THE WEDDING.
It was on a Monday afternoon in early March. The stage that day had
left at the tavern three big trunks, around which were grouped in
Anita's room the whole feminine portion of the household. These trunks
had been opened, and part of the contents lay upon the floor, looking
as though, having been relieved from the pressure of the covers, they
had boiled over. Above these shining masses of color Anita hovered
like a humming-bird over a bed of honey-laden flowers. This was her
_trousseau_, forwarded by Luis from New York. She made a rapid little
plunge on this side, a deft little plunge on that, bringing up each
time a drop of sweets in the shape of a silk of pale blue, a ribbon of
pale pink, or a velvet of lavender--those delicate old-fashioned tints
of which we seem to have lost sight in our present carnival of color.
"What lovely, lovely lace!" exclaimed Cousin Kitty, lifting from its
box the wedding-veil itself. "It's worth its weight in--diamond-dust!
I don't believe the Empress of all the Russias has finer. The Señor
Gonsalva must have a mint of money."
Just then Anita came up from one of her dives with a jewel-casket,
which, on being opened, displayed such an array of brilliant gems
lying in their velvet beds as almost struck the beholders dumb. Not
quite, however.
"Oh, what are those?" asked Dolly, hanging over a set of opals, in the
hearts of which, a spark of emerald and ruby flamed like imprisoned
fire. "And oh what splendid, _splendid_ rubies!" Speech could go no
farther, and she contemplated in rapt silence a diamond cross that
sparkled and flashed like distant suns. Of a truth, as Cousin Kitty
said, the Señor Gonsalva must have a mint of money.
"P'r'aps he's got a diamond mine," Ned contrived to whisper in her ear.
From another of her sudden plunges Anita emerged with a package
neatly folded and directed to "Miss Makepeace," the contents of which
took that imperturbable lady quite by surprise. On being opened,
there slipped from it a black satin dress pattern of wonderful
texture--"thick as a board," was Thankful's own descriptive term for
it whenever in after-years she talked of it, which was pretty often,
as you may suppose.
Other surprises followed quickly on the discovery of the black satin,
viz., an India shawl for Mrs. Park, which could _almost_ be drawn
through Anita's ruby bracelet, a pearl necklace, and a locket with
her monogram in seed-pearls on the back, for Cousin Kitty, a similar
one for Dolly, together with a dress pattern of creamy white satin
embroidered with rose-buds for the latter, and one of pale pink satin
for the former. These were presented to the two in their character
as bridesmaids, in which capacity they had consented to serve at the
coming wedding, which was to take place about the middle of April.
Having found and presented these packages, Anita stood with clasped
hands, wrinkling up her forehead, and apparently much puzzled and
perplexed.
"Ah, my good Ned--" she began, when her countenance suddenly cleared.
She made a plunge into what might be called the north-east corner of
the biggest trunk--it was certainly as big as a moderate state-room
on a Sound steamer, and could consistently claim an interest in the
points of compass--and brought up therefrom a box, which she presented
to Ned with an expression of happy triumph. It contained that one
treasure so unspeakably dear to every boyish heart, viz., a watch--a
gold watch, at that--a watch that would "go," which cannot be said
with truth of every boy's watch--a watch, too, with his monogram in
tiny diamonds on the back--and furthermore, a watch with a gold chain
attached.
Ned, who had not been able to resist the temptation of being present
at the opening of these trunks, which had excited much neighborly
curiosity when lifted off the stage that day, but who up to that
time had kept somewhat in the background, feeling that it wasn't
quite consistent with manly dignity to exhibit too much interest in
"clothes," now came forward, blushing with delight, and thanked Anita.
"It's--it's bu--," he stammered, coming, in his confusion, within a
hair's-breadth of the contraband word, and then stopping himself and
beginning anew. "He's a trump, an' it's no end kind of him; but I
guess you told him to, Anita;" and Anita dimpled and laughed, and did
not deny it. And with her own brown little hand she took the old watch
from his pocket--a watch which he had to wind up four times a day to
keep it going, setting it ahead one hour every time it was wound--and
replaced it with the gold one, hooking the chain into his button-hole.
"Luis is royal in his gifts," said Cousin Kitty afterwards in a
private interview with Aunt Anna. "But ought we to accept them?"
