THE WEDDING-DAY--ENORMOUS EXCITEMENT IN THE
VILLAGE--PREPARATIONS FOR THE EVENT--THE CONDUCT OF BOB PARKER--THE
CEREMONY AT THE CHURCH AND THE COMPANY AT MAGRUDER'S--A LAST LOOK AT
SOME OLD FRIENDS--DEPARTURE OF THE BRIDE AND GROOM--SOME UNCOMMONLY
SOLEMN REFLECTIONS, AND THEN THE END.
[Illustration]
Yesterday was the day of the wedding.
I suppose no one can hope to describe accurately the sensation that is
created by such an event in a little community like ours. It has
supplied the ladies of the village with material for discussion for
several weeks past, and the extraordinary interest manifested in it has
constantly grown stronger until it culminated in a blaze of excitement
which made calmness upon the part of any New Castilian upon the great
day a wholly impossible condition. My own wife has introduced the
subject in her conversation with me at every available opportunity; and
when I have grown weary of hearing about the preparations for the
wedding, about the purchases made by the Magruders for Bessie, about the
presents given to the bride by her friends, about the future prospects
of the pair, and about other matrimonial things innumerable, the
excellent partner of my joys, still with unabated enthusiasm, has turned
from so dull a listener, and seizing her bonnet and shawl, has darted
off to visit Mrs. Jones or Mrs. Hopkins, and has found them eager to
participate in conversation upon these subjects. During the past month
this sympathetic woman has called at Magruder's at least three times a
day to ascertain the latest facts respecting the situation, and to give
advice and assistance to the busy workers who have been preparing the
multitude of articles which a girl must have before she is married.
Every woman in the village was familiar, long ago, with the minutest
details of the arrangements, and all of them were so deeply absorbed in
the preparations and in contemplation of the approaching catastrophe
that they cared for nothing else. If there had been revolutions, if
thrones had tottered to their fall, if hurricanes had swept over the
land and the nations had been stricken by the scourge, I verily believe
that these devoted women of New Castle would have regarded these
calamities with steadfast composure, and would have excluded them from a
place in the social debates wherein the wedding of Bessie Magruder was
the one great subject of discussion.
There is nothing more intense in nature than the interest felt by a
woman in the marriage of another woman. The fanatic fury of a Hindoo
devotee is mere icy indifference in comparison to it.
It was entertaining to watch Bob Parker upon the evening before the
wedding and upon the morning of the great day itself. He had everything
ready a week before the time, and upon the last night of his bachelor
life he had nothing to do but to sit at home with us and think. And so,
while I read my book and while Mrs. Adeler finished the bonnet that she
had made for the occasion from old material (the dexterous economy of
that woman, by the way, is simply phenomenal), Bob fidgeted about. He
pretended to read the paper; he threw himself upon the lounge and
counterfeited sleep; he darted suddenly up stairs to see if he had put a
sufficient number of collars in his trunk; he darted down again and
tried on his new hat for the fiftieth time; he stood by the fire and
expressed his fear, often repeated during the day, that there would be
rain on the morrow; he tried to wind up his watch four times, and he
examined his pocket-book over and over again to ascertain if the ring
was safe. At a ridiculously early hour he said he was tired and must go
to bed; but when I ascended the stairs about midnight, I could hear him
still moving about. He was nervous, excited and anxious.
[Illustration]
Before daylight dawned Bob was out of bed and down stairs smoking and
guessing at the weather. When we descended, he was in extreme agitation
lest the man should not come with the bouquets. When the flowers did
arrive, they looked so much like business that he immediately flew up to
his room and put on his wedding suit.
