“Ye’ll not be chargin’ me nothin’, I shouldn’t think,” she remarked
with mournful archness.
William, who had not hitherto considered the matter, hesitated for a
moment, and then observed handsomely:--
“Nothin’ but the price of the wood, my dear. You shall have the labour
free.”
“Lard bless the man!” cried she, with some irritation. “I believe he’s
goin’ to make out a bill for it. Why, don’t ye see, William, if we’re
to be man an’ wife in three-week, ’twill be but takin’ the money out o’
one pocket to put it in the other?”
“And that’s true,” agreed the friends in chorus.
After a pause, during which the carpenter had thoroughly mastered the
situation, he turned to his intended, and, with a sudden burst of
generosity, informed her that he would make her a present of the whole
thing.
“I haven’t gied you so very much afore now,” said he, “but I’ll make
you a present of this, my dear, an’ welcome.”
And he walked away, while Martha, looking after him through her tears,
observed that there wasn’t a better-natured man in the whole of
England.
William, indeed, was in such good humour at the approaching fruition of
his hopes that Martha found him more amenable than ever to her views.
Therefore, when, a day or two after the funeral, she encountered him
on his way to the tailor’s, where he intended, as he informed her, to
order his wedding-suit, she was emboldened to lay her hand on his arm
and beseech him tearfully to be married, like her, in “deep”.
“’Twill show proper feelin’,” said she. “All the neighbours ’ull know
that you are showin’ respect to poor father; an’ since ye’ll be jist
comin’ into the family, ’twill be but decent as you should wear black
for him what’s gone.”
William, who had been dreaming of a certain imposing stripe which
had dazzled him, days before, in the tailor’s window, among the pile
labelled “Elegant Trouserings,” now dismissed with a sigh the alluring
vision, and promised to appear in mourning as requested.
But when later on Martha unfolded to him another plan, he gave in his
adherence to it with some reluctance. It was no less a proposition than
that they should take their honeymoon by turns.
“You see,” she explained, “it just falls out that the weddin’s the very
week o’ the Branston show--the house ’ull be full from morn till night
for three days or more; an’ we turn over enough that week to pay the
year’s rent, very near. ’Twouldn’t do for us both to be away.”
William gazed at her with a more rueful face than she had ever yet
beheld in him.
“Dear now! don’t you take on,” urged Martha. “I thought, d’ye see, I’d
just pop up to London for a few days by myself, an’ you can stop an’
mind the house, an’ maybe some time in the winter we mid both on us
take a few days together somewhere.”
William gazed at her reproachfully.
“Ye didn’t ought to want to go a-pleasurin’ wi’out I,” said he.
“No more I would, my dear,” returned his future better-half, “if it
could be helped. But ’twas yourself as named the day, an’ if ye won’t
have it put off----”
The carpenter, with a vigorous shake of the head, intimated that he
certainly would not have it put off.
“Well, then,” summed up Martha triumphantly, “ye must agree to let me
have a bit o’ honeymoon. ’Tis what every bride expects, an’ ’tis the
one thought what have kept my heart up all these years. I’ve always
promised myself this holiday afore I settled down to wedded life.”
William stared at her gloomily, but made no further opposition; and she
informed him in a cheerful tone that he need not fear her staying away
too long.
“We’ll have the weddin’ o’ Monday mornin’,” said she, “quite
private-like. The neighbours all know we can’t have a great set-out
here, on account o’ poor father. An’ you can carry my bag to the
station directly we leave church, an’ I’ll be back again Saturday
night, so as we can go to church together Sunday mornin’. Will that do
ye?”
“’Twill have to do me, I s’pose,” returned William, still with profound
melancholy.
“’Tis by your own wish, ye know,” said the bride; “if you hadn’t held
out for us to be married all in such a hurry, I’m sure I should have
been glad for us to take our honeymoon together, my dear. But ye can’t
have everythin’ in this world.”
“No,” agreed Faithfull, with a groan; “no, that ye can’t. ’Twould ha’
been more nat’ral-like to go on our honeymoon together; but what must
be, must be.”
On the Monday morning the much-discussed wedding took place; bride and
bridegroom were alike clad in new and glossy black, Martha’s blushing
countenance being scarcely visible beneath her crape “fall”.
The villagers were all much impressed; there is nothing indeed that the
rustic mind so thoroughly appreciates as the panoply of woe, and to
find this mourning ceremonial united with marriage pomp was felt to be
a rare privilege, and, as such, productive of sincere admiration.
When the wedded pair left church, their friends and neighbours hastened
to offer congratulations, attuned to a becoming note of dismalness,
which intimated that condolence lay behind; and it was a rude shock
for all when William was suddenly hailed in a tone of most discordant
cheerfulness. A tall, black-eyed woman had suddenly rushed forward and
seized him by the hand.
“There, now! So I wasn’t in time after all! I made sure I’d get here
soon enough to see the weddin’. I did always say I’d come to your
weddin’, didn’t I, William? I thought it very unkind of ye not to ax
me.”
“’Twas very private-like, d’ye see, Sabina,” said William, who had been
energetically pumping her hand up and down. “Martha, here--I mean Miss
Jesty, no, I mean Mrs. Faithfull--she did want it private, along of her
father being dead.”
“Have ye been a-buryin’ of en to-day?” interrupted the newcomer with an
awe-struck glance at his sable garb. “No, no--of course not. But why
did ye go for to get married in deep?”
“My ’usband,” said Martha repressively, “thought it but right to show
respect to them that’s gone, Mrs. Gully--I think ye said your cousin’s
name was Gully, William; I s’pose this is your cousin?”
