“’Tis a rare sight this, granfer, for a weddin’. I only wish as how my old mother what’s bedridden upstairs—her’s ninety, come Thursday—could crawl down along and glad her aged eyes wi’ it. But that’s more a’most than we can claim o’ the Almighty, seein’ she’s kept her bed now for nigh on five years. Not but what she’s rare and hearty still, and can eat her bread an’ cheese and drain a pot of beer most as well as I can. ’Tis a wonderful strong and lusty constitution, to be sure. Her eyesight don’t fail her—only “Aye, ’tis a grand sight truly this ’ere weddin’, and a credit to the village and yerself, Michael. Such a company o’ rare young maids and lusty young fellows I don’t know as ever I see’d congregated together in one room. And the beer and the sperrits you’ve provided for ’em! I’ve been The fun was at its height, and the ale cask and the spirit keg would have been valued at one half their original cost, when the company were startled by two hurriedly-repeated knocks at the door, and a young girl stood panting in their midst. No wedding guest this—rather a ghost in all but the strong and youthful grace of budding womanhood. “Heaven help us! What’s happened to ’e, Meg? Why on earth do you bust in upon a house o’ merriment lookin’ like a corpse? Out wi’ it, lass, and don’t stand gapin’ there, scarin’ us out of our wits, for all the world like a frighted owl.” “’Tis the p’leece!” she cried. “Be ye gone stark starin’ mad, you fule of a girl? We ain’t that drunk and disorderly yet that we need fear to look a p’leeceman in the face. “’Tain’t the drink—’tis the copper off the ship that was wrecked while ago on the Rudge. Some of us ha’ been handlin’ it, and they’re a-comin’ round to every house in the village, wi’ a search-warrant they calls it, and they’re at top o’ street now, an’ ’ll be punchin’ at your door afore you can say Jack Robinson.” Fear—was it fear for themselves or for others?—had sobered the guests on the instant. Silent and shamed they slunk away into corners, as if they prayed for the earth to swallow them, or were assisting at a funeral instead of a wedding. Only the mistress of the house retained her self-possession. With a nod at her husband to follow her she retreated with him for consultation into an adjoining room. When they returned— “Sakes alive!” cried grandfer, “and whose is the corpse? Not mine, I tell ’e straight. I be as full o’ life and health as the youngest among ’e. Not but what they tell I that I be nearin’ life’s end. Not a bit of it, says I; I be younger and lustier, I be, than this time last year, and lustier then than the year afore. I be intended, I allow, to follow Methusalum, and show what we can do now-along when we sets ourselves serious to the job of livin’.” “Stop yer silly nonsense, you old fule,” cried the dame, “we’ve no time to listen to your fulery, and none of us wants yer corpse. Not but what a corpse we must have—or maybe a dyin’ man’ll do. Then they wont dare search the house, and we’ll ha’ time to pick up the odds and ends of It was not till the end of this harangue that Ned’s temper broke loose, though an angry flush that flamed on his delicate cheek had showed he was nearing the end of his self-control. “Shame on ye, woman,” he cried, as the last of the guests filed out of the room, “shame on ye to belie me thus afore the face of your own daughter, and her my wedded wife. I’d a’ saved the copper for ye willingly—rot the stuff—and I’ll save it now if I can. An’ I’ve kept silence afore all your company rather than let ’em know you was lying. In ten minute’s time the house that had been ablaze with lights was shrouded in darkness, and resumed its ordinary well-conditioned aspect. The blinds were drawn, articles of furniture that had been ousted and piled to meet the requirements of the dancing had been re-placed in position. The guests had slunk away, more or less disquieted according to the state of each man’s inner consciousness, and, to the onlooker from without, it Scarcely had this transformation scene been effected when the expected summons came. “Sorry to disturb ye, Mrs. Bond, when ye be all arranged so quiet for the night. But ’tis our bounden duty, ma’am, and we’ve a very particular reason here (exhibiting the warrant) for wishin’ to look through your premises, if so be as you has no objection.” “Aye, ye can come in, Bob Davis. An’ if I can’t gi’ ye a hearty welcome, ’tis only yerself you has to thank for it. ’Twould ha’ been more neighbour-like, I’m thinkin’, if ye’d come in open daylight, ’stead o’ disturbin’ a peaceful family at this hour o’ the night. An’ we wi’ sickness in the house that’s like to be death afore the mornin’. For sure as ever Ned sees yer face an’ that great lout you’ve brought in wi’ ye, ’twill scare the life “Come, old lady, none of that gammon; it’s too good for us. Don’t we know that your daughter has been married this very day, and that you was a-keepin’ the weddin’ wi’ a fiddle and dancin’ till half-an-hour ago? Besides, there’s a strong suspicion that some of the copper we’re a-lookin’ for is to be found in this here house—and perhaps that’s why you shut up so sharp, hearin’ that we were comin’ along to have a look at ye.” But when the search elsewhere was ended, and the door of Arabella’s room had been opened to admit them, Mrs. Bond enjoyed a short-lived triumph. Not the most strenuous of officials, urged by the strongest sense of duty, but would have paused in the presence of what looked like death. But in the bedroom upstairs, as the steps of the officers were heard retreating down the street, the bride was saying: “Up wi’ you, Ned! You’ll be glad, I allow, that I be come to release you. ’Tain’t becomin’ no wise that a bridegroom on the night of his weddin’ should be lyin’ all stark an’ streaked like a corpse. Not but what you look finer and grander-like than ever you’ll do in life agin. Up wi’ you, man, though I be most sorry, that I be, to untie ye.” The villagers will tell you that Death came to him in anger, because of the jest that travestied his grim prerogative. Rather, I think, it was in pity for the lad, and to save him from disillusions sadder still, that
So the marriage was followed by a death, and the lighter refreshments of the dance were merged in the splendours of a funeral feast. And the soul of granfer Wiseman was satisfied withal. But of the events that had led up to it he was strangely tolerant. “It’s heredity,” he said, “and you can’t fight against it. Not an angel from heaven could persuade them that the sea has not made over to them all the property it lays at their doors. It mayn’t be good law,” he added, “but, after all, there’s something to be said in favour of their view.” |