Then we had to wait nearly two hours for the carriages, and Bob was
harassed by doubts as to the correctness of the appearance of his
neck-tie. Three times Mrs. Adeler applied thread and needle to that
article of adornment, and at last Bob threw it away and assumed
another. He seemed to have a strong conviction that the eyes of the
entire assembly would be concentrated upon that white tie. Then he put
on his gloves and sat, flushed and uncomfortable in his new clothing,
waiting for the moment of his departure. Presently he discovered that he
had lost one of his gold shirt buttons; and after a very long and very
warm search for it, he thought he felt it in his boot. I procured a
boot-jack for him; and when the button was found, he had to remove his
gloves again in order to pull his boot on. He was beginning to be
acutely miserable when, at last, the carriages arrived. Then Mrs. Adeler
came down; and when I had buttoned her gloves with a hair-pin and
criticised the appearance of her dress, we went out to the street and
drove away.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
When we reached Magruder's, the doorway was surrounded by quite a throng
of persons. The excitement had reached even the lower classes, and a
crowd composed of slatternly women with babies in their arms, of truant
servant-girls, of unclean children, of idle men and noisy boys, stood
upon the pavement waiting for the bride to come out. As we descended
from the carriages, Bob was the chief object of interest, and while the
women eyed him with admiration the boys made very unpleasant remarks
concerning his clothing, particularly his "claw-hammer coat," When we
entered the house, Bob ascended to some mysterious region above to wait
for Bessie, while we examined the bridal gifts and conversed with
the paternal Magruder, who was plainly uncomfortable in his wedding
garments.
Then the bride descended amid exclamations of admiration from the
servants and their friends, who were collected in a knot at the rear of
the hall. She did look very sweet and pretty, that little maiden, in her
lovely white dress, with orange blossoms in her dark hair, with a
radiant light in her brown eyes and with a faint glow warming her cheek.
Bob Parker had good reason to feel proud as he led the fair girl to the
altar; and he was proud, despite his trepidation.
And when our salutations were over, when the satins and silks were all
arranged and the bridesmaids and groomsmen were ready, we marched
through the critical assembly outside the door and drove swiftly to the
church. At the gate we found, awaiting the wedding party, another throng
of spectators, among them that gloomy undertaker, with his chin hooked
upon the wall, and his mind still brooding over his wrongs.
Then we heard the organ playing the Coronation March, and as the bridal
party entered the church and swept up the aisle the Wedding March burst
forth. There was a fluttering and a turning of heads in the pews; then
silence, and then the ceremony began. Bob was pale as a ghost, and his
replies could hardly be heard, but Bessie spoke with perfect
distinctness. It is strange that women on these occasions should always
be more composed than men.
And when the solemn words were said, Bob kissed his wife gallantly, and
then, as the organ uttered Mendelssohn's lovely melody "I waited for the
Lord," the two turned about and in the aisle met hosts of friends eager
to congratulate them. At any other time Bob might have been mortified
that he was a person of secondary importance. It was the bride that the
people looked at, and not the groom. But now he was too happy and too
ready to forget himself He was too glad to have his wife greeted warmly
to think of any other thing. By the time the church porch was reached
every woman present had the details of Bessie's costume fixed indelibly
in her mind, ready for description and explanation to her friends; and
while the bell in the steeple rang out a merry peal, we returned to the
Magruder mansion, where, in the company of friends, we passed the few
hours before the departure of Mr. and Mrs. Parker.
Rev. Dr. Hopkins was there, beaming at the guests through his gold
spectacles, and making himself very comfortable with the oysters and
terrapin and chicken salad. He even had a smile for Colonel Bangs, who
was discussing with Mr. Magruder the probable effect upon the railway
interests of the country of an article in the _Argus_ of that morning
upon "Our Grinding Monopolies." It was interesting to listen to the
colonel.
[Illustration]
"I tell you," said he, with vehemence, "the time has come for the
overthrow of these gigantic railroad corporations; the time has come for
a free press to open its batteries upon the monopolies which are
trampling the rights of the people beneath their feet. There will be a
bitter fight, sir, mark me; it will be a battle to the death. But the
_Argus_ enters the lists boldly and without fear. The article of to-day
unsheaths the sword; it warns the railway tyrants that the battle has
begun."
"I am sure it will alarm them," said Mr. Magruder. "And you, I suppose,
are willing to give up everything for the cause? How about your annual
free pass to Philadelphia?"
