Leonie of the Jungle Part 22

Every woman turned to look at him as he pa.s.sed.

"Look at 'e now, Mrs. Ovey! He be staying with me. Did 'ee iver zee sich a butivul face. Jist like a picture. Sit 'ee still, young Gracie, an' doan 'ee walk over thikee graves, now! I tell 'ee 'e'd make a proper bridegroom, 'e wud!"

"Iss, I reckon! 'Er 'av done mighty fine fer 'erself, 'er 'ave; Mrs.

Tucker tol' me all 'bout 'un, but 'er be terr'ble young, b'ain't 'er, for the likes of thikee ol' man?"

The country women patted and pulled at their best clothes, and turned their sweet, slightly bronzed faces, with skins like satin, up to the blazing sun.

"Iss, vrai! that 'er be Mrs. Pugsley! But did 'ee iver zee the likes on they ther zatins an' laces an' juels they vine wimen be wearin'?"

"Iss! an' luk at th' ol' paint an' stuff ther be ol over ther vaces?

Dear, dear now, ther lips be terr'ble raid, b'ain't 'un? Luks lik'

they'd bin stealin' cherries! An' ther eyes be terr'ble black! Luks lik' the'd bin fightin' with ther 'usbands."

Silence fell, during which sweet music stole through the church windows to fall like a benison upon the charming simple folk who, by their courtesy and gentleness, make Devon such a blissful county to dwell in.

"Can't think, now," suddenly remarked Mrs. Ovey, "w'y thikee young lady 'av chose Mortehoe Church fer 'er weddin'!"

"I've year'd tell that 'er vather be related to zum lord 'oo 'elped kill some ol' parson, yers an' yers gone by! Gracie! now wat be th'

ol' man's name now that taicher tol 'ee 'bout?"

"Tracey!"

"Iss, iss! I've year'd tell 'e be buried zumwher yer 'bouts, an' th'

ol' bridegroom be proper zet to be married down yer!"

"After th' weddin'," continued Mrs. Ovey, supplying information, "all th' vine volks be goin' on to Lay Hotel vur summat t' ate. Arter that they tu be goin' vor 'oneymun over ta 'ardland in li'le ol' 'ouze.

Poor li'le lady, an' th' ouze they be goin' to be so small ther b'ain't no room vur zervants nor nothin'!"

"My now, Mrs. Ovey, but that young feller be proper 'ansom, b'ain't 'e now? I reckon it be a pity that 'er 'adn't zeen 'im befor 'er vixed up with old 'un. I remember when Bill was courtin' me, 'ow----"

And so on and so forth, whilst inside the "vine wimen" from London Town made comments after their own kind.

"Some women have all the luck," remarked an enamelled dame, whose bridge and dressmakers' debts were on a par with those of her three daughters who had safely, oh! quite, but most unsuccessfully survived many seasons, "I wonder how Susie managed it? Gawky young miss, isn't she? Just out of school. Um--um--um!"

"_Really! is_ she! Strange in her manner--you don't mean it--oh! of _course_ not, dearest! _Fancy_! hates society, swims at night, walks ten miles a day--yes, of course! not quite cosmos, what d'you call it--um--um--um?"

"Miraud Soeurs, I believe--yes--did you like that draped effect? I suppose he did--poor old Susie's up to her eyes in debt! Didn't the happy bride look ghastly? Wonder how she came by the accident--and what it was--and means--um--um--um!"

"Yes! _very_, in a bizarre way. I'm d.a.m.ned sorry for her. Did you hear about the girl in the shop bas.e.m.e.nt?--heavy! I should think so--put the screw on what?--hear the bride's settlement is simply enormous--um--um--um!"

And as they gossiped and criticised, tearing each other to pieces without zest, having already done it so often that their minds resembled rows of backyards piled with the rags and bones of their mutual enemies--or so-called friends--the organ played softly, and the sun through the stained gla.s.s flung dazzling lozenges of colour upon the tiles and pillars.

Then came that unmistakable rustle of antic.i.p.ation, followed by the satisfied sigh of those who have patiently waited either for the hoisting of the black flag upon the prison wall, or the appearance of a popular bride in the doorway of the church.

