CHAPTER XXIII
"The lighted end of a torch may be turned towards the ground, but the flames still point upwards."--_The Satakas_.
The church was simply packed!
The lucky ones, almost all women, wedged tight and fast, crushed theirbeautiful clothes against their neighbours' lovely raiment in the pews.
The unlucky ones stood in rows in the side aisles, just as theircommoner sisters stand in rows upon the pavement edge to watch somepassing show.
Some, less hindered by superfluous adipose tissue, had managed to seatthemselves upon the tomb of one Sir William de Tracy, who had one timeunduly concerned himself in the murder of a certain Thomas a Becket.
Indeed he built this church in atonement for his unseemly conduct,though something seems to have gone agley in the architectural penance,as the ghost of Sir William is to be met o' nights upon the sands ofWoolacombe--so 'tis said.
Some of the still younger fry among the spectators, I mean worshippersin this solemn ceremony, clasped the heads in effigy of dead squire, ordame, or knight, in order to get the necessary purchase for the task ofpulling themselves up for just one second in the supreme attempt tocatch a glimpse of the principals in the parade.
Except for the setting of this beautiful house of God it might havebeen an _entr'acte_ at some theatrical first night; same comments uponactors and audience; same criticism upon dress and morals; same yawningand fidgeting.
What _had_ they not suffered and sacrificed to flatter the vulgar oldmillionaire! Anyway they expected a good deal in return for theexcruciating journey down by rail or car, the whole day lost out of theseason in London town, _and_ the wedding present.
Unless you own the genuine thing in rank or reputation, how_frightfully_ difficult it is to send an astute vulgar old millionairethe one present which will open his doors to you.
If you do own the genuine thing, an electro-plated toast-rack will beall-sufficient. If you _don't_, well it's simply no good worryingaround the bottom rung of the ladder which he has climbed, and from thetop of which he sits making faces of derision at you.
The principal performers had just disappeared into the vestry as theold clock chimed twelve, and Jan Cuxson, swinging back the churchyardgate, strode up the narrow tomb-lined path to the church door.
Every woman turned to look at him as he passed.
"Look at 'e now, Mrs. Ovey! He be staying with me. Did 'ee iver zeesich a butivul face. Jist like a picture. Sit 'ee still, youngGracie, an' doan 'ee walk over thikee graves, now! I tell 'ee 'e'dmake 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 turnedtheir sweet, slightly bronzed faces, with skins like satin, up to theblazing sun.
"Iss, vrai! that 'er be Mrs. Pugsley! But did 'ee iver zee the likeson 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! Lukslik' the'd bin fightin' with ther 'usbands."
Silence fell, during which sweet music stole through the church windowsto fall like a benison upon the charming simple folk who, by theircourtesy 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 'elpedkill 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, "allth' vine volks be goin' on to Lay Hotel vur summat t' ate. Arter thatthey 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'tno room vur zervants nor nothin'!"
"My now, Mrs. Ovey, but that young feller be proper 'ansom, b'ain't 'enow? I reckon it be a pity that 'er 'adn't zeen 'im befor 'er vixed upwith old 'un. I remember when Bill was courtin' me, 'ow----"
And so on and so forth, whilst inside the "vine wimen" from London Townmade comments after their own kind.
"Some women have all the luck," remarked an enamelled dame, whosebridge and dressmakers' debts were on a par with those of her threedaughters who had safely, oh! quite, but most unsuccessfully survivedmany seasons, "I wonder how Susie managed it? Gawky young miss, isn'tshe? 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, walksten miles a day--yes, of course! not quite cosmos, what d'you callit--um--um--um?"
"Miraud Soeurs, I believe--yes--did you like that draped effect? Isuppose he did--poor old Susie's up to her eyes in debt! Didn't thehappy bride look ghastly? Wonder how she came by the accident--andwhat it was--and means--um--um--um!"
"Yes! _very_, in a bizarre way. I'm damned sorry for her. Did youhear about the girl in the shop basement?--heavy! I should thinkso--put the screw on what?--hear the bride's settlement is simplyenormous--um--um--um!"
And as they gossiped and criticised, tearing each other to pieceswithout zest, having already done it so often that their mindsresembled rows of backyards piled with the rags and bones of theirmutual enemies--or so-called friends--the organ played softly, and thesun through the stained glass flung dazzling lozenges of colour uponthe tiles and pillars.
Then came that unmistakable rustle of anticipation, followed by thesatisfied sigh of those who have patiently waited either for thehoisting of the black flag upon the prison wall, or the appearance of apopular bride in the doorway of the church.
There was a shimmer of white and silver, and a strenuous tussle in thepews and aisles as the stereotyped march from "Lohengrin" crashedthrough the little church.
Jan Cuxson made one step backwards, and stopped as his heel struckagainst the wall, then stepped forward and stood right in the path ofthe bridal party.
Straight down they came without a halt; gushing women who did not knowher darted forward to shower the bride with their unwantedcongratulations, hesitated and darted back with self-conscious gigglesas they met the stony, unresponsive eyes in the death-white face.
Very slowly she passed, with the fingers of one hand resting on the armof 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-eyehanging from a slender golden chain.
The happy bride was looking straight in front, down the road toCalvary, where stood a man outlined against the burst of light floodingthrough the door.
She neither slowed nor hastened as she passed through the lane oftwitching mouths and popping eyes and approached him; then she stoodquite still, a gleaming, living statue in shimmering satin and lace,and removing her hand from her husband's arm, laid it with a littlegracious 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 fewlines he drew the dignity, the despair, and the tenderness of thegirl's face, upon whose brow and above whose heart rested weirdly twogreat crimson stains flung by the sun through the coloured windows.
For one brief second her moonlit eyes looked straight into the steadygrey ones; then the heavy lids sank slowly, and the faintest rosecolour swept from brow to chin, causing the artist to murmur tohimself, "The ice floes are breaking!" as, like the gallant gentlemanhe was, he tore the sketch slowly across and across.
Two little words had been whispered loud enough to rea
ch the earsbeneath the orange blossom.
"I forgive!"
When he had said it Leonie once more laid her hand upon her iratehusband's arm, and passed out into the sun to be met with the shrillcheers of the children who flung basketsful of wild flowers upon thebridal path, and the church was filled with a sound like a swarm ofstartled bees.
"Um--um--um!"
Leonie of the Jungle Page 23