A WEDDING MARCH.
BELLA’S marriage was to take place on the last day of October. It
had been laid down from the beginning that it was to be a very quiet
wedding. There was a newness and brightness about that splendid
monument to the late Mrs. Piper in Little Yafford churchyard which
seemed to forbid high jinks at Mr. Piper’s second nuptials. ‘People
might talk,’ as Mrs. Scratchell said, happily ignorant that people were
talking about her daughter and Mr. Piper with all their might already.
Hardly anybody was to be invited to the wedding. This was what Mr.
Piper and everybody else concerned kept on saying; yet every day some
fresh invitation was given. Mr. Piper had a good many friends among
the manufacturing classes, innumerable middle-aged men with red faces
and expansive waistcoats, every one of whom was, according to Mr.
Piper, the oldest friend he had. These, one by one, were bidden, with
their wives and families,--‘the more the merrier.’ In no case was the
invitation premeditated, but it came naturally from Mr. Piper’s lips
when he met an old acquaintance on ‘Change, or in the club-house at
Great Yafford.
‘Never mind, my dear,’ he said, apologetically, to Bella. ‘They are all
carriage people. And they’ll make a fine show at the church door.’
‘But I thought we were going into county society,’ said Bella.
‘So we are, my pet, but we aren’t going to cut old friends. There’s Joe
Wigzell, the jolliest fellow I know, and making twelve thousand a year
out of hat linings. Mrs. Wigzell’s a perfect lady, and there’s a fine
family of grown-up daughters. You ought to know the Wigzells.’
‘I think if you want to be in county society you’ll have to give up
your Wigzells,’ said Bella. ‘They won’t mix.’
‘But they must mix,’ cried Mr. Piper. ‘I shall make it worth their
while to mix. Such dinners as I shall give will bring the two classes
together----’
‘Like oil and vinegar,’ said Bella, who was a little out of humour with
her affianced.
These invitations of Mr. Piper’s, given at random, had swelled the
wedding party into an alarming number. Poor Mrs. Scratchell was
troubled in mind as to how she should seat her guests. There was a
difficulty about the tables. But Mr. Piper made light of everything.
He would have no cutting and contriving, no humble devices of Mrs.
Scratchell’s, no home-made pastry. He went to Great Yafford and
contracted with the principal confectioner of that town to supply
everything, from the tables and decorations down to the salt spoons.
The breakfast was to be a magnificent banquet, at a guinea a head,
exclusive of wines, and Mr. Piper was to write a cheque for everything.
This arrangement pleased everybody except Bella, whose pride was keenly
wounded by it.
‘You have made a pauper of me among you,’ she cried angrily, to the
family circle, on the night before her wedding. ‘I had rather have had
the quietest, simplest breakfast that mother could have arranged, with
the Dulcimers and Beatrix Harefield for our only visitors, than all
this finery paid for by Mr. Piper.’
‘Fiddlesticks!’ exclaimed Mrs. Scratchell. ‘You weren’t ashamed to take
his money for your wedding clothes. Why should you be ashamed of his
paying for your wedding breakfast? I hate such humbug.’
‘I have a little pride left,’ said Bella.
‘Very little, I should think,’ answered her father, ‘and what you have
doesn’t become you. It’s like the peacock’s feathers on the jackdaw.
You weren’t born with it.’
‘Come upstairs and let us try on the wedding bonnets,’ said Clementina.
‘And be kind and nice, Bella. Recollect it is your last night at home.’
‘Thank God for that, at any rate,’ ejaculated Bella, piously.
The house had been transformed by an artificial and almost awful
tidiness. Everything had been put away. The swept and garnished rooms
were scarcely habitable.
‘I never saw such discomfort,’ cried Mr. Scratchell, looking
discontentedly round his office, which smelt of soft soap, and was
cleaner than he had ever seen it in his life.
His papers had all been stowed away, he knew not where. Valuable leases
and agreements might have been thrust into obscure corners where they
would be forgotten. The whole process horrified him.
‘You oughtn’t to have touched my office,’ he said, ‘business is
business.’
‘I couldn’t help it,’ pleaded Mrs. Scratchell. ‘The men from Great
Yafford said we must have a room for the gentlemen to put their hats
and things, so I was obliged to give them this. You have no idea how
they order us about. And then they asked me where they were to put your
things, and almost before I told them, and while I was so flurried I
scarcely knew what I was saying, your papers and tin boxes were all
swept off.’
‘And pray where are they?’ demanded Mr. Scratchell, furiously.
‘I--don’t be angry, Scratchell. I couldn’t help it. They’re all
safe--quite, quite safe--in the hay-loft.’
