WOOING AND WEDDING.
"She was made for him,--a special providence in his behalf."
"Like to like,--and yet love may be dear bought."
"In time comes she whom Fate sends."
Until after Twelfth Night the Christmas festivities were continued; but
if the truth had been admitted, the cumbrous ceremonials, the excessive
eating and visiting, would have been pronounced by every one very
tiresome. Julius found it particularly so, for the festival had no roots
in his boyhood's heart; and he did not include it in his dreams of
pre-existence.
"It is such semblance of good fellowship, such a wearisome pretence of
good wishes that mean nothing," he said one day. "What value is there in
such talk?"
"Well," answered the squire, "it isn't a bad thing for some of us to
feel obliged once in a twelve months to be good-natured, and give our
neighbors a kind wish. There are them that never do it except at
Christmas. Eh? What?"
"Such wishes mean nothing."
"Nay, now, there is no need to think that kind words are false words.
There is a deal of good sometimes in a mouthful of words. Eh? What?"
"And yet, sir, as the queen of the crocodiles remarked, 'Words mend none
of the eggs that are broken.'"
"I know nothing about the queen of the crocodiles. But if you don't
believe in words, Julius, it is quite allowable at Christmas time to put
your good words into any substantial form you like. Nobody will doubt a
good wish that is father to a handsome gift; so, if you don't believe in
good words, you have a very reliable substitute in good deeds. I saw how
you looked when I said 'A merry Christmas' to old Simon Gills, and you
had to say the words after me. Very well; send old Simon a new plaid or
a pound of tobacco, and he'll believe in your wish, and you'll believe
in yourself. Eh? What?"
The days were full of such strained conversations on various topics.
Harry could say nothing which Julius did not politely challenge by some
doubtful inquiry. Julius felt in every word and action of Harry's the
authority of the heir, and the forbearance of a host tolerant to a
guest. He complained bitterly to Sophia of the position in which he was
constantly put. "Your father and brother have been examining timber, and
looking at the out-houses this morning, and I understand they were
discussing the building of a conservatory for Charlotte; but I was left
out of the conversation entirely. Is it fair, Sophia? You and I are the
next heirs, and just as likely to inherit as Harry. More so, I may say,
for a soldier's life is already sold, and Harry is reckless and
dissipated as well. I think I ought to have been consulted. I should not
be in favor of thinning the timber. I dare say it is done to pay Harry's
bills; and thus, you see, it may really be we who are made to suffer. I
don't think your father likes our marriage, dear one."
"But he gave his consent, beloved."
"I was very dissatisfied with his way of doing it. He might as well have
said, 'If it has to be, it has to be; and there is no use fretting
about it.' I may be wrong, but that is the impression his consent left
on my mind. And he was quite unreasonable when I alluded to money
matters. I would not have believed that your father was capable of being
so disagreeably haughty. Of course, I expected him to say something
about our rights, failing Harry's, and he treated them as if they did
not exist. Even when I introduced them in the most delicate way, he was
what I call downright rude. 'Julius,' he said, 'I will not discuss any
future that pre-supposes Harry's death.'"
"Father's sun rises and sets in Harry, and it was like him to speak that
way; he meant nothing against us. Father would always do right. What I
feel most is the refusal to give us our own apartments in Seat-Sandal.
We do not want to live here all the time, but we ought to be able to
feel that we have a certain home here."
"Yes, indeed. It is very important in my eyes to keep a footing in the
house. Possession is a kind of right. But never mind, Sophia. I have
always had an impression that this was my home. The first moment I
crossed the threshold I felt it. All its rooms were familiar to me.
People do not have such presentiments for nothing."
There is a class of lovers who find their supremest pleasure in
isolating themselves; who consider their own affairs an oasis of
delight, and make it desert all around them. Julius and Sophia belonged
to it. They really enjoyed the idea that they were being badly used.
They talked over the squire's injustice, Mrs. Sandal's indifference to
every one but Harry, and Charlotte's envy, until they had persuaded
themselves that they were the only respectable and intelligent members
of the family. Naturally Sophia's nature deteriorated under this
isolating process. She grew secretive and suspicious. Her love-affairs
assumed a proportion which put her in false relations to all the rest of
the world.
