A Lame Dog's Diary Part 15

"It was just such an evening as this," he said, "when I bade her good-bye, meaning to come back in a little while and ask her to marry me. She was standing by the gate--fine old gates with stone pillars to them, and the sun shone full in her eyes.... I suppose that gentle, sweet look never left them, did it? They were closed, of course, when I saw them just now.... She was wearing a white dress that evening, I remember--a sort of muslin dress which I suppose would not be fashionable now, but which looked very pretty then. It had a lot of pink ribbons about it, and there was a great bunch of pink moss-roses in the ribbon of her belt.... Do you know I never picture her except as the girl who stood by the gate with the sun behind her, and the roses in her belt. I think I lost my head a little when it came to saying good-bye, and I began to say things which I had not meant to say--she looked so pretty with the red sunlight upon her, and her white muslin dress almost turned to pink in the glare.... I don't think she was surprised, only sweeter and gentler than before, and a curious, happy look was in her eyes. But I stopped in time, and stammered like a fool, thinking of poor Harold Bazeley, and then I said good-bye rather hurriedly. But I came back again to the gate where she was still standing, and asked if I might have one of the roses in her belt.

And she gave me the whole bunch.

"... It must have been after this that the father died and left them very poor, and then the sister (this one, Belinda) had a stroke of paralysis, and there was no one to look after her but Lydia.... I wrote and proposed to her before I went to India--asked her to come with me as my wife. But she said she could not marry while her sister lived. It isn't as though we could have remained in England, and she could have lived with us; but of course India would have been an impossibility for the poor thing. We never thought in those days that poor Belinda would live long. And then she made a sort of recovery, but was still quite helpless, and Lydia wrote and asked me to wait for her no longer.... I never heard that she had come to live at Stowel."

The broad, wide village road was dim with twilight when we walked homewards along it--The Uncle and I. The children had all gone indoors, and the flowers in the little garden had lost their colour in the dim light.

As we pa.s.sed by the cottage the General halted on the quiet, deserted road and took off his hat, then he leaned over the little green paling and drew towards him a branch of a moss-rose tree that Miss Lydia had planted there. He plucked a bud from it and held it to his face. Then he said gently, "They are the same sort, but they do not smell so sweet."

CHAPTER XIII.

Mrs. Fielden came to Stowel for the funeral, and did not return to London again. She went to pay some visits, I believe, and afterwards she will go to Scotland to stay with the Melfords, as she always does in August. It was a very quiet summer. Anthony went to Ireland to fish, and Major Jacobs went with him instead of me: Anthony and I used to take the fishing together. Even Frances Taylor went north to stay with Mrs. Macdonald, and the Reading Society postponed its future meetings till the winter should come again.

Undoubtedly Kate Jamieson's wedding was a stirring event in a very dull time. The festivities connected with it were carried out with the Jamiesons' usual energy and lavishness. It is possible to be lavish on five hundred a year. That is one of the pleasing things that kind-hearted people like the Jamiesons can prove. No one was omitted in the list of invitations to the reception which was held on the lawn in front of the house. And there the whole of the Jamiesons' wide circle of friends was gathered together, forming an a.s.sembly which surely only the censorious mind could find fault with. The refreshments, these good Jamiesons informed us, with their ingenuous interest in discussing detail, were prepared by Margaret, and Kate contributed to the payment of their ingredients from her small savings.

The group of bride and bridesmaids, which was photographed at the front door, each wearing an expression of acute distress upon her face, was George's own idea, and was n.o.bly paid for by him.

It was announced at the wedding-feast--although it had been whispered for a long time--that there was soon to be another break in the Jamieson family. We all instantly prepared a smile of congratulation for Maud, and some disappointment was felt when it was discovered that the remark applied to Mrs. Jamieson's youngest son, Kennie. The Pirate had for some time been informing his friends that the Wild West was "calling to him," and that he had the "go fever," and that "once he had known the perfect freedom of life out there" it was impossible to settle down to the conventionalities of English society again. The Pirate had obtained a post as purser on one of the ships of the company to which he belonged, and he appeared at the wedding-breakfast in a suit of white ducks, a gold-laced cap, and the famous c.u.mmerbund. I have a strong suspicion that he had a revolver concealed in a mysterious pocket, from the way his hand, in moments of excitement, occasionally moved towards it; but fortunately the wedding-party was of so peaceful a description that it was not necessary to produce the weapon.