"Ordinarily I should say not," replied Aunt Anna, who was admiring the
beauties of her India shawl. And then she laughed, adding, "But in the
ordinary course of things such a question isn't often likely to arise.
We may accept these, I think, in the spirit in which they are offered.
It's a sort of song of praise on Luis's part, you see, the giving of
these. It's his way of celebrating the finding of Anita--a pæan of
thanksgiving."
"A kind of recitative, you might say," added Cousin Kitty, "with my
pearl necklace for high G, and your India shawl for low A. Well, I
must say I'm not sorry that such is your decision, Auntie. For though
I could have parted with these, if necessary"--looking from the pale
pink satin in one hand to the pearl necklace in the other--"I'm very
willing to keep them. But what a wedding it's going to be for the old
tavern! and in what gorgeous raiment shall the bridesmaids shine, eh,
Dotty?" and Dolly, who had been standing by, awaiting with no little
anxiety Aunt Anna's decision, gave the creamy satin and the pearl
necklace which she held in her arms a little hug of congratulation and
possession. _Jubilate!_ they were hers! and she for one was glad that
the Señor Gonsalva's pæan of thanksgiving had taken the form it had.
But the opening of the trunks was only the beginning of the end. A
busy six weeks ensued. The old tavern was turned topsy-turvy. "It beat
the c'nventions," said 'Zekle.
In the kitchen the wedding-cake was made in relays, seven loaves at
a time--twenty-eight great fruity loaves in all, with frosting, over
which Thankful exhausted her utmost skill in decoration.
In Anita's sunny room, amid the fragrance of her mignonette and
the continuous chattering of the white Australian cockatoo, the
wedding-clothes were "created," to use Cousin Kitty's own word for it.
At first there had been talk of summoning a distinguished dress-maker
from Quincy to preside over this department. She had made the gowns
of the daughter of the Senator from that district for her _début_ at
Washington. But Cousin Kitty vetoed this proposition.
"Let Pella cut them," she said. "Her fits are perfect, and I can tell
her all the rest. I've the greatest knack at those things, Auntie, and
I should so like to create Penelope's wardrobe."
So Pella, the Byfield dress-maker, whose baptismal name was
Experience, came, and Anita was turned into a dummy, and tried
on gowns from morning till night, while the two cut and fitted,
and pinched in here and let out there, and as each fresh gown was
finished, it was hung in the bedroom opening off the dancing-hall,
which had been devoted to this purpose, and thither the myriad of
callers at the tavern--for news of all these wonderful happenings
there had run like wildfire through the town--were taken to view them.
With only one exception they pronounced them the most wonderful
array of gowns they had ever set eyes on. Mrs. Davis was that one
exception. She had a fictitious friend somewhere--like Sairey Gamp's
Mrs. Harris--named Matilda Price. This Matilda Price, according to
Mrs. Davis, once had a gown that united in itself all the glories of
Anita's whole wardrobe, hearing of which assertion unbelieving Byfield
cried out with Betsy Prigg, "I don't believe there's no sich a person."
The bridesmaids' gowns being a sort of side issue only, were to be
made some time, and some time proving to be no time, it is a matter
of no surprise that Pella sat up till three o'clock on the night
preceding the wedding to finish them.
As to the wedding itself, a strictly private ceremony was talked
of at first; but this intention becoming known, there arose such a
howl of dissent and remonstrance through the length and breadth of
Byfield that it was reconsidered. Anita said she would like to have
all these people who had been so kind to her at her wedding, so three
hundred invitations were issued, which comprised a large part of the
inhabitants of the town, which numbered, all told, only about five
hundred.
The ceremony was to take place in the dancing-hall, that being the
biggest room in the house--the only one, in fact, into which three
hundred guests could be comfortably put at one time. Indeed, if it had
not been for this big hall, it is more than probable that these three
hundred guests would not have been invited.
"And I wish we might have a wedding-bell," Cousin Kitty had remarked
when they talked over the arrangements; "but that's past hoping for,
I suppose." But on her explaining what she meant by a wedding-bell--a
bell made of flowers, to ring down upon the bride after the
ceremony--Ned said of course they could have one. "May-flowers enough
in the woods t' make a dozen bells, Cousin Kitty."