‘Where the rats are eating the Harefield leases, no doubt,’ said Mr.
Scratchell.
‘It’s for a short time, dear,’ said Mrs. Scratchell, soothingly. ‘We’ll
put everything back in its place the day after to-morrow; and I don’t
think rats like parchment.’
The wedding day dawned, and to all that busy and excited household
the sky seemed to be of another colour, and the atmosphere of another
quality than the sky and atmosphere of common days. The Scratchell
girls rose with the lark, or rather with the disappearance of the
cockroaches in the old kitchen, where those black gentlemen scampered
off to their holes, like Hamlet’s ghost, at cockcrow. The younger
sisters were in high spirits. The idea of an inordinately rich
brother-in-law opened a new hemisphere of delight. What picnics, and
carpet dances, and other dissipations Bella could provide for them
when she was mistress of Little Yafford Park! To-day they were to wear
handsome dresses for the first time in their lives; dresses of Bella’s
providing. As bridesmaids they were important features in the show.
The maid-of-all-work was no less excited. She, too, was to wear a fine
dress; and she had the prospect of unlimited flirtation with the young
men from the pastrycook’s. She brought the girls an early cup of tea,
and helped them to plait their hair. Ordinary plaits would not do for
to-day.
‘I’ll have mine plaited in ten, if you can manage it, Sally,’ said
Flora.
‘And I’ll have mine in the Grecian plait,’ said Clementina.
‘I don’t know what’s the matter with Miss Beller,’ said the faithful
Sally. ‘It’s my belief she has been crying all night. Her eyes are as
red as pickled cabbage. All I can say, if she isn’t fond of Mr. Piper
she ought to be. I never see such a free-spoken, open-handed gentleman.’
Mr. Piper was intensely popular in the Scratchell household. Nobody
considered that Bella was sacrificing herself in marrying so charming
a man. His fifty years, his puffiness, his coarse red hands, about
which Nature had made a trifling mistake, and supplied thumbs in place
of fingers, his bald head with its garnish of iron-gray bristles--all
these things went for nothing. He had won everybody’s favour, except
perhaps that of his young bride.
At a quarter to eleven everybody was ready; Mr. Scratchell in an entire
new suit, which circumstance was such a novelty to him that he felt as
if he had been changed in his sleep, like the tinker in the old story;
Mrs. Scratchell, flushed and nervous, tightly encased in a shining
purple silk gown, which made her presence felt as a mass of vivid
colour wherever she appeared, like a new stained glass window in an
old church. The bridesmaids looked bright and pretty in sky-blue, with
wreaths of forget-me-nots round their white chip bonnets. The boys wore
sleek broadcloth, like their father’s, buff waistcoats and lavender
trousers. Everything was intensely new. They all stood in the hall
waiting for the bride, and contemplating each other curiously, like
strangers.
‘I never thought father could have come out so good-looking,’ whispered
Clementina to her eldest brother. ‘I should hardly have known him.’
‘Ah!’ ejaculated Herbert, ‘money makes all the difference.’
They felt as if they were all going to be rich now. It was not Bella
only who went up in the social scale. Her family ascended with her.
Even the faithful domestic drudge, Sally, rejoiced at the change in her
fortunes. The fragments that fell to her share after the family dinner
would be daintier and more plentiful. Her scanty wages would be more
secure.
At last Bella came down, in glistening white apparel, clouded over with
lace. That delicate taste which had always been hers, the instinctive
refinement in all external things which made her mother say that Bella
had been a lady from her cradle, had regulated her wedding dress. She
looked as pure and aërial as some pale spring floweret, tremulous
upon its slender stem. Her family bowed down and worshipped her, like
Joseph’s brethren, as represented in the vision of the sheaves.
‘God bless you, my pet!’ cried her father, in an unprecedented burst
of affection. ‘It is something to have such a beauty as you in one’s
family.’
The gray old chancel was like a bed of gaudy tulips, so varied and
so brilliant were the dresses of Mr. Piper’s manufacturing friends,
waiting impatiently to behold him at the altar. Among all these bright
colours and startling bonnets, Beatrix Harefield, in her gray silk
dress and old Brussels lace, looked like a creature belonging to
another world. All the manufacturing people noticed her, and wanted to
know who that distinguished-looking young lady was. Mrs. Dulcimer and
Beatrix had the Vicarage pew all to themselves.
Presently the bride entered the porch, leaning on her father’s arm,
pale against the whiteness of her bridal dress. Mr. Piper, crimson with
agitation, and breathing a little harder than usual, hurried forward to
receive her. He offered her his arm. The four bridesmaids followed, two
and two, the organist played a spirited march, and the business of the
day began.