It was unfortunate that they had come to a crisis during Harry's visit,
for of course Harry occupied a large share of every one's interest. The
squire took the opportunity to talk over the affairs of the estate with
him, and this was not a kind of conversation they felt inclined to make
general. It took them long solitary walks to the different "folds," and
several times as far as Kendal together. "Am I one of the family, or am
I not?" Julius would ask Sophia on such occasions; and then the
discussion of this question separated them from it, sometimes for hours
at a time.
Mrs. Sandal hardly perceived the growth of this domestic antagonism.
When Harry was at Seat-Sandal, she lived and moved and had her being in
Harry. His food and drink, and the multitude of his small comforts; his
friends and amusements; the renovation of his linen and hosiery; his
hopes and fears, and his promotion or marriage, were enough to fill the
mother's heart. She was by no means oblivious of Sophia's new interests,
she only thought that they could be put aside until Harry's short visit
was over; and Charlotte's sympathies were also with Harry. "Julius and
Sophia do not want them, mother," she said, "they are sufficient unto
themselves. If I enter a room pre-occupied by them, Sophia sits silent
over her work, with a look of injury on her face; and Julius walks
about, and kicks the stools out of his way, and simply 'looks' me out of
their presence."
After such an expulsion one morning, she put on her bonnet and mantle,
and went into the park. She was hot and trembling with anger, and her
eyes were misty with tears. In the main walk she met Harry. He was
smoking, and pacing slowly up and down under the bare branches of the
oaks. For a moment he also seemed annoyed at her intrusion on his
solitude; but the next one he had tucked her arm through his own, and
was looking with brotherly sympathy into her flushed and troubled face.
This morning Charlotte felt it to be a great comfort to complain to him,
to even cry a little over the breaking of the family bond, and the loss
of her sister's affection.
"I have always been so proud of Sophia, always given up to her in every
thing. When grandmother showed me the sapphire necklace, and said she
was going to leave it to me because she loved me best, I begged her not
to slight Sophia in such a way as that,--Sophia being the elder, you
know, Harry. I cried about it until she was almost angry with me. Julius
offered his hand to me first; and though I claim no merit for giving up
what I do not want, yet, all the same, if I had wanted him I should
have refused, because I saw that Sophia had set her heart upon him. I
should indeed, Harry."
"I believe you would, Charlotte."
"And somehow Julius manages to give me the feeling that I am only in
Seat-Sandal on his tolerance. Many a time a day I have to tell myself
that father is still alive, and that I have a right in my own home. I do
not know how he manages to make me feel so."
"In the same way that he conveys to me the impression that I shall never
be squire of Sandal-Side. He has doomed me to death in his own mind; and
I believe if I had to live with him, I should feel constrained to go and
shoot myself."
"I would come home, and get married, Harry. There will be room enough
and welcome enough for your wife in Seat-Sandal, especially if she be
Emily."
"She will not be Emily; for I love some one else far away
better,--millions of times better than I love Emily."
"I am so glad, Harry. Have you told father?"
"Not yet. I do not think he will be glad, Charlotte."
"But why?"
"There are many reasons."
"Such as?"
"She is poor."
"Oh! that is bad, Harry; because I know that we are not rich. But she is
not your inferior? I mean she is not uneducated or unladylike?"
"She is highly educated, and in all England there is not a more perfect
lady."
"Then I can see no reason to think father will not be pleased. I am
sure, Harry, that I shall love your wife. Oh, yes! I shall love her very
dearly."
Then Harry pressed her arm close to his side, and looked lovingly down
into her bright, earnest face. There was no need of speech. In a glance
their souls touched each other.
"And so he asked you first, eh, Charley?"
"Yes."
"And you would not have him? What for Charley?"
"I did not like Julius, and I did like some one else."
"Oh! Oh! Who is the some one else?"
"Guess, Harry. He is very like you, very: fair and tall, with clear,
candid, happy blue eyes; and brown hair curling close over his head. In
the folds and in the fields he is a master. His heart is gentle to all,
and full of love for me. He has spirit, dint, [Dint, energy.]
ambition, enterprise; and can work twenty hours out of the twenty-four
to carry out his own plans. He is a right good fellow, Harry."
"A North-country man?"
"Certainly. Do you think I would marry a stranger?"
"Cumberland born?"
"Who else?"
"Then it is Steve Latrigg, eh? Well, Charley, you might go farther, and
fare worse. I don't think he is worthy of you."
"Oh, but I do!"
"Very few men are worthy of you."
"Only Steve. I want you to like Steve. Harry."
