Mrs. Fielden came to Stowel for the funeral, and did not return to
London again. She went to pay some visits, I believe, and afterwards
she will go to Scotland to stay with the Melfords, as she always does
in August. It was a very quiet summer. Anthony went to Ireland to
fish, and Major Jacobs went with him instead of me: Anthony and I used
to take the fishing together. Even Frances Taylor went north to stay
with Mrs. Macdonald, and the Reading Society postponed its future
meetings till the winter should come again.
Undoubtedly Kate Jamieson's wedding was a stirring event in a very dull
time. The festivities connected with it were carried out with the
Jamiesons' usual energy and lavishness. It is possible to be lavish on
five hundred a year. That is one of the pleasing things that
kind-hearted people like the Jamiesons can prove. No one was omitted
in the list of invitations to the reception which was held on the lawn
in front of the house. And there the whole of the Jamiesons' wide
circle of friends was gathered together, forming an assembly which
surely only the censorious mind could find fault with. The
refreshments, these good Jamiesons informed us, with their ingenuous
interest in discussing detail, were prepared by Margaret, and Kate
contributed to the payment of their ingredients from her small savings.
The group of bride and bridesmaids, which was photographed at the front
door, each wearing an expression of acute distress upon her face, was
George's own idea, and was nobly paid for by him.
It was announced at the wedding-feast--although it had been whispered
for a long time--that there was soon to be another break in the
Jamieson family. We all instantly prepared a smile of congratulation
for Maud, and some disappointment was felt when it was discovered that
the remark applied to Mrs. Jamieson's youngest son, Kennie. The Pirate
had for some time been informing his friends that the Wild West was
"calling to him," and that he had the "go fever," and that "once he had
known the perfect freedom of life out there" it was impossible to
settle down to the conventionalities of English society again. The
Pirate had obtained a post as purser on one of the ships of the company
to which he belonged, and he appeared at the wedding-breakfast in a
suit of white ducks, a gold-laced cap, and the famous cummerbund. I
have a strong suspicion that he had a revolver concealed in a
mysterious pocket, from the way his hand, in moments of excitement,
occasionally moved towards it; but fortunately the wedding-party was of
so peaceful a description that it was not necessary to produce the
weapon.
Since the exciting news of Kennie's proposed departure for Buenos Ayres
Mettie has developed nerves and hysteria. But so limited is the power
of imagination or discrimination in the human mind, that I must
honestly confess that I never once connected her indisposition and low
spirits with the news of her cousin's departure. Mettie has added to a
certain helplessness which always distinguishes her a tendency to
tears, and to sitting alone in her bedroom and sniffing dolorously; the
big thin nose requires constant attention, and there are red rims round
poor Mettie's eyes. The Jamiesons, who trace every variation in life
to a love affair, are not long of course in coming to the right and the
sentimental--nay, from the Jamieson point of view, the only reasonable
explanation of this change in their little cousin. But Mettie has
entreated them to say nothing, and to let her suffer in silence, and
they are too loyal to betray her interesting confidences. Kennie
himself is, I believe, still unaware of the interest he is exciting in
Mettie's gentle breast, but doubtless the little woman's extreme
timidity and her clinging disposition appeal in no small measure to the
Defender of the Sex. Mettie raises meek, adoring eyes to the Pirate's
ruddy face, under the gold-laced cap, and murmurs with clasped hands:
"You will never come back to us--I know it, I feel it! You will be
murdered by some gang of cut-throats, and then what will I--I mean your
mother, do?" The Pirate plumes himself and struts, and the dangers
that his little cousin has so powerfully depicted for him make his
young heart swell.
The village church was quite full of spectators and friends; nearly all
our acquaintances in the village wore new gowns--or apparently new
gowns--for the wedding. Mrs. Lovekin, in a black-cloth mantle with
bead-trimming, showed guests into their pews, and directed the children
at the doorway into giving a ringing cheer as the bride drove up to the
church. It was whispered by a wag that Mrs. Lovekin would like to don
a surplice and officiate at the interesting ceremony herself. There
was a party in white cotton gloves, who banged doors and shouted "Drive
on!" and it was hard to realize that this was the Jamiesons' odd man
and gardener, transformed for the occasion. He wore a large white
ribbon rosette in his button-hole, and all the morning he had been busy
erecting an archway over the gate at Belmont with Union Jacks displayed
thereon, out of consideration, as he explained, to the late Captain
Jamieson, he being military. The Miss Traceys were resplendent in
brown dresses and profuse lace neckties, securely anchored to their
chests by massive brooches; the dresses were afterwards mentioned in an
account of the wedding in the local paper, and it was cut out and
carefully kept by the Miss Traceys, who pasted the interesting news in
a small album for news-cuttings which they bought for the purpose.