There was a shimmer of white and silver, and a strenuous tussle in the pews and aisles as the stereotyped march from "Lohengrin" crashed through the little church.

Jan Cuxson made one step backwards, and stopped as his heel struck against the wall, then stepped forward and stood right in the path of the bridal party.

Straight down they came without a halt; gushing women who did not know her darted forward to shower the bride with their unwanted congratulations, hesitated and darted back with self-conscious giggles as they met the stony, unresponsive eyes in the death-white face.

Very slowly she pa.s.sed, with the fingers of one hand resting on the arm of the corpulent, self-satisfied man beside her; the other arm, bandaged from elbow to wrist, was held in a sling across her breast, the fingers nearly touching the one jewel she wore, a sleepy cat's-eye hanging from a slender golden chain.

The happy bride was looking straight in front, down the road to Calvary, where stood a man outlined against the burst of light flooding through the door.

She neither slowed nor hastened as she pa.s.sed through the lane of twitching mouths and popping eyes and approached him; then she stood quite still, a gleaming, living statue in shimmering satin and lace, and removing her hand from her husband's arm, laid it with a little gracious gesture on Jan Cuxson's, and he, bending low, gently kissed it.

An artist made the record lightning sketch of his life when in a few lines he drew the dignity, the despair, and the tenderness of the girl's face, upon whose brow and above whose heart rested weirdly two great crimson stains flung by the sun through the coloured windows.

For one brief second her moonlit eyes looked straight into the steady grey ones; then the heavy lids sank slowly, and the faintest rose colour swept from brow to chin, causing the artist to murmur to himself, "The ice floes are breaking!" as, like the gallant gentleman he was, he tore the sketch slowly across and across.

Two little words had been whispered loud enough to reach the ears beneath the orange blossom.

"I forgive!"

When he had said it Leonie once more laid her hand upon her irate husband's arm, and pa.s.sed out into the sun to be met with the shrill cheers of the children who flung basketsful of wild flowers upon the bridal path, and the church was filled with a sound like a swarm of startled bees.

"Um--um--um!"

CHAPTER XXIV

"Many waters cannot quench love; neither can floods drown it."--_The Bible_.

The girl kicked aside the jumble of clothes littering the cabin floor, and bending her head squatted upon the bunk, and incidentally, and quite indifferently, upon a crepe-de-Chine blouse which badly needed washing, and casually watched her mother who was scrabbling through a cabin trunk in a manner reminiscent of a terrier ratting in a hedge.

"Why on earth couldn't you stay on deck?" demanded the mother angrily, as she lifted the transformation from her brow and heaved it on to the upper berth, thereby unashamedly exposing a head not unlike a gorse common devastated by fire.

"I can't find that--oh! here it is. What a state it's in. D'you think the Chinese man could iron it?"

_That_ was one of those hybrid negliges which can serve its turn as a bath gown, a bedroom wrap, or, covered with a genuine native-made tinsel shawl (bought at Teneriffe but made in Birmingham), can pa.s.s as an evening gown in the tropics. The cabin was on one of the liners which, calling at odd places like Genoa, Naples, Algiers, etc., allows you to pick up letters brought by the mail boat to Port Said. The inhabitants of the inner, double berthed black hole, called by courtesy a cabin, were the mother and her last unmarried daughter who lived in Surbiton.

The mother had successfully acquired a reputation as a world-wide traveller, and husbands for her numerous daughters amounting to a net total of six, by dint of travelling the latter backwards and forwards over those heartbreaking routes which suffer from two weeks or more of going without a break.

Try from Aden to Sydney with one break at Colombo, and the above long and somewhat involved paragraph will be easily understood.

"I say, mater, guess who gave me these--have one?"

Mater sat back on her heels, b.u.mping her head against the washstand, plucked a Simon Artz from its cardboard nest, lit it, and emitted volumes of smoke from mouth, and nostrils, until the cabin resembled the smoking-room of any West End ladies' club.

"Oh! don't ask silly questions, it's too hot! Who?"

"The Grizzly Bear!"

"_No_!"