The May-flower comes early in the land of the Pilgrims, coming often,
as did the Pilgrim _Mayflower_ itself, "amidst the storms" and the
frosts of a lingering winter. But this year spring came early. The
heavy snow which had made the Señor Luis Gonsalva a willing prisoner
for a week at the tavern, waiting for the roads to be broken out and
made passable, had fled almost as quickly as it had come, before the
melting power of the spring sun. Everywhere the grass was springing
green in the last of March; the buds on the lilac-bushes at the
south door of the tavern were swelling; and the tiger-lilies and
none-so-pretties were showing above the brown soil. Bluebirds and
robins had made their appearance, and Dolly and Ned were of the
opinion that Nature herself was hastening to get on her bridal robes
to do honor to the coming wedding. The old people said they "shouldn't
wonder" if the grain were waving in the fields, and the apple-trees
were pink with bloom, by the nineteenth of April, as they were on that
famous day in 1775.
In this general and rapid advance of spring the May-flower was not
a whit behind. The week before the wedding it was in its glory, and
a score or two of boys and girls, enlisted by Ned, were rifling the
woods and fields of this darling of bleak New England.
This was Dolly's first experience in May-flower gathering, but she
soon learned where to seek for the shy beauties--under the moist
pine-needles and in the shadiest nooks for the pink ones, and in the
open fields and wood borders for the white. With only a slight brush
of the fingers over the loosely-lying, dry, brown oak-leaves what a
wealth of beauty was laid bare!
They brought these by the armful to Cousin Kitty, who carefully placed
them in shallow troughs of water in one of those grewsome bins in the
cool, dark cellar, to keep until the morning of the wedding, when
they should be woven by myriads of helping fingers into the bell of
wire which 'Zekle himself had fashioned in the wood-room chamber.
These were, indeed, new times for 'Zekle. He never expected to have
been called upon "t' build a weddin'-bell," and after he had finished
it, its use was a mystery to him. Betty's mother, who, as usual, had
been called in with Betty to assist in this avalanche of work so
suddenly precipitated into the old tavern, waggled her head over it
as something foreign if not heathenish, and Mrs. Davis could find no
parallel for it in the experience of Matilda Price; but Thankful was
sure that anything originating with Cousin Kitty and approved by Mrs.
Park for the pleasure of the Little Madam _must_ be all right, to
which irresistible logic Betty's mother at last gave up her doubts.
Luis arrived on the day but one preceding the wedding, and on the
evening of the day before the wedding there arrived from Boston a
renowned caterer, accompanied by six colored subordinates, and any
number of mysterious packages and baskets. The boys who were now
hanging continuously about the tavern, envying Ned his superior
opportunities, and most of whom were among the invited guests, managed
to get a peep into the dining-room where these mysterious baskets were
being unladened, and carried home wonderful accounts of what they had
seen.
At last the day and the hour arrived, and the guests were assembled
early in the hall, awaiting the entrance of the bridal party. At the
upper end hung the wedding-bell, filling the room with its fragrance.
Near by stood the minister, a grave and courtly gentleman of the old
school, whose very presence was a benediction.
The names of the three hundred guests are among the annals of the
past. It will be enough to say that almost every one whom you have met
in the course of this story was there--all but bedridden Matty and
poor palsy-stricken Patty. And yet, strange as it may seem to you, it
is a question if among those three hundred there were any who rejoiced
more heartily over the Little Madam's restoration to happiness than
did these two helpless, hapless creatures, to whom so much of what is
supposed to constitute happiness was denied.
In the corner farthest away from the place where the bridal party was
to stand, the boys congregated in that gregarious way common to boys.
They occasionally exchanged a remark in a hoarse whisper, and now and
then one would pinch his neighbor or tread on his toes, feeling safe
from the danger of a retaliating blow.
The girls, on the contrary, had placed themselves as near the spot
where the party was to stand as etiquette allowed, where they smiled
and sparkled, and exchanged whispers, too; and Aunt Debby, looking up
into that corner as she came in at the door near the lower end of the
hall, said, "Bless 'em!" involuntarily and quite loud. She couldn't
help it, they looked as though they were having a so thoroughly good
time.