"Certainly. Seat-Sandal folks and Up-Hill folks are always thick
friends. And Steve and I were boy chums. He is a fine fellow, and no
mistake. I am glad he is to be my brother. I asked mother about him;
and she said he was in Yorkshire, learning how to spin and weave wool--a
queer thing, Charley."
"Not at all. He may just as well spin his own fleeces as sell them to
Yorkshiremen to spin." Then they talked awhile of Stephen's plans, and
Harry appeared to be much impressed with them. "It is a pity father does
not join him, Charley," he said. "Every one is doing something of the
kind now. Land and sheep do not make money fast enough for the wants of
our present life. The income of the estate is no larger than it was in
grandfather's time; but the expenses are much greater, although we do
not keep up the same extravagant style. I need money, too, need it very
much; but I see plainly that father has none to spare. Julius will press
him very close."
"What has Julius to do with father's money?"
"Father must, in honor, pay Sophia's portion. Unfortunately, when the
fellow was here last, father told him that he had put away from the
estate one hundred pounds a year for each of his girls. Under this
promise, Sophia's right with interest will be near three thousand
pounds, exclusive of her share in the money grandmother left you. I am
sorry to say that I have had something to do with making it hard for
father to meet these obligations. And Julius wants the money paid at the
marriage. Father, too, feels very much as I feel, and would rather throw
it into the sea than give it to him; only _noblesse oblige_."
The subject evidently irritated Harry beyond endurance, and he suddenly
changed it by taking from his pocket an ivory miniature. He gave it to
Charlotte, and watched her face with a glow of pleasant expectation.
"Why, Harry!" she cried, "does so lovely a woman really exist?"
He nodded happily, and answered in a voice full of emotion, "And she
loves me."
"It is the countenance of an angel."
"And she loves me. I am not worthy to touch the hem of her garment,
Charley, but she loves me." Then Charlotte lifted the pictured face to
her lips. Their confidence was complete; and they did not think it
necessary to talk it over, or to exact promises of secrecy from each
other.
The next day Harry returned to his regiment, and Sophia's affairs began
to receive the attention which their important crisis demanded. In those
days it was customary for girls to make their own wedding outfit, and
there was no sewing-machine to help them. "Mine is the first marriage in
the family," Sophia said, "and I think there ought to be a great deal of
interest felt in it." And there was. Grandmother Sandal's awmries were
opened for old laces and fine cambric, and petticoats and spencers of
silks wonderful in quality and color, and guiltless of any admixture of
less precious material. There were whole sets of many garments to make,
and tucking and frilling and stitching were then slow processes. Agnes
Bulteel came to assist; but the work promised to be so tedious, that the
marriage-day was postponed until July.
In the mean time, Julius spent his time between Oxford and Sandal-Side.
Every visit was distinguished by some rich or rare gift to his bride,
and he always felt a pleasure in assuring himself that Charlotte was
consumed with envy and regret. He was very much in love with Sophia, and
quite glad she was going to marry him; and yet he dearly liked to think
that he made Charlotte sorry for her rejection of his love, and
wistfully anxious for the rings and bracelets that were the portion of
his betrothed. Sophia soon found out that this idea flattered and
pleased him, and it gave her neither shame nor regret to indorse it. She
loved no one but Julius, and she made a kind of merit in giving up every
one for him. The sentiment sounded rather well; but it was really an
intense selfishness, wearing the mask of unselfishness. She did not
reflect that the daily love and duty due to others cannot be sinlessly
withheld, or given to some object of our own particular choice, or that
such a selfish idolatry is a domestic crime.
It was a very unhappy time to Charlotte. Her mother was weary with many
unusual cares, her father more silent and depressed than she had ever
before seen him. The sunny serenity of her happy home was disturbed by a
multitude of new elements, for an atmosphere of constant expectation
gave a restless tone to its usual placid routine. And through all and
below all, there was that feeling of money perplexity, which, where it
exists, is no more to be hid than the subtle odor of musk, present
though unseen.
This year the white winter appeared to Charlotte interminable in length.
The days in which it was impossible to go out, full of Sophia's sewing
and little worries and ostentations; the windy, tempestuous nights, that
swept the gathering drifts away; the cloudless moonlight nights, full of
that awful, breathless quiet that broods in land-locked dales,--all of
them, and all of Nature's moods, had become inexpressibly, monotonously
wearisome before the change came. But one morning at the end of March,
there was a great west wind charged with heavy rains, and in a few hours
the snow on all the fells had been turned into rushing floods, that came
roaring down from every side into the valley.
