Under restraint, Alice had drooped and pined, but now that Bronte had
left the country she was permitted to ride about the neighborhood
quite alone. She enjoyed horse exercise greatly, but no matter in what
direction she left home her way lay always through Loughorne. Perhaps
the roads were better in that direction, but she always exchanged
salutations with a handsome working-man, by the expanse of water in
Loughorne. When he was not about she used very humanely to take her
horse down to the lake to drink, and from a hole in an old tree she
used to remove a scrap of paper, leaving something instead. The tree
used to be pointed out as "Bronte's post-box," but the lake has
recently been drained, and the trees have, I believe, disappeared.
Everything that could be done was done, to please Miss McClory, but no
opportunity was missed to further Farmer Burns's suit. He was a
prosperous man. He had a good farm, a good house, plenty of horses and
cows, and was a very desirable husband for Alice. He was also a
Catholic. Bronte had shown that he did not care for her by going away,
and never thinking of her more. The priest joined with Alice's female
friends in pleading for Burns. At length, by incessant perseverance,
they prevailed on her to consent to marry Burns, and forget Bronte.
The incessant drip had made an impression at last, and the crafty
relatives had gained their end.
There was joy in the Catholic camp when it was publicly announced that
Miss McClory and Mr. Burns were soon to be married. McClory's house
was thatched anew, and whitewashed and renovated throughout. The roses
were nailed up around the windows; the street was strewn with fresh
sand; new window-blinds and bed-curtains were provided, and pots and
pans were burnished. Never before had McClory's house been subjected
to such an outburst of sweeping and brushing and washing and scouring;
the whole place became redolent of potash and suds. It was spring
cleaning _in excelsis_.
The local dressmaker, Annie McCabe, whose granddaughter, of the same
name, is now dressmaker in the same place, assisted by Miss
McClory's female relatives, was busily engaged on the bridal dress.
Burns used to look in daily on the incessant preparations, his
countenance beaming with joy, but Alice would not permit him to
destroy the pleasures of imagination by approaching near to her. She
would lift her finger coyly, and warn him off, if he presumed on any
familiarities, but she allowed him to sit on the other side of the
fire from that graced by herself.
At length the wedding-day arrived. Such signs of feasting had never
before been seen in Ballynaskeagh. New loaves had been procured from
Newry, fresh beef from Rathfriland, whiskey from Banbridge. A great
pudding, composed of flour and potatoes, and boiled for many hours
over a slow fire, with hot coals on the lid of the oven, had been
prepared. Two of the largest turkeys had been boiled, and laid out on
great dishes with an abundant coating of melted butter, and a huge
roll of roasted beef was served up as a burnt offering. Signs of
abundance stood on table and dresser and hob, while rows of bottles
peeped from behind the window-curtains; and neither envy nor spite
could say that Red Paddy McClory was not providing a splendid wedding
for his sister. The morning rose glorious, and, as the custom then
was, Burns and his friends, mounted on their best horses, raced to the
house of the bride "_for the broth_," first in being the winner. On
such occasions crowds of neighbors crowned the hilltops. The cavalcade
was greeted with ringing cheers, as it swept in a cloud of dust down
the road from the Knock Hill. Several riders were unhorsed, but the
steeds arrived in McClory's court, champing their bits and covered
with foam. A covered car from Newry stood near the house, on the road,
to take Alice to the chapel, but she was to ride away from the chapel
mounted on the pillion, behind her husband.
There was an unexpected pause; no one knew why. Some dismounted and
stood by their stirrups, ready to mount when the bride had entered her
carriage. Glasses of whiskey were handed round, and then the pause
became more awkward and the suspense more intense. At last it became
known that Alice, who had been up nearly all night finishing her new
gowns, had felt weary, and fitting on her wedding dress, had gone out
on her mare for a spurt, to shake off drowsiness. Messengers were sent
in different directions to search for her, but they had not returned.
Some accident must have befallen her.
Burns, who rode a powerful black horse, and who had won the broth,
galloped off wildly towards Loughbrickland. The other cavaliers
scoured the country in different directions; but, while all kinds of
surmises were being hazarded, a messenger on foot from Banbridge, with
dainties for the feast, arrived, and reported that he had met Miss
McClory and a tall gentleman galloping furiously toward the river
Bann, near Banbridge. There was great excitement among the guests, and
whiskey and strong language without measure. After a hurried
consultation the mounted guests agreed to pursue the fugitives and
bring Miss McClory back; but, while they were tightening their girths
and getting ready for a gallop of five or six miles, a boy rode up to
the house on the mare that had been ridden by Alice, bearing a letter
to say she had just been married to Hugh Bronte in Magherally church.
She sent her love and grateful thanks to her brother, hoped the party
would enjoy the wedding dinner, and begged them to drink her health
as Mrs. Bronte.
The plucky manner in which the lady had carried out her own plan,
outwitting the coercionists by her own cleverness, called forth
admiration in the midst of disappointment, and the cheery message
touched every heart. The calamity that had befallen Burns did not
weigh heavily on the hearts of the guests, in presence of the splendid
dinner before them, and especially as it was now clear that the lady
was being forced to marry him against her will.
At this juncture the kind and courteous old priest rose, and with
great skill and good-humor talked about the events of the day. He
brought into special prominence the humorous and heroic episode in a
manner that appealed to the chivalry of his hearers, and then, with
tender pathos, referring to the beautiful daughter of the house,
called upon the guests to drink her health. The toast was responded to
with a hearty ringing cheer. Burns, who has left a good reputation
behind him, promptly proposed prosperity to the new-married couple,
and Red Paddy, always kind and generous, promised to send the united
good wishes of the whole party to the bride and bridegroom, and to
assure them of a hearty welcome, in which the past would be forgotten.
Paddy, as we shall see, kept his word. Thus the grandfather and
grandmother of the great novelists were married in 1776, in the
Protestant church of Magherally, the clergyman who officiated
pronouncing the bride the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.
* * * * *
The following verses have always been known as the product of Hugh
Bronte's muse. I am inclined to think they may have, in an original
form, been produced by Hugh, and smoothed down by his son Patrick. And
perhaps, in the refining process, they have lost in strength more than
they have gained in sound.
I do not think old Hugh would have known anything, at first hand, of
"the peach bloom," or of "the blood-red Mars." The poem, forty years
ago, had many variations, but there is one line of special interest,
as it shows that the verses were known to Charlotte Bronte. The verse,
with a slight variation, is put into the mouth of Jane Eyre. Rochester
says: "Jane suits me; do I suit her?" Jane answers: "To the finest
fibre of my nature, sir."