Bella gave the responses in a clear little voice. Mr. Piper spoke
them with gruff decision. Mr. Dulcimer read the service beautifully,
but Mr. Piper’s manufacturing friends hardly appreciated the Vicar’s
deliberate and impressive style. They would rather have had the
ceremony rattled over with modern celerity, so that they might get to
the wedding breakfast.
‘If there’s any hot _ontries_ they’ll be spoiled,’ whispered Mrs.
Wigzell, the hat-lining manufacturer’s wife, to Mrs. Porkman, whose
husband was in the provision line.
‘I’m beginning to feel quite faint,’ answered Mrs. Porkman. ‘Getting up
so early and coming so far! It’s trying for a weak constitution.’
‘Did you ever see such a young thing?’ asked Mrs. Wigzell, indicating
the bride with a motion of her head.
Mrs. Porkman’s only answer was a profound sigh.
‘What can be expected from such an unsuitable marriage?’ demanded
Mrs. Wigzell, still in a whisper. ‘After such a sensible wife as poor
Moggie, too.’
‘Oh, my dear, Moggie Piper never rose to the level of her position,’
answered Mrs. Porkman.
And now all was over, and for ever and ever--or at least for the ever
and ever of this lower world--Ebenezer Piper and Isabella Scratchell
were made one. Whatever the incongruity of the union, the thing was
done. Disgrace or death only could loosen the knot.
The organ crashed out the tremendous chords of the Wedding March,
everybody looked delighted at the near prospect of breakfast. People
crowded into the vestry to see Bella and her husband sign the register.
There was much kissing of bride and bridesmaids, while poor Mrs.
Scratchell, wedged into a corner by the vestry door, wept a shower of
hot tears over her purple dress.
‘I hope she’ll be happy,’ she ejaculated. ‘Marriage is a solemn thing.
God grant she may be happy.’
And in her inmost heart the mother prayed and feared lest all should
not be well with her daughter in this marriage which she as well as her
husband had striven so hard to bring to pass.
‘We have done all for the best,’ she told herself, ‘and Mr. Piper is a
kind, good man.’
Her maternal heart thrilled with pride presently at the church
door when she saw the manufacturing people’s carriages, the sleek
well-groomed horses, the smart liveries, the consequential coachmen
and pampered footmen. They were a long time getting away from the
church, and there was a good deal of fuss, and some offence given
to punctilious minds, in bringing the carriages to the porch. Mrs.
Porkman’s landau came before Mrs. Wigzell’s, which was wrong, as
everybody knows that hat linings rank before provisions; and the great
Mr. Timperley of the Linseed Mills--quite the most important person
present--was left with his aggrieved wife and daughter till nearly the
last. However, they all got off ultimately, and five minutes brought
them to Mr. Scratchell’s door.
The breakfast was laid on two long tables in the common parlour; the
best parlour did duty as a reception-room, and for the display of the
wedding presents, which were exhibited on a side table. Mr. Piper’s
friends had all sent offerings, scaly golden snakes with emerald or
ruby eyes, mother-o’-pearl envelope boxes, filigree bouquet holders,
lockets, fans, personal finery of all kinds. To the bride of a
gentleman in Mr. Piper’s firmly established position, no one could
think of offering the butter dishes and dessert knives, claret jugs and
fish carvers, pickle bottles and biscuit boxes, which are presented
to modest young couples just setting up in domestic business. Bella’s
presents were therefore all of a strictly useless character. Beatrix
gave her a set of pearl ornaments, Mrs. Dulcimer a dressing-case. The
Vicar’s gift was a Bible in an exquisite antique binding, and a pocket
edition of Shakespeare.
‘You need never be at a loss for something worth reading while you have
those two books, my dear,’ he told Bella when he presented them.
The breakfast was a success. The Great Yafford confectioner had
done his duty. There were perigord pies, and barley sugar temples,
hecatombs of poultry and game, highly decorated hams and tongues,
trifles, jellies, creams, hothouse fruit, ices, wafers, coffee and
liqueurs. To the minds of the young Scratchells it was the most
wonderful feast. They played havoc among all the dishes, reckless of
after-consequences. Such a banquet as that was well worth the cost of
a bilious attack. The wines had been sent from the Park, and were the
choicest in Mr. Piper’s collection.
‘There’s a bookay about that ‘ock,’ said Mr. Porkman, smacking his lips
approvingly, ‘that I don’t remember to have tasted for the last ten
years. You don’t get such ‘ock now-a-days. Money won’t buy it, no more
than it won’t buy Madeira.’