"'Oh, wind!
If winter comes, can spring be far behind?'"
quoted Charlotte, as she stood watching the white cascades.
"It will be cuckoo time directly my dear; and the lambs will be bleating
on the fells, and the yellow primroses blowing under all the hedges. I
want to see the swallows take the storm on their wings badly this year.
Eh? What, Charlotte?"
"So do I, father. I never was so tired of the house before."
"There's a bit of a difference lately, I think. Eh? What?"
Charlotte looked at him; there was no need to speak. They both
understood and felt the full misery of household changes that are not
entirely happy ones; changes that bring unfaithfulness and ingratitude
on one side, and resentful, wounded love on the other. And the worst of
it all was, that it might have been so different. Why had the lovers set
themselves apart from the family, had secrets and consultations and
interests they refused to share? How had it happened that Sophia had
come to consider her welfare as apart from, and in opposition to, that
of the general welfare of Seat-Sandal? And when this feeling existed, it
seemed unjust to Charlotte that they should still expect the whole house
and household to be kept in turmoil for the furtherance of their plans,
and that every one should be made to contribute to their happiness.
"After all, maybe it is a bit natural," said the squire with a sad air
of apology. "I have noticed even the robins get angry if you watch them
building their nests."
"But they, at least, build their own nest, father. The cock-robin does
not go to his parents, and the hen robin to her parents, and say, 'Give
us all the straw you can, and put it down at the foot of our tree; but
don't dare to peep into the branches, or offer us any suggestions about
the nest, or expect to have an opinion about our housekeeping.'
Selfishness spoils every thing, father. I think if a rose could be
selfish it would be hideous."
"I don't think a lover would make my Charlotte forget her father and
mother, and feel contempt for her home, and all in and about it that she
does not want for herself. Why, a stranger would think that Sophia was
never loved by any human heart before! They would think that she never
had been happy before. Nay, then, she sets more store by the few
nick-nacks Julius has given her than all I have bought her for twenty
years. When yonder last bracelet came, she went on as if she had never
seen aught of the kind in all her born days. Yet I have bought her one
or two that cost more money, and happen more love, than it did. Eh?
What, Charlotte?"
There were two large tears standing in his blue eyes, and two sprang
into Charlotte's to meet them. She clasped his hand tight, and after a
minute's silence said,--
"I have a lover, father; the best a girl ever had. Has he made any
difference between you and me? Only that I love you better. You are my
first love; the very first creature I remember, father. One summer day
you had me in your arms in the garden. I recollect looking at you and
knowing you. I think it was at that moment my soul found me."
"It was on a summer day, Charlotte? Eh? What?"
"And the garden was all roses, father; red with roses,--roses full of
scent. I can smell them yet. The sunshine, the roses, the sweet air,
your face,--I shall never, never forget that moment, father."
"Nor I. I was a very happy man in those days, Charlotte. Young and
happy, and full of hope. I thought my children were some new make of
children. I could not have believed then, that they would ever give me
a heartache, or have one themselves. And I had not a care. Money was
very easy with me then: now it is middling hard to bring buckle and
tongue together."
"When Sophia is married, we can begin and save a little. Mother and you
and I can be happy without extravagances."
"To be sure, we can; but the trouble is, my saving will be the losing of
all I have to send away. It is very hard, Charlotte, to do right at both
ends. Eh? What?"
After this conversation, spring came on rapidly, and it was not long ere
Charlotte managed to reach Up-Hill. She had not seen Ducie for several
weeks, and she was longing to hear something of Stephen. "But if ill had
come, ill would have cried out, and I would have heard tell;" she
thought, as she picked her way among the stones and _débris_ of the
winter storms. The country was yet bare; the trees had no leaves, no
nests, no secrets; but she could see the sap running into the branches,
making them dark red, scarlet, or yellow as rods of gold. Higher up, the
pines, always green, took her into their shade; into their calm spirit
of unchangeableness, their equal light, their keen aromatic air. Then
came the bare fell, and the raw north wind, and the low gray house,
stretching itself under the leafless, outspreading limbs of the
sycamores.
