THE WEDDING-DAY.
"I mean to take care of you, my girl; leastways I'll do my best."
The words were spoken by a man of about twenty-five, in a workman's
dress, as he led his bride in at the door of her future home.
"I know that," she answered, looking up almost wistfully, for there had
been a different tone in the ending of his sentence to that in which it
had begun.
"It's not such a place as I should like to ha' brought you to, Meg; but
work's been slack, and--there, you know all that!"
Meg stepped in and looked around; her glance was shy and somewhat
fearful. Should she be afraid to see what her young husband had prepared
for her?
She clasped his hand tightly, and the firm pressure in return reassured
her. Whatever it might be, love had done it from beginning to end.
For Meg had come out of the sweet country with its sunny meadows, and
cowslips and buttercups. She had left, fifty miles away, the dear
fragrant garden, where only this morning her mother had gathered such a
posie as had never been seen before; she had left the cottage where
every china mug and shepherdess was like a bit of her life; she had left
the situation in the grand house at the end of her mother's garden,
where she had lived for four years in the midst of every luxury. And
this is what she had come to: two small rooms in a high London house, in
one of the streets turning out of a wide but gone-down thoroughfare near
London Bridge.
The rooms were on the second floor, and looked out front and back, and
as her husband ushered her in and closed the door, she knew she had come
home.
He led her to the fire, where already a kettle was singing blithely,
placed there in readiness by some one as yet unknown to Meg, and then he
put his arm round her and whispered,
"Does it all seem very different to what you thought, my dear?"
"Oh, no," said Meg, leaning against his shoulder and looking round;
"it's ever so nice. And how could you think of all these things by
yourself, Jem?"
He laughed nervously, and her glance continued to take in all the things
one by one. The little chiffonier which he had bought at a second-hand
shop with such pride, because Meg's mother had one just like it; the
bright-burning grate, with its little oven and boiler; the two American
arm-chairs, looking so inviting by it; the large rag hearthrug, the
strips of clean carpet on each side of the table, the red table-cloth,
the freshly-scrubbed shelves, on which quite an array of pretty new
crockery was set out.
Yes, it was home. Meg looked up in her husband's face with a satisfied
glance.
"It is beautiful," she said, taking possession of it all with her heart.
Hers and his, their home, for as long as God willed it.
Perhaps something of that thought shone in the man's eyes as he stooped
to kiss her upturned face.
So Meg put down her bunch of home flowers, and looked round for
something to put them in.
"They are too many for a vase," she said, "or a jug either. I wonder if
there's a basin?"
Jem went to a cupboard in the corner and produced a nice-sized one,
neither too large nor too small.
"Oh!" said Meg, gratified; "what a lot of basins and things, Jem; I
shall make you some puddings in those."
"I reckon you will," he answered smiling.
She bent over her flowers, touching them with soft tender touch, for she
loved each one, and he stood looking on.
Could this sweet girl really belong to him? Then a thought came over him
with a pang, of what the women grew into around them--the toiling,
hard-working, ill-fed, sometimes ill-used women.
"But Meg will never grow like that," he thought; "not while I love her,
and God loves her; and His love is a never-ending love."
"Ain't you going in t'other room to take off yer bonnet, my dear?" he
asked; "or are the flowers too precious?"
"Don't you see," she answered, smiling, "my bonnet won't fade, and these
will; so I thought I would do them first."
"I told mother to come and take a cup o' tea with us at five o'clock; it
must be near that now."
He drew out a clumsy, old-fashioned watch from his pocket and glanced at
it.
"It wants nigh on twenty minutes to, my girl, so if we mean to get out
our things we must be quick."
"These are done now," she answered, gathering up the bits and putting
them into the fire, where they crackled up into a blaze and made the
kettle boil up in good earnest.
So she took off her bonnet, and when she came back Jem had put a small
square hamper on the table ready for her to open.
"Do you think mother would like to see what my mistress has given me?"
she asked a little timidly; for "mother" was a new word to her lips;
hitherto it had always been "your mother."
"I dare say she would, Meg; and tea don't matter for a few minutes."
So Meg left the hamper untouched and went to the cupboard where she had
seen the cups, and began to set three on a small tray she found there.
"Here is some milk, Jem!" she exclaimed; "how kind your mother is; and
some bread and butter too all ready."
"Mother's in general very thoughtful," he answered, going over to her
and lifting the tray to the chiffonier. "It will be handy there, against
we have cleared the table."