Since the exciting news of Kennie's proposed departure for Buenos Ayres Mettie has developed nerves and hysteria. But so limited is the power of imagination or discrimination in the human mind, that I must honestly confess that I never once connected her indisposition and low spirits with the news of her cousin's departure. Mettie has added to a certain helplessness which always distinguishes her a tendency to tears, and to sitting alone in her bedroom and sniffing dolorously; the big thin nose requires constant attention, and there are red rims round poor Mettie's eyes. The Jamiesons, who trace every variation in life to a love affair, are not long of course in coming to the right and the sentimental--nay, from the Jamieson point of view, the only reasonable explanation of this change in their little cousin. But Mettie has entreated them to say nothing, and to let her suffer in silence, and they are too loyal to betray her interesting confidences. Kennie himself is, I believe, still unaware of the interest he is exciting in Mettie's gentle breast, but doubtless the little woman's extreme timidity and her clinging disposition appeal in no small measure to the Defender of the s.e.x. Mettie raises meek, adoring eyes to the Pirate's ruddy face, under the gold-laced cap, and murmurs with clasped hands: "You will never come back to us--I know it, I feel it! You will be murdered by some gang of cut-throats, and then what will I--I mean your mother, do?" The Pirate plumes himself and struts, and the dangers that his little cousin has so powerfully depicted for him make his young heart swell.

The village church was quite full of spectators and friends; nearly all our acquaintances in the village wore new gowns--or apparently new gowns--for the wedding. Mrs. Lovekin, in a black-cloth mantle with bead-tr.i.m.m.i.n.g, showed guests into their pews, and directed the children at the doorway into giving a ringing cheer as the bride drove up to the church. It was whispered by a wag that Mrs. Lovekin would like to don a surplice and officiate at the interesting ceremony herself. There was a party in white cotton gloves, who banged doors and shouted "Drive on!" and it was hard to realize that this was the Jamiesons' odd man and gardener, transformed for the occasion. He wore a large white ribbon rosette in his b.u.t.ton-hole, and all the morning he had been busy erecting an archway over the gate at Belmont with Union Jacks displayed thereon, out of consideration, as he explained, to the late Captain Jamieson, he being military. The Miss Traceys were resplendent in brown dresses and profuse lace neckties, securely anch.o.r.ed to their chests by ma.s.sive brooches; the dresses were afterwards mentioned in an account of the wedding in the local paper, and it was cut out and carefully kept by the Miss Traceys, who pasted the interesting news in a small alb.u.m for news-cuttings which they bought for the purpose.

At the Jamiesons' little house there was, I understand, a wild state of confusion and energy from a very early hour in the morning, and looking-gla.s.ses and hand-mirrors were in great demand. The centre of interest there, it seems, was Kate's bedroom, where the whole of The Family congregated to give Kate a last kiss before the veil was put on, and to wish her happiness again and again. George, who throughout the entire proceedings made a laudable attempt to appear calm, at last told his sister that it really was time to start, and the carriage rolled down the hill, and Kate Jamieson alighted from it, and walked up the aisle of the old church leaning upon her brother's arm. Eliza Jamieson was busy with a note-book the whole time, and almost one seemed to begin to see the wedding through her journalistic eyes.

Our curate's wife, who is still far from strong, asked Palestrina to look after Peggy, who expressed a wish to see the wedding, and I was interested to find how many little games Peggy had invented for herself by way of getting through the tedium of a service--games which, I imagine, she had been preparing during the many services which a curate's little girl is supposed to attend.

"If you press your eyes to the back of your head as far as you can,"

she whispered to me, "you can see green and red and blue spots, and then open them and you can see green and red and blue spots round father." And again: "I can say, 'We beseech Thee!' seven times over while the choir are singing it, if we have Jackson's _Te Deum_." And then: "Do you know what Georgie and I do, when we are sent to church alone? We hide in the pew until no one thinks we are there, and then we pop up in the middle of the service and begin to say the responses.

When we sit with the Sunday-school children we play at 'My husband and your husband,' and then we each choose in turn which husband we'll have in the congregation. You see, the first man who comes in is to be the first child's husband, and the second the second child's, that's how we manage; last Sunday I got the baker's boy."

Mr. Swinnerton was at the wedding, somewhat inclined to be consequential, as usual; but as he devoted his whole attention to Margaret, one could not but feel that his presence was acceptable. (We are on the tip-toe of expectation to know when Mr. Swinnerton will "come to the point.") Margaret Jamieson looked after the needs of the Higginses' relations, and attended to the wants of all the humbler of the guests.

There was still another element of interest in the marriage-party in the person of Mr. Evans, who ran down from Hampstead for it. "If Mr.