"Oh, ah! as for that," exclaimed the colonel, "you perhaps observed that
I expressly excepted our own road and complimented its officers. A man
must not go to extremes in these matters, Magruder. And then there's the
advertising, you know! No, sir; we must proceed, as it were, cautiously
at first. Precipitate action might ruin everything."
Dr. Tobias Jones also had overcome his professional animosity to Mrs.
Magruder, and he was not only present, but he was conversing pleasantly
with that lady, probably upon the subjects of bilious fever and
aneurisms. Benjamin P. Gunn was there, bustling around among the guests
and paying especial attention to Bob. When I saw Gunn in earnest
conversation with the groom and caught the words, "in favor of your
wife, you know," I became aware of the fact that Benjamin was improving
the festive hour with an attempt to do a bit of business. Even Judge
Pitman was present, for Mr. Magruder liked the old man and was in a
gracious mood upon that day. I welcomed the judge heartily when, dressed
in a swallow-tail coat of a surprising pattern, he came up to me and
said,
"Splendid send-off for them young folks, ain't it? I tell you, they
didn't do things this way when me an' Harriet consolidated! We lived
down yer in Kent; an' when we were married by the squire, I give him
fifty cents an' then went out an' borrowed a waggin so's me an' Harriet
could take a little drive. We come up yer to New Cassel an' stayed two
days at the tavern, an' then drove back an' begun work agin, jes' 's if
nothin' oncommon had happened."
[Illustration]
"It was not the custom then, I suppose, to make a display on such
occasions?"
"No, _sir_! People hadn't no money to git up sich fodderin' as this yer.
They had to go slower. Still," mused the judge, "it's all right--it's
all right. Gittin' married's a big event; an' if you kin make a fuss
over it, you ought to. If my daughter ever tries it, I'll give her the
best I kin buy. A weddin' like this is nice all 'round, but the wimmen
in partickler is amazin' fond of sich things. If you'll excuse me, I
believe I'll try another fried oyster."
[Illustration]
There was another exciting time when Bessie, at last, came down in her
traveling dress and stood with Bob ready to depart. While the cabman
carried the trunks to the carriage, Bessie said her farewells. There was
a good-bye for mother, uttered with tears in the eyes of both of them, a
tender adieu to father, kisses for the women and a shake of the hand for
the men, and then they entered the carriage. We flung an old shoe or two
after them and waved our hands; and Cooley's boy gave them a parting
salute with a stone that shivered the carriage window. We watched them
as they went down the street, and saw, now and then, a handkerchief
fluttered toward us; then they turned a corner and disappeared.
* * * * *
It was a little lonely in the cottage upon that evening with Bob no
longer a member of the family. We shall miss him, with his sprightliness
and fun; and we shall half incline to regret that the little drama we
have watched so long with eager interest is ended, even though the
prince, after all his suffering, has found the princess and wedded her,
and though at last they have gone "across the hills and far away" beyond
"the utmost purple rim of that new world, which is the old."
We sat in the old room in silence for a while, both looking at the fire
and both thinking, not so much of the events of the day as of the
promise of the future for those two voyagers into the golden regions of
delight. Then Mrs. Adeler said, with half a sigh:
"I do hope they will be happy!"
"And so do I; and I really believe they will be, for both of them have
sweet tempers and good common sense; those are the qualities that are
likely to ensure the felicity of married folks."
"But it is a great risk for Bob to run; and for Bessie too, for that
matter."
"So it is; but it is a risk that may fairly be taken when the judgment
gives approval to the choice of the heart. Lovers do not bother
themselves, however, a great deal with the possibilities of the future.
They have only sunshine now, and it seems as if so clear a sky could
never breed cloud and storm. It is a happy thing for them, as well as
for the rest of us, that no human ingenuity can lift the veil that
shuts from our eyes the mysteries of the years to come. Think what a
journey it is that began to-day! Separate and apart they have come thus
far; but now they are to travel during all their lives together, over
rough places as well as where the way is smooth. The power of each over
the happiness of the other is infinite. He can make her wholly
miserable, and she can utterly destroy his peace. A violent
demonstration is not required. A little indifference at first, a harsh
word, then a growing coldness, then neglect, and for ever afterward
complete separation of heart and soul and feeling, though outwardly they
seem united.