At the Jamiesons' little house there was, I understand, a wild state of
confusion and energy from a very early hour in the morning, and
looking-glasses and hand-mirrors were in great demand. The centre of
interest there, it seems, was Kate's bedroom, where the whole of The
Family congregated to give Kate a last kiss before the veil was put on,
and to wish her happiness again and again. George, who throughout the
entire proceedings made a laudable attempt to appear calm, at last told
his sister that it really was time to start, and the carriage rolled
down the hill, and Kate Jamieson alighted from it, and walked up the
aisle of the old church leaning upon her brother's arm. Eliza Jamieson
was busy with a note-book the whole time, and almost one seemed to
begin to see the wedding through her journalistic eyes.
Our curate's wife, who is still far from strong, asked Palestrina to
look after Peggy, who expressed a wish to see the wedding, and I was
interested to find how many little games Peggy had invented for herself
by way of getting through the tedium of a service--games which, I
imagine, she had been preparing during the many services which a
curate's little girl is supposed to attend.
"If you press your eyes to the back of your head as far as you can,"
she whispered to me, "you can see green and red and blue spots, and
then open them and you can see green and red and blue spots round
father." And again: "I can say, 'We beseech Thee!' seven times over
while the choir are singing it, if we have Jackson's _Te Deum_." And
then: "Do you know what Georgie and I do, when we are sent to church
alone? We hide in the pew until no one thinks we are there, and then
we pop up in the middle of the service and begin to say the responses.
When we sit with the Sunday-school children we play at 'My husband and
your husband,' and then we each choose in turn which husband we'll have
in the congregation. You see, the first man who comes in is to be the
first child's husband, and the second the second child's, that's how we
manage; last Sunday I got the baker's boy."
Mr. Swinnerton was at the wedding, somewhat inclined to be
consequential, as usual; but as he devoted his whole attention to
Margaret, one could not but feel that his presence was acceptable. (We
are on the tip-toe of expectation to know when Mr. Swinnerton will
"come to the point.") Margaret Jamieson looked after the needs of the
Higginses' relations, and attended to the wants of all the humbler of
the guests.
There was still another element of interest in the marriage-party in
the person of Mr. Evans, who ran down from Hampstead for it. "If Mr.
Evans comes," Maud said, with the characteristic fine common sense of
the Jamiesons, "I want you all to understand that it is all quite over
between him and me. But what I have always thought about Mr. Evans is
this--that he is the sort of man who would like The Family, and I do
not see why he should not take a fancy to one of the other members of
it. I am quite sure his affection for me was based upon my
suitability. He often told me, for instance, that he would like a wife
who had been brought up to do things for herself, and could manage on a
small income and dress cheaply, and I am sure we can all do that. And
after all, if that is so, one of us is as suitable as another. He had
very definite ideas about a wife; but I couldn't help feeling all the
time that it was some one like ourselves that he had in his mind. He
seemed to have a great dread of any one who was too smart; and I said
to him at the time--for of course we both talked about our families a
good deal, as one does in the first stages--that we were all very
homely sort of people. I could always put myself in the background if
he seemed, for instance, to take a fancy to Gracie. And Gracie herself
has often said that she thinks she would like a man to wear a white
watered-silk waistcoat."
Gracie looked quite pleased with the arrangement, and Mr. Evans was
asked down "as a friend." And I should here like to record--only of
course it is going too far ahead--that before the summer was over, Mr.
Evans, charmed with The Family, as Maud felt he would be, and convinced
of their suitability, had chosen Gracie from amongst the remaining Miss
Jamiesons who were still at the disposal of those who seek a wife.
Gracie's energy charmed Mr. Evans. He often said afterwards that he
believed he had got the pick of the basket after all.
It was quite evident to me, and I believe to most of the Jamiesons'
guests, that one of the mysteries, so dear to the hearts of Stowel, was
in preparation for the wedding afternoon. Not even my sister and I had
been initiated into the secret; but Mrs. Jamieson, it must be
confessed, took away from the shock of surprise which might have been
ours, by referring during the whole afternoon to the entertainment
which was to take place later. The Jamiesons had decided that the
lawn, newly mown, was to be suddenly cleared of trestle-tables and
garden-chairs, and that a small band of musicians was to spring up
unexpectedly out of the ground, as it were, and that every one was to
know suddenly that they were in the midst of an impromptu dance. Now
Mrs. Jamieson, nervously expectant, and half fearing from the detached
manners of her daughters (so well did the Miss Jamiesons simulate their
ignorance of what was before them) that they must indeed have forgotten
about the dance, interrupted every conversation by creeping up to them
in her melancholy, quiet way, and saying, "Shall I get them to clear
away now?"