In the valley, there had been many wild flowers,--tufts of violets and
early primroses,--and even at Up-Hill the blackthorn's stiff boughs were
covered with tiny white buds, and here and there an open blossom. Ducie
was in the garden at work; and as Charlotte crossed the steps in its
stone wall she lifted her head, and saw her. Their meeting was free from
all demonstration; only a smile, and a word or two of welcome, and yet
how conscious of affection! How satisfied both women were! Ducie went on
with her task, and Charlotte stood by her side, and watched her drop the
brown seeds into the damp, rich earth; watched her clip the box-borders,
and loosen the soil about the springing crocus bulbs. Here and there
tufts of snowdrops were in full bloom,--white, frail bells, looking as
if they had known only cheerless hours and cold sunbeams, and wept and
shrank and feared through them.
As they went into the house, Ducie gathered a few; but at the
threshhold, Charlotte turned, and saw them in her hand. A little fear
and annoyance came into her face. "You a North-country woman, Ducie,"
she said, "and yet going to bring snowdrops across the doorstone? I
would not have believed such a thing of you. Leave them outside the
porch. Be said, now."
"It seems such a thing to think of flowers that way,--making them signs
of sorrow."
"You know what you said about your father and the
plant,--'Death-come-quickly.' I have heard snowdrops called 'flowers
from dead-men's dale.' Look at them. They are like a shrouded corpse.
They keep their heads always turned down to the grave. It is ill-luck to
bring them where there is life and love and warmth. It will do you no
harm to mind me; so be said, Ducie. Besides, I wouldn't pull them
anyway. There was little Grace Lewthwaite, she was always gathering the
poor, innocent flowers just to fling them on the dusty road to be
trodden and trampled to pieces; well, before she was twelve years old,
she faded away too. Perhaps even the prayers of mangled flowers may be
heard by the merciful Creator."
"You do give me such turns, Charlotte." But who ever reasons with a
superstition? Ducie simply obeyed Charlotte's wish, and laid the pallid
blooms almost remorsefully back upon the earth from which she had taken
them. A strange melancholy filled her heart; although the servants were
busy all around, and everywhere she heard the good-natured laugh, the
thoughtless whistle, or the songs of hearts at ease.
When she entered the houseplace she put the bright kettle on the hob,
and took out her silver teapot and her best cups of lovely crown Derby.
And as she moved about in her quiet, hospitable way they began to talk
of Stephen. "Was he well?"--"Yes, he was well, but there were things
that might be better. I thought when he went to Bradford," continued
Ducie, "that he would at least be learning something that he might be
the better of in the long end; and that in a mill he would over-get his
notions about sheepskins being spun into golden fleeces. But he doesn't
seem to get any new light that way, and Up-Hill is not doing well
without him. Fold and farm are needing the master's eye and hand; and it
will be a poor lambing season for us, I think, wanting Steve. And, deary
me, Charlotte, one word from you would bring him home!"
Charlotte stooped, and lifted the tortoise-shell cat, lying on the rug
at her feet. She was not fond of cats, and she was only attentive to
puss as the best means of hiding her blushes. Ducie understood the
small, womanly ruse, and waited no other answer. "What is the matter
with the squire, Charlotte? Does he think that Stephen isn't good enough
to marry you? I'll not say that Latrigg evens Sandal in all things, but
I will say that there are very few families that can even Latrigg. We
have been without reproach,--good women, honest men; not afraid of any
face of clay, though it wore a crown above it."
"Dear Ducie, there is no question at all of that. The trouble arose
about Julius Sandal. Father was determined that I or Sophia should marry
him, and he was afraid of Steve standing in the way of Julius. As for
myself, I felt as if Julius had been invited to Seat-Sandal that he
might make his choice of us; and I took good care that he should
understand from the first hour that I was not on his approbation. I
resented the position on my own account, and I did not intend Stephen to
feel that he was only getting a girl who had been appraised by Julius
Sandal, and declined."
"You are a good girl, Charlotte; and as for Steve standing in the way of
Julius Sandal, he will, perhaps, do that yet, and to some more purpose
than sweet-hearting. I hear tell that he is very rich; but Steve is not
poor,--no, not by a good deal. His grandfather and I have been saving
for him more than twenty years, and Steve is one to turn his penny well
and often. If you marry Steve, you will not have to study about money
matters."
"Poor or rich, I shall marry Steve if he is true to me."
