No, I am not offended in the least; but very glad. I do not
think you are fitted for the priesthood; but my doubts have
nothing to do with your doubts, which I don't understand,
though you tried to explain them so carefully. You will come
through _them_, I expect. I don't know that I have any reasons
that could be put on paper; only, somehow, I cannot _see_ you
in a black coat and clerical hat.
You complain that I never write about George. You don't
deserve to hear, since you refuse to come to our wedding. But
would _you_ talk, if you happened to be in love? There, I have
told you more than ever I've told George, whose quiet conceit
has to be kept down. Let this console you.
Our new Parson, when he comes, is to lodge down in Innis
Village. Your mother—but no doubt she has told you—stays in
the Parsonage while she pleases. She and your grandmother are
both well. I see her every day. I have so much to learn and
she is so wise. Her beautiful eyes—but oh, Taffy, it must be
terrible to be a widow! She smiles and is always cheerful;
but the _look_ in them! How can I describe it? When I find
her alone, with her lace-work, or sometimes (but it is not
often) with her hands in her lap, she seems to come out of
her silence with an effort, as others withdraw themselves
from talk. I wonder if she does talk, in those silences of
hers. Another thing—it is only a few weeks now since she put
on a widow's cap, and yet I cannot remember her—can scarcely
picture her—without it. I am sure that if I happened to call
one day when she had laid it aside, I should begin to talk
quite as if we were strangers.
Believe me, yours sincerely,
HONORIA.
But the wedding, after all, did not take place until the beginning of
October, a week before the close of the Long Vacation; and Taffy, after
all, was present. The postponement had been enforced by many delays
in building and furnishing the new wing at Carwithiel; for Sir Harry
insisted that the young couple must live under one roof with him, and
Honoria (as we know) hated the very stones of Tredinnis.
The Bishop came to spend a week in the neighborhood, the first three
days as Honoria's guest. On the Saturday he consecrated the work of
restoration in the Church and, in the afternoon, held a confirmation
service. Taffy and Honoria knelt together to receive his blessing. It
was the girl's wish. The shadow of her responsibility to God and man
lay heavy on her during the few months before her marriage, and Taffy,
already weary and dispirited with his early doubtings, suffered her mood
of exaltation to overcome him like a wave and sweep him back to rest for
a while on the still waters of faith. Together they listened while the
Bishop discoursed on the dead Vicar's labors with fluency and feeling;
with so much feeling, indeed, that Taffy could not help wondering why
his father had been left to fight the battle alone.
On the Sunday and Monday two near parishes claimed the Bishop. On the
Tuesday he sent his luggage over to Carwithiel, whither he was to follow
after the wedding service, to spend a day or two with Sir Harry. It had
been Honoria's wish that George should choose Taffy for his best man;
but George had already invited one of his sporting friends, a young
Squire Philpotts from the eastern side of the Duchy; and as the date
fell at the beginning of the hunting season, he insisted on a "pink"
wedding. Honoria consulted the Bishop by letter. "Did he approve of a
'pink' wedding so soon after the bride's confirmation?" The Bishop saw
no harm in it.
So a "pink" wedding it was, and the scarlet coats made a lively patch
of color in the gray churchyard; but it gave Taffy a feeling that he was
left out in the cold. He escorted his mother to the church, and left her
for a few minutes in the Vicarage pew. The bridegroom and his friends
were gathered in a showy cluster by the chancel step, but the bride
had not arrived, and he stepped out to help in marshalling the crowd
of miners and mine-girls, fishermen, and mothers with unruly children—a
hundred or so in all, lining the path or straggling among the graves.
Close by the gate he came on a girl who stood alone.
"Hullo, Lizzie—you here?"
"Why not?" she asked, looking at him sullenly.
"Oh, no reason at all."
"There might ha' been a reason," said she, speaking low and hurriedly.
"You might ha' saved me from this, Mr. Raymond; and her too; one time,
you might."
"Why, what on earth is the matter?" He looked up. The Tredinnis carriage
and pair of grays came over the knoll at a smart trot and drew up before
the gate.
"Matter?" Lizzie echoed with a short laugh. "Oh, nuthin'. I'm goin' to
lay the curse on her, that's all."
"You shall not!" There was no time to lose. Honoria's trustee—the second
cousin from London—a tall, clean-shaven man with a shiny, bald head,
and a shiny hat in his hand—had stepped out and was helping the bride
to alight. What Lizzie meant Taffy could not tell; but there must be no
scene. He caught her hand. "Mind—I say you shall not!" he whispered.
"Lemme go—you're creamin' my fingers."
"Be quiet, then."
At that moment Honoria passed up the path. Her wedding gown almost
brushed him as he stood wringing Lizzie's hand. She did not appear to
see him; but he saw her face beneath the bridal veil, and it was hard
and white.
"The proud toad!" said Lizzie. "I'm no better'n dirt, I suppose,
though from the start she wasn' above robbin' me. Aw, she's sly.... Mr.
Raymond, I'll curse her as she comes out, see if I don't!"
"And I swear you shall not," said Taffy. The scent of Honoria's
orange-blossom seemed to cling about them as they stood.
Lizzie looked at him vindictively. "You wanted her yourself, _I_ know.
You weren't good enough, neither. Let go my fingers!"
"Go home, now. See, the people have all gone in."
"Go'st way in, too, then, and leave me here to wait for her."
Taffy shut his teeth, let go her hand, and taking her by the shoulders
swung her round, face toward the gate.
"March!" he commanded, and she moved off whimpering. Once she looked
back. "March!" he repeated, and followed her down the road as one
follows and threatens a mutinous dog.
* * * * *
The scene by the church gate had puzzled Honoria, and in her first
letter (written from Italy) she came straight to the point, as her
custom was. "I hope there is nothing between you and that girl who
used to be at Joll's. I say nothing about our hopes for you, but you
have your own career to look to; and as I know you are too honorable to
flatter an ignorant girl when you mean nothing, so I trust you are too
wise to be caught by a foolish fancy. Forgive a staid matron (of one
week's standing) for writing so plainly; but what I saw made me uneasy;
without cause, no doubt. Your future, remember, is not yours only. And
now I shall trust you, and never come back to this subject.
"We are like children abroad," she went on. "George's French is
wonderful, but not so wonderful as his Italian. When he goes to take
a ticket, he first of all shouts the name of the station he wishes to
arrive at (for some reason he believes all foreigners to be deaf); then
he begins counting down francs one by one, very slowly, watching the
clerk's face. When the clerk's face tells him he has doled out enough,
he shouts 'Hold hard!' and clutches the ticket. It takes time; but all
the people here are friends with him at once—especially the children,
whom he punches in the ribs and tells to 'buck up.' Their mothers
nod and smile and openly admire him; and I—well, I am happy, and want
everyone else to be happy!"