Evans comes," Maud said, with the characteristic fine common sense of the Jamiesons, "I want you all to understand that it is all quite over between him and me. But what I have always thought about Mr. Evans is this--that he is the sort of man who would like The Family, and I do not see why he should not take a fancy to one of the other members of it. I am quite sure his affection for me was based upon my suitability. He often told me, for instance, that he would like a wife who had been brought up to do things for herself, and could manage on a small income and dress cheaply, and I am sure we can all do that. And after all, if that is so, one of us is as suitable as another. He had very definite ideas about a wife; but I couldn't help feeling all the time that it was some one like ourselves that he had in his mind. He seemed to have a great dread of any one who was too smart; and I said to him at the time--for of course we both talked about our families a good deal, as one does in the first stages--that we were all very homely sort of people. I could always put myself in the background if he seemed, for instance, to take a fancy to Gracie. And Gracie herself has often said that she thinks she would like a man to wear a white watered-silk waistcoat."

Gracie looked quite pleased with the arrangement, and Mr. Evans was asked down "as a friend." And I should here like to record--only of course it is going too far ahead--that before the summer was over, Mr.

Evans, charmed with The Family, as Maud felt he would be, and convinced of their suitability, had chosen Gracie from amongst the remaining Miss Jamiesons who were still at the disposal of those who seek a wife.

Gracie's energy charmed Mr. Evans. He often said afterwards that he believed he had got the pick of the basket after all.

It was quite evident to me, and I believe to most of the Jamiesons'

guests, that one of the mysteries, so dear to the hearts of Stowel, was in preparation for the wedding afternoon. Not even my sister and I had been initiated into the secret; but Mrs. Jamieson, it must be confessed, took away from the shock of surprise which might have been ours, by referring during the whole afternoon to the entertainment which was to take place later. The Jamiesons had decided that the lawn, newly mown, was to be suddenly cleared of trestle-tables and garden-chairs, and that a small band of musicians was to spring up unexpectedly out of the ground, as it were, and that every one was to know suddenly that they were in the midst of an impromptu dance. Now Mrs. Jamieson, nervously expectant, and half fearing from the detached manners of her daughters (so well did the Miss Jamiesons simulate their ignorance of what was before them) that they must indeed have forgotten about the dance, interrupted every conversation by creeping up to them in her melancholy, quiet way, and saying, "Shall I get them to clear away now?"

"It's to be impromptu, mamma," entreated the Miss Jamiesons in agitated whispers. It had been decided between them that Gracie, as the youngest of the party, should exclaim suddenly, as if by some happy inspiration, "I vote we dance;" and that then in a perfectly easy and natural manner guests and entertainers alike should, with the utmost friendliness, help to push back the tables and chairs into the lilac bushes, and that then the musicians should be hastily summoned from the kitchen, where they were to have tea. Before that time arrived the unfortunate Mrs. Jamieson had, as one might say, almost skimmed the cream off the whole thing. Her nervousness would not allow her to rest, and in the end she had established the musicians in the three chairs so artlessly prepared for them under the chestnut-tree; and there they were with fiddle and concertina long before Gracie had found an opportunity for making her impromptu suggestion. Their sudden appearance, one could not but feel, detracted from the unprepared effect that had been intended, and they stood waiting to begin with quite a forlorn appearance until the Pirate, for whom the arrival of the hour means the arrival of the man (if the Pirate is anywhere about), called out in his loud tones, "Strike up, you fellows, and let us have a dance!" and the very next moment the white drill suit and the gold-laced cap of Kennie might have been seen in the middle of the lawn. He gallantly seized Mettie round the waist and scattered the guests by the onslaught and the fierce charge he made upon them, and soon had cleared a s.p.a.ce in which he footed it gaily. The Higginses, who had been rather shy during the reception, hastened to find partners, and warmed to the occasion at once. Young Abel Higgins, the handsome young farmer from Dorming, said it was the pleasantest entertainment he had ever been at. "There is no cliquism about it," he remarked. "You just say to a girl, 'Will you dance?' and up she comes; it doesn't matter if she's a lord's daughter!"

Mr. Swinnerton devoted much of his attention and his conversation to me during the afternoon. He discussed what he calls "military matters" at great length, pointing out the mistakes of every general in South Africa, at the same time clearly stating what Mr. Swinnerton would have done under similar circ.u.mstances, and lamenting the inefficiency of the War Office. Later in the afternoon, however, when he found me where, as I hoped, I had effectually concealed myself behind a laurel bush, Mr. Swinnerton plunged heavily into the question of marriage; and this, as Maud would say, was surely a very hopeful sign. I was disappointed, however, to find that his views regarding the happy state of matrimony seemed to have been made almost entirely from one point of view, and that point of view himself.

"Don't you think," he began ponderously, as he seated himself beside me after the rather heavy fatigue of dancing on a lawn to the strains of a band that did not keep scrupulous time--"don't you think that a man ought to see a girl in her own home before he makes up his mind?"

I dissented on the plea of over-cautiousness, but Mr. Swinnerton did not hear me.

"What I think," he went on, "is that marriage is a serious undertaking for a man, and that one ought to be very sure of one's own mind."