‘I hope you’ll crack many a bottle before the next ten years, Porkman,’
roared Mr. Piper. ‘It’s Skloss Johnny’s Berger that I bought out of old
Tom Howland’s cellar, after the poor old gentleman’s death. He was a
Connysewer, was Tom. I’ve got a whole bin, and it will be your fault if
you don’t punish it.’
‘And so I will, sir, for it’s real good stuff,’ answered Mr. Porkman,
blinking at the straw-coloured wine in his green glass.
The newly-married couple were to spend their honeymoon in Italy. Coarse
as he was in appearance and manners, Mr. Piper had vague yearnings
after the pleasures of refinement. He wanted to see the cities of
Italy, and the pictures and statues with which he had been informed
those cities abounded. He had not cared to travel in the first Mrs.
Piper’s time, firstly because that lady’s health had been precarious,
and secondly because she could not speak a word of any language except
her own. Mr. Piper wanted a companion who could interpret for him, and
assist him to squabble with innkeepers and hackney coachmen. Such a
companion he felt he could have in Bella, and he would take a pride in
exhibiting his pretty young wife at table-d’hôtes and in public places.
He would like to be pointed out as a comfortable well-to-do man of
middle age who had married a girl young enough to be his daughter. He
was not ashamed of the disparity. It flattered his vanity.
Bella looked very pretty by and by in a fawn coloured travelling dress
and a pale blue bonnet. There was a carriage and four to take Mr. Piper
and his bride to the railway station at Great Yafford. He had insisted
upon four horses, though two could have done the work just as well.
The postillions were an imposing spectacle--smartly clad in sky blue
jackets, with satin favours pinned upon their breasts, and slightly the
worse for beer. Happily the hired horses were of a sober breed, or Mr.
and Mrs. Piper might have come to grief on the first stage of their
journey.
They were gone--amidst the usual shower of old slippers. The wedding
guests departed immediately after. There was to be no dance, nothing
to wind up the evening, as Clementina and all her younger sisters and
brothers loudly lamented.
‘I should think you’d better all go off to your beds, after the way you
stuffed yourselves all through the breakfast,’ said Mr. Scratchell. ‘I
saw you.’
‘What was the use of leaving things?’ demanded Herbert. ‘The
pastrycook’s men will take everything back. They won’t leave us a crumb
for to-morrow.’
Herbert was right. The confectioner’s men were already sweeping off
the fragments of the feast--half-tongues--bodies of fowls--dilapidated
pies. Mrs. Scratchell stood and watched them with regretful looks. The
family might have subsisted for a week upon the savoury remains. The
small Scratchells prowled round the tables and picked little bits
out of the plates. Those manufacturing people had been delicate and
wasteful in their eating. The broken bits were daintier than anything
the little Scratchells had ever tasted before.
‘Come, clear out,’ cried the father, ‘you’ve all eaten too much
already.’
But he thought it a hard thing that the pastrycook’s men should come
down, like the locusts of Scripture, and make barrenness in the land,
after Mr. Piper had paid for everything.
The house had a desolate look when the van had driven off with all
the glass and china and long deal tables, the epergnes and artificial
flowers. Bella’s room looked unutterably dismal. It was but a poor
attic, at best, and now, in the untidiness of departure, strewed all
over with crumpled scraps of paper, ends of old ribbon, cast-off cuffs
and collars, and worn-out shoes, looked horrible. The younger sisters
explored the chamber after all was over, in the faint hope of gleaning
something valuable.
‘She hasn’t left a morsel of anything behind her,’ said Clementina.
‘I don’t think you can complain of that,’ said Flora. ‘She’s given us
all her old clothes.’
‘If she’d had a spark of generosity she’d have given us some of her
new,’ answered Clementina. ‘This is to be my room now. It’s a horrid
hole. I’m sure the furniture must have been second-hand when Noah built
the ark. Think of Bella, with her apple-green bedroom and dressing-room
at the Park--all the furniture new and her own choice--and her
barouche and pair--and her brougham for evenings. Doesn’t it seem too
ridiculous?’
Clementina went to the shabby little looking glass on the chipped
mahogany chest of drawers, and submitted her small blunt features to a
severe scrutiny.
‘I’m not particularly ugly, and I’ve Bella’s complexion, which is the
best part of her,’ she said, ‘but I don’t suppose there’s a Mr. Piper
growing for me anywhere.’
‘Oh yes, there is,’ answered the cheerful Flora. ‘Bella will give lots
of parties, and we shall meet with young manufacturers.’
‘Bella will do nothing except for her own gratification,’ said
Clementina. ‘She won’t give parties to please us.’