"It's to be impromptu, mamma," entreated the Miss Jamiesons in agitated
whispers. It had been decided between them that Gracie, as the
youngest of the party, should exclaim suddenly, as if by some happy
inspiration, "I vote we dance;" and that then in a perfectly easy and
natural manner guests and entertainers alike should, with the utmost
friendliness, help to push back the tables and chairs into the lilac
bushes, and that then the musicians should be hastily summoned from the
kitchen, where they were to have tea. Before that time arrived the
unfortunate Mrs. Jamieson had, as one might say, almost skimmed the
cream off the whole thing. Her nervousness would not allow her to
rest, and in the end she had established the musicians in the three
chairs so artlessly prepared for them under the chestnut-tree; and
there they were with fiddle and concertina long before Gracie had found
an opportunity for making her impromptu suggestion. Their sudden
appearance, one could not but feel, detracted from the unprepared
effect that had been intended, and they stood waiting to begin with
quite a forlorn appearance until the Pirate, for whom the arrival of
the hour means the arrival of the man (if the Pirate is anywhere
about), called out in his loud tones, "Strike up, you fellows, and let
us have a dance!" and the very next moment the white drill suit and the
gold-laced cap of Kennie might have been seen in the middle of the
lawn. He gallantly seized Mettie round the waist and scattered the
guests by the onslaught and the fierce charge he made upon them, and
soon had cleared a space in which he footed it gaily. The Higginses,
who had been rather shy during the reception, hastened to find
partners, and warmed to the occasion at once. Young Abel Higgins, the
handsome young farmer from Dorming, said it was the pleasantest
entertainment he had ever been at. "There is no cliquism about it," he
remarked. "You just say to a girl, 'Will you dance?' and up she comes;
it doesn't matter if she's a lord's daughter!"
Mr. Swinnerton devoted much of his attention and his conversation to me
during the afternoon. He discussed what he calls "military matters" at
great length, pointing out the mistakes of every general in South
Africa, at the same time clearly stating what Mr. Swinnerton would have
done under similar circumstances, and lamenting the inefficiency of the
War Office. Later in the afternoon, however, when he found me where,
as I hoped, I had effectually concealed myself behind a laurel bush,
Mr. Swinnerton plunged heavily into the question of marriage; and this,
as Maud would say, was surely a very hopeful sign. I was disappointed,
however, to find that his views regarding the happy state of matrimony
seemed to have been made almost entirely from one point of view, and
that point of view himself.
"Don't you think," he began ponderously, as he seated himself beside me
after the rather heavy fatigue of dancing on a lawn to the strains of a
band that did not keep scrupulous time--"don't you think that a man
ought to see a girl in her own home before he makes up his mind?"
I dissented on the plea of over-cautiousness, but Mr. Swinnerton did
not hear me.
"What I think," he went on, "is that marriage is a serious undertaking
for a man, and that one ought to be very sure of one's own mind."
I admitted the seriousness of matrimony, but thought it applied equally
to the woman.
This remark also seemed to escape Mr. Swinnerton's attention. Indeed,
I found that what is extremely irritating about this fellow is that his
mind never diverges from his own topic; he seems quite incapable of
excursions into the thoughts and feelings of the persons he addresses,
but plods steadily on his own path, pleased to give his own views, and
quite unaffected by the differences of opinion that are offered him.
There is a legend of my childhood that records that a man once said,
"It is bitt----" and then went to sleep for a thousand years, and when
he woke up he said, "--erly cold." I am often reminded of this story
when I listen to Mr. Swinnerton's plodding conversation.
"What I feel is," he went on--and one knew that no fatigue on the part
of the listener would be noticed by him--"what I feel is, that the man
being the head of the woman he should always choose some one who is
docile and good-tempered, and perhaps above all things a good cook.
That's the very first thing I would teach a woman--to be a good cook.
It's so important for a man to have his meals really nice and nicely
served. Don't you agree with me?"
"It is very important," I said.