"There is another thing, Charlotte, a thing I talk about to no one; but
we will speak of it once and forever. Have you heard a word about
Steve's father? My trouble is long dead and buried, but there are some
that will open the grave itself for a mouthful of scandal. What have you
heard? Don't be afraid to speak out."
"I heard that you ran away with Steve's father."
"Yes, I did."
"That your father and mother opposed your marriage very much."
"Yes, that also is true."
"That he was a handsome lad, called Matt Pattison, your father's head
shepherd."
"Was that all?"
"That it killed your mother."
"No, that is untrue. Mother died from an inflammation brought on by
taking cold. I was no-ways to blame for her death. I was to blame for
running away from my home and duty, and I took in full all the sorrowful
wage I earned. Steve's father did not live to see his son; and when I
heard of mother's death, I determined to go back to father, and stay
with him always if he would let me. I got to Sandal village in the
evening, and stayed with Nancy Bell all night. In the morning I went up
the fell; it was a wet, cold morning, with gusts of wind driving the
showers like a solid sheet eastward. We had a hard fight up the breast
of the mountain; and the house looked bleak and desolate, for the men
were all in the barn threshing, and the women in the kitchen at the
butter-troughs. I stood in the porch to catch my breath, and take my
plaid from around the child; and I heard father in a loud, solemn voice
saying the Collect,--father always spoke in that way when he was saying
the Confession or the Collect,--and I knew very well that he would be
standing at that east window, with his prayer-book open on the sill. So
I waited until I heard the 'Amen,' and then I lifted the latch and went
in. He turned around and faced me; and his eyes fell at once upon little
Steve, who was a bonny lad then, more than three years old. 'I have come
back to you, father,' I said, 'I and my little Steve.'--'Where is thy
husband?' he asked. I said, 'He is in the grave. I did wrong, and I am
sorry, father."
"'Then I forgive thee.' That was all he said. His eyes were fixed upon
Steve, for he never had a son of his own; and he held out his hands, and
Steve went straight to him; and he lifted the boy, and kissed him again
and again, and from that moment he loved him with all his soul. He never
cast up to me the wrong I had done; and by and by I told him all that
had happened to me, and we never more had a secret between us, but
worked together for one end; and what that end was, some day you may
find out. I wish you would write a word or two to Steve. A word would
bring him home, dear."
"But I cannot write it, Ducie. I promised father there should be no
love-making between us, and I would not break a word that father trusts
in. Besides, Stephen is too proud and too honorable to have any
underhand courting. When he can walk in and out Seat-Sandal in dayshine
and in dark, and as every one's equal, he will come to see me. Until
then we can trust each other and wait."
"What does the squire think of Steve's plans? Maybe, now, they are not
very pleasant to him. I remember at the sheep-shearing he did not say
very much."
"He did not say very much because he never thought that Steve was in
earnest. Father does not like changes, and you know how land-owners
regard traders. And I'm sure you wouldn't even one of our shepherd-lads
with a man that minds a loom. The brave fellows, travelling the
mountain-tops in the fiercest storms to fold the sheep, or seek some
stray or weakly lamb, are very different from the lank, white-faced
mannikins all finger-ends for a bit of machinery; aren't they, Ducie?
And I would far rather see Steve counting his flocks on the fells than
his spinning-jennys in a mill. Father was troubled about the railway
coming to Ambleside, and I do think a factory in Sandal-Side would make
him heart-sick."
"Then Steve shall never build one while Sandal lives. Do you think I
would have the squire made heart-sick if I could make him heart-whole?
Not for all the woollen yarn in England. Tell him Ducie said so. The
squire and I are old, old friends. Why, we pulled primroses together in
the very meadow Steve thought of building in! I'm not the woman to put a
mill before a friend, oh, no! And in the long end I think you are right,
Charlotte. A man had better work among sheep than among human beings.
They are a deal more peaceable and easy to get on with. It is not so
very hard for a shepherd to be a good man."
"You speak as I like to hear you, Ducie; but I must be going, for a deal
falls to my oversight now." And she rose quickly from the tea-table,
and as she tied on her bonnet, began to sing,--
"'God bless the sheep upon the fells!
Oh, do you hear the tinkling bells
Of sheep that wander on the fells?
The tinkling bells the silence fills,
Sings cheerily the soul that wills;
God bless the shepherd on the hills!
God bless the sheep! Their tinkling bells
Make music over all the fells;
By _force_ and _gill_ and _tarn_ it swells,
And this is what their music tells:
God bless the sheep upon the fells.'"
