THE WEDDING.
“Nobody now, Tabby, but you and I,” said Aunt Jerry, as she re-entered
her lonely house, and taking her cat in her arms, she cried like a child
over the dumb creature, which tried in so many ways to evince its
appreciation of this unusual caress.
She had said it was doubtful whether she went to the wedding or not; in
fact she didn’t much believe she should; it would be cold and
blustering, and she should get the neuralgia, and be in the way, and
nobody would miss an old dud like her. She should of course visit Edna
once any way, in her own house; but to the wedding she shouldn’t go.
This was her decision till the receipt of a certain letter which came to
her within a few days after Edna’s departure, and which changed her
intentions at once.
“Don’t be a fool, but come. I rather want to see if you look as bad as I
do.
P. O.”
That was the letter, and it sent Aunt Jerry to the glass, where she
inspected herself for some little time, and decided that she was not so
very bad-looking, and she’d show him that she was not, too! So she wrote
to Edna that she had changed her mind and was coming to the wedding; and
she went over to Livonia, and from thence to Rochester, and having
inquired for the most fashionable dressmaker in the city, went to her at
once, and told her where she was going, and that she did not want to
disgrace her relations, and asked what she should get, and if she would
make it, and how much she would charge. The price staggered her a
little, and made her stop for a moment before committing herself, but
remembering a recent rise in stocks which had affected her, she
concluded to stand the expense, and when next she wrote to Edna she
announced that she had a new black silk, making at Mrs. Baker’s, and a
gray morning dress, velvet cloak, and black alpaca for travelling, and
that they were to be made in style, too, and she shouldn’t shame any
one. She did not add that she had indulged in a handsome set of lace and
furs, and even committed the extravagance of getting a waterfall! This
last article of fashion and luxury came near being the death of the poor
old lady, who could not make it stay on without a whole box of pins
which stuck into her head, and pulled her hair, and drove her nearly
wild as she persisted in wearing it when alone, so as to get used to the
horrid thing before going among the fashionables. The chest upstairs,
where the yellow satin and the faded wreath were lying, was visited more
than once, and the good dame in her abstraction forgot to shut the lid,
and when she went again to her Mecca, she found that Tabby had made the
chest and its contents into a nice bed and playhouse for the two fat,
pretty kittens which for three or four weeks had lived under the
woodshed floor, and only came out at intervals. The chest was locked
after this and not visited again before Aunt Jerry’s departure for Rocky
Point, with her new clothes, and trunk, and satchel. The dresses fitted
admirably, especially the silk, which was elegant in its way, and
trailed far behind the good dame, who felt more at home in her short
alpaca suit, which made her look full ten years younger than her wont,
and a few years younger than she really was. Some of the neighbors who
enjoyed her outfit, and the remarks she made concerning it, suggested a
round hat as a fitting accompaniment to her suit, but this Aunt Jerry
repelled with disdain, hoping she was not such a fool as to put her old
snuff-colored face under a round hat, not she. She had a nice velvet
bonnet, for which she paid the ’bominable price of fifteen dollars; she
should wear that, and her thread-lace veil; and she looked so nice and
stylish that Edna, who was waiting for her at the station, did not
recognize her at first, and looked twice at the fashionably dressed
woman, holding so fast to her check, which the hackman was trying to get
from her.
“Why, auntie,” she cried, when the turn of the velvet bonnet showed her
Miss Pepper’s face, “how pretty, and young you look. I did not know you
at first.”
“Fine feathers make fine birds,” was Aunt Jerry’s reply; but she did not
seem ill-pleased with her niece’s compliment as she followed on to the
little pony-carriage waiting for her, and which Edna had driven down
herself.
“Is this his,—Mr. Overton’s, I mean?” Aunt Jerry asked, in some
surprise; for Edna’s account of Bobtail and the square-backed buggy did
not quite tally with this stylish turnout.
Edna explained, blushingly, that the establishment was her own,—a gift
from Roy, who had driven it up to Rocky Point two weeks before, and left
it for her use while she was there.
“Love in the tub, just now; but wait till by and by,” Aunt Jerry said;
but Edna had no fears of the by and by; and her face was radiant with
happiness as she drove her aunt through the main street of Rocky Point,
in the direction of Uncle Phil’s.
“That is the place,” she said, as they turned the corner which brought
the old farm-house in view. “Uncle Phil talks of building a new house in
the spring,—a Gothic cottage,—only, he says if he does, there is nobody
to live in it but himself and Aunt Becky.”