"I am so glad you agree with me." Mr. Swinnerton occasionally remarks
on an agreeable clause in one's conversation, whereas a disagreement
never even penetrates his mind. "Of course, you fellows with your mess
and all that can scarcely realize how necessary it is that a man's wife
should be a good cook. And then she ought to be thoroughly
domesticated," went on Mr. Swinnerton's heavy voice; "a woman should
not always be wanting to go out in the evening. What I feel is that
the home should constitute the woman's happiness."
"And cooking?" I said.
"Yes, and cooking," said Mr. Swinnerton. "I do not want my wife to
have any money; I had much rather she had to come to me for things. I
am not greedy about money. I am comfortably off, but I think a man
should have entire control of the purse. One could knock off any
expenditure on a wife's dress, if that is the case. Ladies like a new
bonnet, and I should always give my wife a new bonnet if things had
been nice."
I remarked that Mr. Swinnerton was very generous.
"I know I am generous. Of course, a man gives up a great deal when he
marries, but I do not know that in the matter of expense it would cost
me more to keep a small house than to pay for lodgings."
"It depends," I said, "what wages you give your wife. An occasional
new bonnet would not be an extravagant salary, if she turned out to be
a really good cook."
For the first time Mr. Swinnerton seemed struck by the wisdom of my
remarks. "No, it would not," he said; "it would not. I know that I
would make a good husband," he remarked; "and I feel that I have a
future before me in the volunteers."
Margaret joined us at this moment, and Swinnerton smiled indulgently at
her, without offering, however, to give her his seat. I do not think
that Margaret noticed this, as she did not notice any omission on Mr.
Swinnerton's part.
"I hope you are not very tired," she said. "Your journey from London
and then this little dance must be very fatiguing, I am afraid."
"Men don't get tired," said Mr. Swinnerton grandiosely, and he looked
towards me for applause. He did not, however, ask her to dance, and
Margaret moved away to attend to other guests.
"She's a very nice-looking girl," said Mr. Swinnerton approvingly, "and
a well-brought-up girl, too."
So I suppose it is still hopeful, as the Jamiesons would say. But I
pray that Margaret Jamieson will remove Mr. Swinnerton hence when she
has married him.
Kate and Mr. Ward drove to the station in the best landau and pair of
horses from Stowel Inn. Mr. Ward was so upset from first to last by
the ceremonies and the heat that his conical-shaped head, covered with
the dew of nervous perspiration, steamed like a kettle; but his
affection for his bride and his evident delight and pride in her were
undeniable, and although resenting in his mild way the stinging shower
of rice with which he was pelted, and the usual facetious jokes that
were made on the bride and bridegroom, Mr. Ward nevertheless beamed
with good-nature all the time.
Palestrina made me laugh when she came home in the evening. She had
been down to the village to see the Pettifers and to show them her
wedding finery, as she promised to do; for Mrs. Pettifer is ill in bed
again, and was unable to stand at the church door with the rest of the
crowd to see the wedding-party. My sister found the old lady weeping
bitterly, and for a long time she could not guess the cause of her
distress, until at last a remark of her husband's explained it. "She
do take on like that tur'ble queer," he said, "as soon as ever the
wedding-bells ring after a marriage is over."
"Yes," said Mrs. Pettifer; "I always say to myself, 'She's got him, and
he ain't disappointed her after all.'"
Kennie sailed for Buenos Ayres the day after the wedding, and Mettie
walked over to see us, being sent on some errand, I have no doubt,
wherein she would be more usefully employed than in getting into the
way of the staff of workers who were clearing up after yesterday's
festivities. Mettie brought over Mrs. Ward's first telegram received
that morning from Dover, and said it was too funny to think of Kate
being Mrs. Ward. "Kate Ward," she said with one of her curious little
chirruping laughs, "Kate Ward--do look at it!" And we dutifully
replied that it certainly seemed the height of drollery.
Palestrina is not perfectly just to me when Mettie comes to call. She
always remembers something important which she has until this moment
forgotten, and with apologies to Mettie she flies off to see to it, and
I am left with our caller. And then the marriage question is in full
swing before one can prevent it. Mettie says she would never, never
allow a man to know that she cared for him, and that no nice girl
would. Did I think that if a girl never gave any evidence of her love,
and died, it would be a very pitiful end? And of course I said that
the pathos of the thing would strike one directly.
"After death," said Mettie, "she might still be his good angel. It is
very strange," she said, "to think of becoming a being with wings. Do
you know I often wonder what those wings can be like, and I cannot
imagine them made of anything but white ostrich feathers, which I must
say would look very pretty.... I am sure it is a brave thing to part
and say nothing, but do you think that one might write?"