The melody was wild and simple, a little plaintive also; and Charlotte
sang it with a low, sweet monotony that recalled, one knew not how or
why, the cool fragrance of the hillside, and the scent of wild flowers
by running water.
Then she went slowly home, Ducie walking to the pine-wood with her.
There was a vague unrest and fear at her heart, she knew not why; for
who can tell whence spring their thoughts, or what mover first starts
them from their secret lodging-place? A sadness she could not fight
down took possession of her; and it annoyed her the more, because she
found every one pleasantly excited over a box of presents that had just
arrived from India for Sophia. She knew that her depression would be
interpreted by some as envy and jealousy, and she resented the false
position it put her in; and yet she found it impossible to affect the
enthusiasm which was expected from her over the Cashmere shawl and
scarfs, the Indian fans and jewelry, the carved ivory trinkets, the
boxes full of Eastern scents,--sandalwood and calamus, nard and attar of
roses, and pungent gums that made the old "Seat" feel like a little bit
of Asia.
In a few days Julius followed; he came to see the presents, and to read,
with personal illustrations and comments, the letters that had
accompanied them. Sophia's ideas of her own importance grew constantly
more pronounced; indeed, there was a certain amount of "claim" in them,
which no one liked very well to submit to. And yet it was difficult to
resist demands enforced by such remarks as, "It is the last time I shall
ask for such a thing;" "One expects their own people to take a little
interest in their marriage;" "I am sure Julius and _his_ family have
done all _they_ can;" "They seem to understand what a girl must feel and
like at such an eventful time of her life," and so on, and so on, in
variations suited to the circumstances or the occasion.
Every one was worn out before July, and every one felt it to be a relief
when the wedding-day came. It was ushered in with the chiming of bells,
and the singing of bride-songs by the village children. The village
itself was turned upside down, and the house inside out. As for the
gloomy old church, it looked like a festal place, with flowers and gay
clothing and smiling faces. It was the express wish of Sophia that none
of the company should wear white. "That distinction," she said, "ought
to be reserved for the bride;" and among the maids in pink and blue and
primrose, she stood a very lily of womanhood. Her diaphanous, floating
robe of Dacca muslin; her Indian veil of silver tissue, filmy as light;
her gleaming pearls and feathery fan, made her
"A sight to dream of, not to tell."
The service was followed by the conventional wedding-breakfast; the
congratulations of friends, and the rattling away of the bridal-carriage
to the "hurrahing" of the servants and the villagers; and the
_tin-tin-tabula_ of the wedding-peals. Before four o'clock the last
guest had departed, and the squire stood with his wife and Charlotte
weary and disconsolate amid the remains of the feast and the dying
flowers; all of them distinctly sensitive to that mournful air which
accomplished pleasures leave behind them.
The squire could say nothing to dispel it. He took his rod as an excuse
for solitude, and went off to the fells. Mrs. Sandal was crying with
exhaustion, and was easily persuaded to go to her room, and sleep. Then
Charlotte called the servants, men and women, and removed every trace of
the ceremony, and all that was unusual or extravagant. She set the
simplest of meals; she managed in some way, without a word, to give the
worried squire the assurance that all the folly and waste and hurryment
were over for ever; and that his life was to fall back into a calm,
regular, economical groove.
He drank his tea and smoked his pipe to this sense, and was happier than
he had been for many a week.
"It is a middling good thing, Alice," he said, "that we have only one
more daughter to marry. I should think a matter of three or four would
ruin or kill a man, let alone a mother. Eh? What?"
"That is the blessed truth, William. And yet it is the pride of my heart
to say that there never was such a bride or such a bridal in Sandal-Side
before. Still, I am tired, and I feel just as if I had had a trouble.
Come day, go day; at the long end, life is no better than the preacher
called it--_vanity_."
"To be sure it is not. We laugh at a wedding, we cry at a burying, a
christening brings us a feast. On the Sabbath we say our litany; and as
for the rest of the year, one day marrows another."
"Well, well, William Sandal! Maybe we will both feel better after a
night's sleep. To-morrow is untouched."
And the squire, looking into her pale, placid face, had not the heart to
speak out his thought, which was, "Nay, nay; we have mortgaged
to-morrow. Debt and fear, and the penalties of over-work and over-eating
and over-feeling, will be dogging us for their dues by dayshine."