ disgrace ’twixt me an’ my wife. So I
tell ye, Arabella, where ye stand, and glad I am of the chance, that I
never fingered aught of the copper—only to help ’em in hidin’ it—and
’twas your own father and mother what stript it and stored it, and you
needn’t be afeared but what you’ve wedded an honest man. And now,”
turning to his mother-in-law, “I’m ready to go along wi’ ye. May be I’ll
save your honour; we can’t make worse o’ mine.”
In ten minute’s time the house that had been ablaze with lights was
shrouded in darkness, and resumed its ordinary well-conditioned aspect.
The blinds were drawn, articles of furniture that had been ousted and
piled to meet the requirements of the dancing had been re-placed in
position. The guests had slunk away, more or less disquieted according
to the state of each man’s inner consciousness, and, to the onlooker from
without, it was as reposeful and undisturbed as any of its neighbours in
the quiet well-ordered street.
Scarcely had this transformation scene been effected when the expected
summons came. “Sorry to disturb ye, Mrs. Bond, when ye be all arranged
so quiet for the night. But ’tis our bounden duty, ma’am, and we’ve a
very particular reason here (exhibiting the warrant) for wishin’ to look
through your premises, if so be as you has no objection.”
“Aye, ye can come in, Bob Davis. An’ if I can’t gi’ ye a hearty welcome,
’tis only yerself you has to thank for it. ’Twould ha’ been more
neighbour-like, I’m thinkin’, if ye’d come in open daylight, ’stead o’
disturbin’ a peaceful family at this hour o’ the night. An’ we wi’
sickness in the house that’s like to be death afore the mornin’. For
sure as ever Ned sees yer face an’ that great lout you’ve brought in wi’
ye, ’twill scare the life breath out on ’m. An’ ’tis more nor that scrap
o’ paper you’ll be needin’ then to make yer peace, wi’ murder on yer
soul.”
“Come, old lady, none of that gammon; it’s too good for us. Don’t we
know that your daughter has been married this very day, and that you was
a-keepin’ the weddin’ wi’ a fiddle and dancin’ till half-an-hour ago?
Besides, there’s a strong suspicion that some of the copper we’re
a-lookin’ for is to be found in this here house—and perhaps that’s why
you shut up so sharp, hearin’ that we were comin’ along to have a look at
ye.”
But when the search elsewhere was ended, and the door of Arabella’s room
had been opened to admit them, Mrs. Bond enjoyed a short-lived triumph.
Not the most strenuous of officials, urged by the strongest sense of
duty, but would have paused in the presence of what looked like death.
“No, ma’am—though thank you kindly—we’ll not intrude. We’ve done our
duty, an’ the law itself can’t call on us for more. An’ you’ll look
after that lad of yourn, Mrs. Bond; you’ll excuse me for sayin’ it. ’Tis
close on death he looks, though glad I’d be to be mistaken. An’ if so be
’twill ease your mind, I’ll make time to go an’ fetch the doctor for ye
afore as ever I goes home to-night.”
But in the bedroom upstairs, as the steps of the officers were heard
retreating down the street, the bride was saying: “Up wi’ you, Ned!
You’ll be glad, I allow, that I be come to release you. ’Tain’t becomin’
no wise that a bridegroom on the night of his weddin’ should be lyin’ all
stark an’ streaked like a corpse. Not but what you look finer and
grander-like than ever you’ll do in life agin. Up wi’ you, man, though I
be most sorry, that I be, to untie ye.”
But no voice or sound made answer from the bed. Only the jaw had fallen,
and the eyes stared full on the speaker, and the silence of death—death
itself—was in the room. Fear and excitement had done their work on an
enfeebled heart, and Ned had crossed the narrow borderland—the “space
between the spears” the ancients called it—which separates God’s great
twin armies, the living and the dead.
The villagers will tell you that Death came to him in anger, because of
the jest that travestied his grim prerogative. Rather, I think, it was
in pity for the lad, and to save him from disillusions sadder still, that
“God’s finger touched him, and he slept.”
So the marriage was followed by a death, and the lighter refreshments of
the dance were merged in the splendours of a funeral feast. And the soul
of granfer Wiseman was satisfied withal.
The Rector was sorely troubled by the disaster that had taken from him
another of his prime favourites among the lads of the village.
But of the events that had led up to it he was strangely tolerant. “It’s
heredity,” he said, “and you can’t fight against it. Not an angel from
heaven could persuade them that the sea has not made over to them all the
property it lays at their doors. It mayn’t be good law,” he added, “but,
after all, there’s something to be said in favour of their view.”