“’E-es, to be sure,” agreed the owner of that name, cheerfully.
“Half-cousin, if ye like it better--our mothers was two brothers’
daughters.”
“Indeed,” said Martha stiffly. “I must wish ’ee good-day now, for
William an’ me be in a hurry to catch train.”
Mrs. Gully’s jaw dropped, but the carpenter, after hastily explaining
that they weren’t having any party along of the mourning, invited her
to come home and take a bite o’ summat with him and his wife before
they went to the station.
A frown from Martha intimated that she considered this hospitality
ill-timed, but William stuck to his point, and they all three turned
their steps together towards the Pure Drop.
“I think I’ll hurry on an’ change my dress,” remarked Martha, after
stalking on for some moments in silence.
She was not going to travel in her best black and get the crape all
messed about with dust.
“Don’t mind me, William, my dear,” said Sabina, when the bride had left
them. “If you’re wanting to change your deep, ye’d best hurry on, too,
maybe.”
“I’ve no need to change my suit,” returned William sorrowfully. “I
bain’t a-goin’ on the honeymoon.”
“What!” cried the widow, in astonishment. “She’s never goin’ to leave
ye on your weddin’ day?”
“She be,” said Mr. Faithfull slowly. “It do seem a bit hard, but we
couldn’t both on us leave the house, an’ she haven’t a-had a holiday
for twenty year. Ye see, it fell out this way--”
And he proceeded to explain the circumstances, already related, on
which Mrs. Gully animadverted with much warmth.
They were still discussing the matter when Martha rejoined them in the
private room of the Pure Drop, where a slight refection had been set
forth.
This was partaken of hastily, and for the most part in silence, and at
its conclusion Mrs. Faithfull jumped up and took a ceremonious farewell
of her new cousin. William shouldered his wife’s bag and set forth
beside her. Martha beguiled the walk to the station by a variety of
injunctions, all of which the new landlord of the Pure Drop promised to
heed and obey. It was not until she had actually taken her seat in the
railway carriage that she found time for sentiment, and then, embracing
her husband, she expressed the affectionate hope that he would not be
lonely during her absence.
William clambered out of the compartment and carefully closed the door
before he answered:--
“Well, I shan’t be altogether that lonely. Sabina--she be a-comin’ to
keep I company till ye come back.”
“Never!” cried Mrs. Faithfull, thrusting a scared face out of the
window. “You don’t mean to say ye took on yerself to ax her to stop in
my house?”
The whistle sounded at this juncture, but William walked beside the
train as it slowly moved off.
“I didn’t ax her. ’Twas she herself as did say, when she heerd you
were a-goin’ for to leave I all by mysel’, says she, ‘I’ll tell ’ee
what, Will’um; I’ll take a holiday, too, an’----’” A loud and prolonged
shriek from the engine drowned the remainder of the sentence, and the
train steamed away, the last sign of the new-made bride being the
agitating waving of a protesting hand from the carriage window.
The carpenter was smoking a ruminative pipe, about four o’clock on that
same afternoon, in the doorway of the snug little hostelry of which he
now found himself master, when he was suddenly hailed by a distracted
voice from the road.
“William! for the Lard’s sake, William, do ’ee come and ketch hold of
this here bag!”
William removed his pipe, stared, and then wedging the stem firmly in
the corner of his mouth, rushed down the path and up the roadway.
“Bless me, Martha, be ye comed back again? Tired o’ London a’ready?”
“No, my dear, I didn’t ever get so far as London,” cried Martha,
thrusting the bag into his hand, and throwing herself in a heated
and exhausted condition upon his neck. “I didn’t go no further than
Templecombe. There, I’d no sooner started nor I did feel all to once
that I couldn’t a-bear to leave ’ee. I fair busted out a-cryin’ in the
train.”
“Did ye?” said Faithfull, much gratified.
“I did indeed,” resumed his wife. “‘Oh,’ says I, ‘how could I ever
treat en so unfair,’ says I, ‘arter all them years as him an’ me was
a-walkin’? Oh,’ says I, ‘when I think of his melancholy face, an’
this his weddin’ day an’ all.’ So I nips out at Templecombe, an’
gets another ticket, an’ pops into the train as were just startin’
Branston-way--an’ here I be.”
“Well, an’ I be pure glad to see ye,” cried William heartily.
They had by this time reached the house, and Mrs. Faithfull, still
breathless with fatigue and agitation, stared anxiously about.
“Where is she?” she inquired in a whisper.
“Who?” said William, setting down the bag.
“Why, your Cousin Sabina!”
“Oh, her!” said William, with something like a twinkle in his usually
lack-lustre eye; “she be gone home-along to fetch her things an’ lock
up her house. She says she’ll come back to-morrow mornin’ first thing.”
“Well, but we don’t want her now, do we?” cried Martha, trembling
with eagerness. “I was thinkin’ maybe after all, ye’d fancy a bit of
a holiday, William. Ye might drop her a bit of a line an’ say ye was
goin’ to take the first honeymoon yerself. I fancy ye’d like London
very well, William. You _should_ have the first turn, by right, the man
bein’ master; an’ I mid be able to run up for a couple o’ days at the
end o’ the week. Here’s my ticket, d’ye see; you could catch the last
train, you know, an’ then, as I tell ’ee, I’d come an’ j’ine ye.”
“That won’t do,” said William firmly; “nay, ’twon’t do.”
“Why not?” gasped Martha.
“Ye may pop that ticket in the fire,” said William, speaking
slowly, and suffering his countenance to relax gradually.
“’Tain’t no manner of use to I. I--be--a-goin’--for to stop--an’
keep--my--honeymoon--here--along of ’ee.”