I admitted the seriousness of matrimony, but thought it applied equally to the woman.

This remark also seemed to escape Mr. Swinnerton's attention. Indeed, I found that what is extremely irritating about this fellow is that his mind never diverges from his own topic; he seems quite incapable of excursions into the thoughts and feelings of the persons he addresses, but plods steadily on his own path, pleased to give his own views, and quite unaffected by the differences of opinion that are offered him.

There is a legend of my childhood that records that a man once said, "It is bitt----" and then went to sleep for a thousand years, and when he woke up he said, "--erly cold." I am often reminded of this story when I listen to Mr. Swinnerton's plodding conversation.

"What I feel is," he went on--and one knew that no fatigue on the part of the listener would be noticed by him--"what I feel is, that the man being the head of the woman he should always choose some one who is docile and good-tempered, and perhaps above all things a good cook.

That's the very first thing I would teach a woman--to be a good cook.

It's so important for a man to have his meals really nice and nicely served. Don't you agree with me?"

"It is very important," I said.

"I am so glad you agree with me." Mr. Swinnerton occasionally remarks on an agreeable clause in one's conversation, whereas a disagreement never even penetrates his mind. "Of course, you fellows with your mess and all that can scarcely realize how necessary it is that a man's wife should be a good cook. And then she ought to be thoroughly domesticated," went on Mr. Swinnerton's heavy voice; "a woman should not always be wanting to go out in the evening. What I feel is that the home should const.i.tute the woman's happiness."

"And cooking?" I said.

"Yes, and cooking," said Mr. Swinnerton. "I do not want my wife to have any money; I had much rather she had to come to me for things. I am not greedy about money. I am comfortably off, but I think a man should have entire control of the purse. One could knock off any expenditure on a wife's dress, if that is the case. Ladies like a new bonnet, and I should always give my wife a new bonnet if things had been nice."

I remarked that Mr. Swinnerton was very generous.

"I know I am generous. Of course, a man gives up a great deal when he marries, but I do not know that in the matter of expense it would cost me more to keep a small house than to pay for lodgings."

"It depends," I said, "what wages you give your wife. An occasional new bonnet would not be an extravagant salary, if she turned out to be a really good cook."

For the first time Mr. Swinnerton seemed struck by the wisdom of my remarks. "No, it would not," he said; "it would not. I know that I would make a good husband," he remarked; "and I feel that I have a future before me in the volunteers."

Margaret joined us at this moment, and Swinnerton smiled indulgently at her, without offering, however, to give her his seat. I do not think that Margaret noticed this, as she did not notice any omission on Mr.

Swinnerton's part.

"I hope you are not very tired," she said. "Your journey from London and then this little dance must be very fatiguing, I am afraid."

"Men don't get tired," said Mr. Swinnerton grandiosely, and he looked towards me for applause. He did not, however, ask her to dance, and Margaret moved away to attend to other guests.

"She's a very nice-looking girl," said Mr. Swinnerton approvingly, "and a well-brought-up girl, too."

So I suppose it is still hopeful, as the Jamiesons would say. But I pray that Margaret Jamieson will remove Mr. Swinnerton hence when she has married him.

Kate and Mr. Ward drove to the station in the best landau and pair of horses from Stowel Inn. Mr. Ward was so upset from first to last by the ceremonies and the heat that his conical-shaped head, covered with the dew of nervous perspiration, steamed like a kettle; but his affection for his bride and his evident delight and pride in her were undeniable, and although resenting in his mild way the stinging shower of rice with which he was pelted, and the usual facetious jokes that were made on the bride and bridegroom, Mr. Ward nevertheless beamed with good-nature all the time.

Palestrina made me laugh when she came home in the evening. She had been down to the village to see the Pettifers and to show them her wedding finery, as she promised to do; for Mrs. Pettifer is ill in bed again, and was unable to stand at the church door with the rest of the crowd to see the wedding-party. My sister found the old lady weeping bitterly, and for a long time she could not guess the cause of her distress, until at last a remark of her husband's explained it. "She do take on like that tur'ble queer," he said, "as soon as ever the wedding-bells ring after a marriage is over."

"Yes," said Mrs. Pettifer; "I always say to myself, 'She's got him, and he ain't disappointed her after all.'"

Kennie sailed for Buenos Ayres the day after the wedding, and Mettie walked over to see us, being sent on some errand, I have no doubt, wherein she would be more usefully employed than in getting into the way of the staff of workers who were clearing up after yesterday's festivities. Mettie brought over Mrs. Ward's first telegram received that morning from Dover, and said it was too funny to think of Kate being Mrs. Ward. "Kate Ward," she said with one of her curious little chirruping laughs, "Kate Ward--do look at it!" And we dutifully replied that it certainly seemed the height of drollery.