“The nigger, you mean,” Aunt Jerry said, rather crisply; and, as one of
the ponies shied a little just then, Edna said no more of the Gothic
cottage, but gave her attention to her horses, until they drew up before
the unpretentious building, which Aunt Jerry eyed sharply, keeping her
veil closely drawn over her face, and feeling a decided trembling in her
knees, as she walked through the gate and up to the front door, where
she intended waiting till Edna could tie her ponies, and was ready to
usher her in.
But,—greatly to her surprise,—the door swung open, seemingly by
itself,—for she saw no living being; only a voice, which came from
behind the door, and sounded a little smothered, said to her: “Walk in,
Jerry, and make yourself at home.”
Then she walked in; and, as the owner of the voice emerged into view,
and offered her his hand, she said: “How do you do, Philip?” as
naturally as if it had been yesterday they parted, instead of thirty
years before.
Poor Uncle Phil had been quite as much exercised on the subject of his
wardrobe as Aunt Jerry had been with hers. He wanted to go decent to the
wedding, and not disgrace Dotty’s grand relations, he said. “He’d been
looking like a codger long enough, and he meant to fix up, and pay the
fiddler.” Nothing in Rocky Point, however, would answer his purpose; and
when Edna suggested Millville, he sneered at that, and even spoke
contemptuously of Albany and its tailors! Where did Roy get his clothes
made? Wan’t it in New York, and why couldn’t _he_ go there as well as
anywhere? Accordingly the old man went to New York, from which place he
returned so metamorphosed that the boys in the streets followed him as a
natural curiosity, and the men hollowed after him to know what had
happened, as he walked from the depot home, arrayed in his new suit of
clothes, which made him look so trim and youthful, with his turn-over
collar, and his necktie, and soft hat. Even his shoes and shirts were
city made; and he looked very nice, and very much ashamed as he hurried
home, glad to be out of sight of the curious, impertinent boys, and
wondering what they would say “to his t’other suit,—his very best, with
the little tail-coat, and the stove-pipe hat,” for he had indulged in
these extravagances, as they were safe in the trunk which the hackman
left at the door.
Edna was delighted to see him, and complimented him greatly on his
personal appearance, and never dreamed why all this change had been made
by her eccentric uncle, or guess how nervous and excited he was on the
day when Aunt Jerry was expected. She had asked him to accompany her to
the depot, but he had declined, and after she was gone had donned his
second-best suit, and put on one of his new neckties, and indulged in
cuffs and cuff-buttons, and a white pocket-handkerchief, which he
grasped in his hand as tightly as if it had been the spar which was to
keep him from drowning. When he heard the whistle of the train, he was
sitting in his arm-chair by the fire, but quick as if he had been shot,
he sprang to his feet, exclaiming: “The Lord help me!” while, in the
palms of his hands, and under his hair, were little drops of sweat,
wrung out by sheer nervousness and excitement. He saw the carriage when
it turned the corner, but the young girl with the jaunty hat and
feather, holding the reins so skilfully, and managing the horses so
well, was nothing to him then. He only saw the tall, erect woman at her
side, with the veil over her face, and the rich furs about her
shoulders.
“Straight yet as an Injun, and as gritty, too, I’ll bet you,” he said to
himself, as, stationing himself by the window, he watched Aunt Jerry’s
descent from the vehicle, and then as he saw her come up the walk, he
ran behind the door and opened it for her with the salutation we have
recorded elsewhere.
Edna was close behind, so close indeed, that she saw the look in Uncle
Phil’s face, and heard Aunt Jerry’s, “How do you do, Philip?” and in an
instant the truth flashed upon her, taking her breath away and rendering
her speechless for a moment. Then confronting them both, she exclaimed;
“Oh, Uncle Phil,—Aunt Jerry,—I never knew,—I never guessed,—I never
thought,—”
“Well, don’t think now, or if you do, keep your thoughts to yourself,”
was Aunt Jerry’s characteristic reply, as she walked into the
sitting-room with Uncle Phil following after her, standing first on one
foot, then upon the other, spitting a great deal, and flourishing his
handkerchief almost in her face in his zeal to make her welcome.
“Come upstairs,” Edna said; and glad to escape from the curious eyes of
the fidgety little man, whom she had mentally pronounced “fat and
pussy,—just as I knew he was,” Aunt Jerry accompanied her niece to her
room, while Uncle Phil said softly to himself: “Yes, yes; better go
before I bust the biler; good-lookin’ craft, though, you bet,” and he
nodded at the figure-head of the tall clock in the corner as if that
knew and appreciated his feelings.