At this moment there was a knock at the door, which Jem hastened to
answer by opening it wide.
"I've brought her," he said, by way of introduction.
And then Mrs. Seymour saw her new daughter-in-law for the first time.
That slim graceful figure, clothed in a simple, plainly-made dress of
some mixture of grey and brown, which Meg had decided on for her wedding
dress, because it would wear well in London, and then the blushing
gentle face above it. Jem had not said a word too much in her praise, as
far as she could judge by the first glance.
"Welcome, my dear," she said, advancing and kissing her; "I'm glad as my
Jem is made happy at last."
"We waited for you, mother," said Jem, when he had placed her in the
arm-chair, "because Meg thought as you'd like to see the things
unpacked; they was put in by Mrs. MacDonald's own hands."
"That I should," answered Mrs. Seymour heartily, drawing nearer to the
table; "what is it?"
"I don't know," answered Meg; "she called me in this morning and she
said, 'Archer,'--you know it was only mother called me Meg at home; at
mistress's I was always called Archer, so she said, 'Archer, I've put
you in a few things to begin on, and so that you will not have to begin
cooking at once. Remember, however, that a workman's wages will not buy
these sort of things. It is only as a little wedding treat.'"
"That's very true," said Mrs. Seymour, referring to the wages.
"Ah, we know that," answered Meg cheerfully, with a bright glance at
Jem; "but it's very kind of her all the same."
By this time Jem had undone the strings, and the hamper lay open before
them. First there were a couple of fine chickens all ready cooked, done
up in a clean cloth; then there were some sausages; after that a
blancmange in a basin; then a bottle of cream; and lastly, some fresh
butter and a box of new-laid eggs.
Underneath everything else was a flat parcel tied up in pieces of thin
board.
"A wedding present to Margaret Archer, as a mark of Mrs. MacDonald's
esteem, wishing her and her husband every happiness."
"Oh!" exclaimed Meg; "she said I should find her present at home! Jem,
whatever can it be?"
"I guess," said Jem, trying to get his fingers underneath it to lift it
up. But he had to find another way, for the package resisted his efforts
by sticking close to the bottom of the hamper as if it were glued.
"It's mighty heavy," he said. And then they found that the strings had
been so placed as to allow of its being easily lifted out by them.
"A clock!" said Mrs. Seymour, delighted. "Oh, Jem, how I did want to get
you a clock, but I could not manage it anyhow."
He put his broad hand on hers gratefully.
"I know, mother," he answered. "Don't ye think as I've eyes to see as
all these things wasn't here when I left here last evening?"
A sweet smile came over the worn face, and with almost an arch look she
answered,
"There's a certain bag in my drawer that used to be pretty heavy once,
that I kept to buy things for 'Jem's wife.' It's empty now though."
"For me?" asked Meg; and then she blushed so much that she had to help
Jem very industriously to undo the knots in the strings.
"For you," answered her mother-in-law.
And when Jem lifted out the present, they found it was a very nice
clock, which would strike the hours.
"Shall I move this on one side?" asked Meg, touching the vase in the
centre of the mantel-shelf.
"Put it on the chiffonier," said Jem, placing the clock where she had
made room for it. "Don't it look handsome?"
After they had all admired it till they had no more words at their
command, Meg turned to the basket again.
"Jem, we must have one of these fowls to-night for tea, because mother
is here."
"You're very kind, my dear," said Mrs. Seymour, "but I don't wish to eat
up your good things."
"Who should enjoy them if not you?" asked Meg heartily, quickly clearing
away the papers and things, and placing the hamper tidily in a corner.
She spread the cloth and set out the fowl on one of the dishes, putting
the sausages round as a garnish; then she poured out some cream, and
found a plate for the country butter, which quite ornamented the table,
with its pretty cow resting on the circle of grass.
"My mother put us in a loaf of her home-made bread," she exclaimed,
turning to Jem; "can you get it out of my basket?"
Jem laughed. It already stood on a plate at her elbow.
"We are ready then, mother," said Meg, preparing to sit down at the
tray. "Will you come to the table?"
"I don't think you've made the tea yet, my dear," answered Mrs. Seymour
smiling, as she glanced at the still steaming kettle.
Meg looked disconcerted, but Jem only patted her cheek, and said
tenderly,
"We can't expect little wives to remember everything the first day, can
we?"
Meg had to ask where the tea was kept, and then they gathered round the
table.
Jem bent his head and asked their God to bless them now and always, and
Mrs. Seymour added a gentle and solemn Amen.
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