Nannie, who came in with Debby, wore her Marie Stuart lace cap--which
Mrs. Park had given her for this very occasion--hind side before, and
even Aunt Debby had failed to get on her somewhat dry and ancient
"front" exactly straight; but her face beamed with good-will, and
she shook all over in that jelly-like way fat people are apt to, as
she exchanged smiles and greetings with each of the three hundred
individually.
Mr. Emerson was there with his mother, who looked more bizarre in
dress than usual, in a white satin, which she had disinterred from
some one of those chests where she kept her relics of the past. It was
extremely short, displaying a pair of thick blue woollen stockings and
low shoes. Over her shoulders she wore a mantle of pea-green gauze,
which was crossed in front and fastened behind in a sash-like drapery.
As usual, she carried a bag, this time of crimson beads with a purple
fringe; and to her cap she had added a bunch of artificial flowers
so preposterous in size and color that the merry girls in the corner
came near going off into explosions of laughter at the sight of it,
and were only restrained by their respect for her really admirable
qualities.
But "what a pity," as Cousin Kitty said, "that so excellent a woman
should make such a guy of herself!" Well, to be sure, we must not
expect to find all the virtues and graces in one bundle.
There chanced to be two guests at this wedding whose presence would
have graced any assembly in the land. The mother of the beautiful
Emily Marshall had come down for a brief rest, after a brilliant
social winter, to drink fresh milk and to recruit on plain country
fare, and she had been bidden to the wedding. She was not "the rose,"
but she was the mother of the rose, and her elegant manners and fine
personal presence added not a little to its _éclat_. The other guest
was Daniel Webster. He was here only for a brief hour _en route_,
but it was an assembly after his own heart, of kindly, plain, but
intelligent country-folk, and he enjoyed it accordingly.
"Here they come!" whispered Johnny Tuttle, catching a glimpse of Ned
through the open door, and thinking that even for that wonderful gold
watch he wouldn't have been in his shoes just then.
For Dolly and Ned were the first to enter, Ned looking very fine in
his black velvet suit and scarlet necktie; and as to Dolly--well, the
girls fairly devoured her with their eyes, and would have declared her
"just too sweet for anything," if they had had the advantages of our
modern manner of expressing ourselves. Both looked slightly conscious
of the three hundred pairs of eyes, more or less, which were fastened
upon them. It _was_ something of an ordeal, it is true, but they
acquitted themselves very well.
Cousin Kitty and the brown-eyed doctor followed directly, and then
came--ah, everybody held their breath as the tall, dark, handsome man
entered, leading his _petite_ bride in bridal white, the filmy lace of
her veil enveloping her like a silvery mist.
If the girls in the corner had dared, they would have given vent to
their feelings in one prolonged, sighing "O--h!" As it was, they
only breathed a little more deeply. And the boys ceased from their
pinchings and punchings as the two stopped under the wedding-bell, and
the minister came forward to his place in front of them.
The marriage-service is always brief--to the lookers-on--and it was
soon over. One incident must not be forgotten. As Anita in her low,
sweet voice began the formula, "I, Anita, take thee, Luis," a sob was
heard--a queer sob, strangled in its birth apparently. It came from
Thankful, who, feeling rather "shook," as she explained afterwards,
with the events of the preceding weeks, had taken the precaution to
shelter herself behind Mr. Webster's ample proportions; but when, just
at that point in the service, she saw Skipper Joe draw the back of his
hand across his eyes, it entirely "upsot" her. She escaped from the
hall at once, but recovered her equanimity in time to preside over the
wedding-cake, arrayed in the glories of her new satin.
The congratulations followed the service--very informal
congratulations, but very genuine. Out from their corner fluttered
the girls like a covey of gay-plumaged birds, and kissed the bride,
and hovered and cooed around her. And up from their corner came the
boys in somewhat more awkward fashion, and shook hands shamefacedly
with the Little Madam--for to them she would always be that. Then
followed the never-to-be-forgotten banquet, with its pyramids of
ice-cream--ice-cream was not the every-day thing it is now--its
translucent jellies, and luscious fruits from those islands lying
midway between North and South America; and last, but not least, its
thick slices of wedding-cake, of which each boy ate his to the last
crumb, while the girls just tasted theirs, and took the remnant home
to dream over.
And so went the Little Madam forth from the shelter of the old tavern.
THE END.
[Transcriber's Note: Inconsistent hyphenation left as printed.]