It was only then, at that precise moment, that I in any way connected
Mettie's remarks with the thought of the Pirate Boy, now a purser in
the ---- Line.
"My dear Mettie," I said, "I should certainly write to him--write
often, write affectionately, send him your photograph, work him a
housewife for his cabin, carve him a frame for your photograph. I am
delighted----"
"Oh! but nothing is settled yet," simpered Mettie.
It has sometimes struck me since, although one generally denies the
suggestion, that the first sentiment of love-making may emanate from
the woman's mind. But probably the Pirate will never know that it was
not his own idea that he should fall in love with Mettie.
This evening I was looking over a lot of old letters, such as our
fathers and mothers used to keep, put away in drawers with bits of
ribbon tied round them in the days when there was more time for that
sort of thing than there is now. And I came across the following
letter, written in ink that has grown rather faded, and dated 1845. It
describes a wedding, and I have saved it from a number of other letters
which I have destroyed, to stick it into my diary as an appropriate
sort of ending to my entries for to-day. The letter is a genuine one,
and I have the original of it beside me now.
"MY DEAREST AUNT,
"You wished to hear all about our doings on Thursday. Though I dare
say you have heard many editions of the affairs of that day, I take the
earliest opportunity of relating to you, as I promised, my version of
it, though how often was it wished that dear aunt and uncle had
themselves been present to illuminate the picture. We all assembled at
a quarter-past ten o'clock. The married ladies (and gentlemen, whether
they were in that happy state or not) remained in the drawing-room
till, at a given signal, the bride descended, followed by her
bridesmaids--first Emily and myself, then Anne and Jane Schofield, then
Anna and Eliza Schofield. The four first were in pink, the two last in
blue. After talking over matters a little, we entered our respective
carriages, mamma going in the first carriage, and papa and Mary
bringing up the rear. We went through the ceremony very well. Mary
responded in a perfectly clear and audible voice; but once the worthy
bride-groom faltered, and as I stood next to him could perceive he was
somewhat agitated. The ceremony of kissing being finished, we returned
from church, when numerous and costly presents were exhibited to the
eyes, and amongst them none more beautiful than my dear uncle and
aunt's. But, by way of parenthesis, mamma wishes me to ask you, as
Mary has two silver canisters, whether you would have any objection to
change the kind and elegant expression of your feeling for Mary into a
silver waiter. Knowing your kindness, we sent it by Uncle Kershaw.
Now to proceed. We descended to breakfast--a most important business,
which occupied us a considerable time--in the middle of which Uncle
Ainsworth produced a bunch of grapes, and signified his intention of
drinking Mary Schofield's health in the red juice of the grape. He
immediately expressed the juice and suited the action to the word.
Robert Arncliffe made a beautiful speech--quite a gem. We then
proceeded to dress the bride in travelling attire. Then came the
dreadful moment of parting. Mamma and papa got over it most
wonderfully; suffice it to say our sisters' tears flowed most copiously
on that day. After her departure, we took a drive to restore us to
that harmony of spirits so desirable when persons are the entertainers
of others. We drove through Hyde Park and Regent's Park in procession,
and stopped to walk in the Zoological Gardens, coveting the society of
the brute creation as well as the rational. We then returned to
dinner, which was at seven, when, to our indescribable horror, on
calling over the names of certain young ladies, we discovered their
toilet was not complete when dinner was announced. After a small
delay, however, the offenders appeared, and the business of dinner was
commenced with astonishing vigour. There is no occasion to describe to
you the manners and customs of a dinner-table, as a sameness must
naturally pervade all such employments. We ladies at length signified
our intention of leaving the gentlemen masters of the field, and Uncle
Jesse came out with us and went to bed. We proceeded to enjoy a small
quadrille, till I suppose the sound of feet called the other portion of
the community from below. After tea and a little display of musical
powers, we had another quadrille; but this did not occur till Emily was
gone. We finally separated at half-past eleven. We have heard twice
or three times from the newly-married people. They are in Bath to-day.
Will you excuse, my dear aunt, this dreadful scrawl, but I have had so
many notes to write, added to which I have sprained my right arm, which
is now pleading to be spared any further exertions. Hoping that dear
uncle and yourself, as well as dear Sarah, are well, and again begging
to be excused this unconnected epistle, With united love to all,
Believe me,
"Your very affectionate niece,
"MARGARET M. NAYLOR.
"MECKLENBURGH SQUARE,
_August_ 1845."