"And even if they should be as happy as the most blessed of us, it is
well that their imaginations should throw about the future a glamour
which will hide the reality. A tried and well-proved love will hardly
bear the shock when misfortune and poverty come; it sometimes permits an
almost fatal display of ill-temper when there are sleepless nights with
sick and peevish children, when the soul is vexed with the cares of
business, with the smaller trials of life, and with the myriad petty
annoyances that are encountered in the path of every man. There are few
of us who are heroes among the troubles of common life. Perhaps we bear
the heavy blows courageously enough; but we cry out when we are stung by
the pigmy arrows that are shot at us every day, at home and in the
world. The truly great man is he who is patient and forbearing beneath
small vexations. The real hero is he who bears the burden of his life,
with its swarm of minor troubles, with calm, sweet evenness of temper
and with steadfast courage. The peevish and the irritable are the
enemies of peace in this world. Our lad and lass, we may hope, will find
a place for themselves among those who wisely choose the better part.
"And now, Mrs. Adeler, would it not be well to close our record, as the
hero and the heroine depart? It is the custom, in the novel and upon
the stage, to end the story when the knight and the lady who have loved
and suffered through all the pages and all the acts are made man and
wife. We have not done much with our pair; but it is enough that we have
told a simple story of an old passion in still another form, and that we
have given the chronicles of the village with what quality of humor we
could infuse into them, but without malice or vulgarity and without
irreverence. I have no patience with those who seek to find amusement by
committing these faults. There is matter enough in harmless things for
sportiveness; and rather than try to excite mirth by hurting the
feelings of my neighbors, by stooping to coarseness, or by speaking with
levity of things that are sacred, I would consent to write only books
that should be as solemn as tragedy itself. We have had some strange
experiences since the record began, and we should be very dull indeed if
we had not learned something from them. Of one thing we are completely
convinced: it is that a man who is made miserable because his neighbors
will not do as he wishes them to do had better not come to this or any
other village with the intent to be made happy. The man who voluntarily
becomes a hermit is a fool. A man of sense must necessarily desire to
live with his fellows and to enjoy their society, their sympathy and the
comforts that can be obtained with their assistance. He can have these
only by making sacrifices for them. He must not only give up some of his
natural rights as an individual, but he must make up his mind to endure
patiently disagreeable things that are done by his neighbors. He may
flee from the city to escape the professor of music who hammers a piano
ceaselessly, but in his new home he will certainly find a compensating
nuisance of some kind. Until all men learn to think and act alike, he
will find everywhere in the world those who are fond of the things that
he hates, and who will do things that he thinks should be left undone.
The man, therefore, who comes to the village in pursuit of perfect peace
and quiet of course will not find them. He will encounter the
disagreeable practices and peculiarities of other people precisely as he
did in the city; he will be called upon to endure annoyances as
aggravating as any of those from which he has flown. He can have
comparative contentment and repose in either place only by determining
to have them despite his neighbors. It is probable that men will always
have in this world sharp corners and rough surfaces with which they will
jag and tear each other as they roll onward in the swift current of
life. Perhaps we shall have smoothness and evenness when we enter
Paradise. I hope so, at any rate. And meantime let us all stop growling
about evils which cannot be cured.
"And now I will conclude our meek little story. Perhaps regretfully I
will close the door through which the public has been suffered to peep
in upon the movements of our quiet life at home and in the village, and
thus will end the spectacle. That life will continue, but it shall be
sacred to ourselves, and the events that give it interest shall go
unrecorded."
[Illustration]
* * * * *
Transcriber's note:
Variant spelling and hyphenation were retained.
Punctuation was normalized without comment.
Spelling changes:
Page 183, "aleak" changed to read "a leak".
Page 198, "cetan" changed to read "certain".
Page 262, "advertisment" changed to read "advertisement".]