Alone with her aunt, Edna could not refrain from saying, “Aunt Jerry, it
_was_ Uncle Phil; I saw it in his face; I know it all; I wish, I
believe—”
“You needn’t wish nor believe anything, for as true as you do, I’ll take
my duds home in double-quick time. I ain’t quite such an old fool as
that. Philip Overton and I have had our day, and lost it; let us alone;”
Aunt Jerry answered so fiercely that Edna came to a sudden halt with her
intentions of doing something for this odd, lonely couple, whose lives
had once been so near to flowing in the same channel, but had drifted so
far apart.
They were wholly unlike each other, Edna thought, as she watched them
closely during the evening, when with the first reserve worn off, they
talked together of old friends whom in their youth they had known, and
who were now many of them dead and gone. It was strange what a softening
effect the talking of these old times had upon Aunt Jerry, who hardly
seemed herself as she sat there with the fire-light falling on her
smooth hair, and giving a rosy tinge to her cheek. Her eyes were always
bright, and they shone now with much of their olden fire, and made Uncle
Phil “squirm,” as he expressed it, whenever they rested on him.
“If I only could bring them together. I mean to get Roy to help me,”
Edna thought; and when next day Roy came, the story was eagerly told to
him, and his assistance asked in the matter.
Roy was interested, of course, but declared himself no match-maker. He
had been more than thirty years making one for himself, he said, and he
advised Edna to let the old couple do as they liked, adding that he was
not at all sure it would be a good or happy thing for two people so
peculiar to come together. This was a damper to Edna’s zeal, and she
affected to pout for a little, but soon forgot it all in her delight at
the diamonds which Roy had brought to her. They had been his mother’s,
and had always attracted great attention from their size and brilliancy,
but she never cared to wear them again, and at her request they had been
reset for Edna, who tried their effect with Roy standing by and admiring
her sparkling face more than the flash of the rich jewels, and proving
his admiration by a kiss, notwithstanding that Aunt Jerry was looking
on, and pursing up her mouth with so queer a look that Roy kissed her
too, whereupon Uncle Phil, who had come in just in time to see the last
performance, exclaimed in an aside: “By George, the chap has more pluck
than I have,” while Aunt Jerry deliberately wiped and rubbed her cheek,
and said, “I should s’pose you’d as soon kiss a piece of sole leather.”
They were very gay and merry at Uncle Phil’s during the few days which
preceded the wedding; and nothing was wanting to complete their
happiness but the presence of Maude and Jack. From them, however, a
kindly message came on the very morning of the bridal; and Edna read it
with Roy’s arm around her waist, and Roy’s face looking over her
shoulder. Only a few friends from Rocky Point were invited to the lunch
given at the house after the ceremony; but all were welcome to go to the
church, which was filled to its utmost capacity. Ruth Gardner presided
at the organ, and did herself great credit with the music she made, as
the party went up the aisle,—Uncle Phil and Edna, Roy and Aunt Jerry,
whose rich black silk was stepped on two or three times by those who
followed in her train. Mrs. Churchill was not there. She was far from
well; and as there was to be a grand reception at Leighton that evening,
she preferred to receive her children at home, and staid to see that
everything was in readiness for them when they arrived. Uncle Phil was
at first a little stiff in his New York clothes, and wondered what the
chaps did who dressed up every day; but this soon wore off, and he was
the merriest and youngest of the party which took the train for Albany,
going thence down the river to Leighton, which they reached just as the
twilight shadows were beginning to fall, and the stars looked out upon
another Christmas Eve.
It was not a crowded party, but very pleasant and select; and Edna moved
among her guests like some little fairy, clad in her bridal robes of
sheeny satin and fleecy lace, with only pearls upon her neck and arms,
and the wedding ring upon her finger. It was a far different bridal from
her first one; and she felt it to be so, and wondered if it was wicked
for her to be so happy, when just a little way from the bright lights
and sounds of festivity Charlie lay sleeping, with the young moon
shining on his grave. Roy, too, thought of Georgie, in far-off
Greenwood, and thought of her, too, with a softer, tenderer regret than
Edna could give to Charlie; for he only knew of the good there had been
in her; the bad was buried with her, and he remembered her as she had
seemed at the last,—amiable, loving, and good. But he could not wish to
exchange his bride for her; and once, when they were standing a little
out of sight, and a thought of what had almost been, came over him, he
involuntarily wound his arm tightly around Edna, and drew her to him in
a quick, passionate embrace, as if he would thus assure himself that she
was a reality, and not a myth which would vanish from his side.
The chimes from the church tower had pealed the hour of midnight, and
Merry Christmas had passed from lip to lip, ere the party broke up, and
the last guest was gone. An hour later, and every light had disappeared
from Leighton; but the moon and the stars which heard the angels sing
eighteen hundred years ago shone over the place, and seemed to breathe a
benediction upon the newly-wedded husband and wife, whom all had
pronounced so well-suited to each other.