Peggy’s face turned scarlet. “There is no need!” she cried.
But Wyke continued to address Mrs. Fagan, as if the girl had not spoken. “I think I have made myself clear, Madam,” he said. “You may depend upon me.” Then, stepping back, he made way for Bligh to return to his friends.
There was a little confusion about them as the two women embraced and parted, a little bustle, tears on both sides. Peggy hung on her friend as if she could not bear to relinquish her, until the middy, aware that the boat had already been detained beyond her time, and that the Antiope was signalling, hastened the departure. He wrung Peggy’s hand — the boy had been her slave for forty-eight hours — bashfully wished her joy and sprang into the stem-sheets. Mrs. Fagan was handed in, the bows were pushed off, the oars fell to a sharp order, and the boat slid away from the jetty, rising and falling on the ripple. By the time Peggy’s eyes were dry enough to follow its course, it showed but as a long black insect crawling with many legs over the shining surface.
The moment had its significance for the two who, side by side, their fates already as good as joined, watched the receding boat. Hers was the more hopeful and the more buoyant nature. Trouble had not touched her, nor experience taught its grim lesson. Yet even in her, though she had her lover beside her, some spasm of fear must have stirred; or the presence of that other man who stood a few paces from the two, gazing with hard-set face across the water, may have touched an unwelcome chord reminding her of the home on which she had turned her back and the irrevocable step that she was about to take. For she shivered. For a minute, her girlishness fallen from her, she stood abashed.
Then with a sigh she turned to the man and put her hand in his hand. “What did he want?” she murmured. Wyke was standing out of ear-shot.
He reassured her. “No harm, dear,” he said cheerfully, and he told her.
Her cheeks flamed afresh. “He need not have doubted you!” she exclaimed.
“No, dear. But it is as well he is here. Come!” He took up Peggy’s bag, her poor light luggage, and stepped towards Wyke. “I have a hackney coach at the end of the jetty,” he said.
Wyke turned without speaking, made a sign to them to go first, and with the same stern set face followed them to the coach. Bligh handed Peggy in, and by a gesture invited the other to follow.
But Wyke shook his head. “I need not embarrass you,” he said dryly. He mounted to the box-seat. Bligh, grateful for his decision, stepped in, the driver whipped up the horses, and the strange wedding-party jogged away down the road that led to the crowded and noisy streets of Bristol.
Once in movement and alone with the girl Bligh saw the absurd side of the situation, and he laughed. But the impulse passed as quickly and left him grave. Peggy sat beside him, Peggy who had risked so much for him, and given so generously, had borne so many days of suspense and anxiety, and his heart overflowed, and not with love only, nor with passion, though an hour would make her his wife; rather, to his credit be it said, with awe and tenderness, and a gratitude which appealed to the best that was in him. He did not say much, and when he had kissed her — for he felt her tremble against him — he refrained from caresses.
But by the steady pressure of the hand that clasped hers he made her — and himself — a hundred silent promises. He knew his faults. He knew that in his darker hours he was sombre and absent, at times morose and stubborn and prone to discontent. He knew that, compared with his father, he was ill to lead, and ever too mindful of the wrongs that he had suffered. But in this hour, with her hand in his, he rose above himself. Mutely he vowed to be tender to her, to protect her, to be thoughtful for her; to conquer his worst self for her sake. The very presence of the man who sat outside the coach reminded him of all that she had given up for him, and of how different her lot might have been had she chosen.
And when presently, a little oppressed by his silence, she asked him timidly if anything was the matter — and added, turning her trustful eyes upon him, “You won’t — you won’t keep anything from me, dear?” he answered with words that he had not foreseen.
“Nothing, Peggy,” he said. “I will keep nothing from you — now or ever. But in an hour it will be too late to reflect; and I want you to think while you may still turn back, dear. You may not have thought — you may not have thought enough, at any rate — of what is before you. Of what you are wedding, Peggy — poverty, hardship, reproach, the slights of friends, and — and God knows what besides.” His voice broke a little on his last words. But he went on, resolutely turning his eyes from the tender ones that dwelt on his face and strove to read his heart. “For it is not too late. Even now, it is not too late, if you feel the slightest doubt — or fear. Your good name is safe, you understand that? That man outside — he is a better man than I am, Peggy — has seen to that. Yes, a better man. For you know what I am, dear, and if you take me, God knows what risks you may run of want and sorrow, what part in disgrace, what share in misfortune may be yours. If you take me—”
She laid her hand on his lips, and her voice, as she answered him, was deep with feeling. “I take you, knowing all and thinking myself happy,” she told him. “You know that I do, Charles. For better, for worse, dear, in sickness and health, till death parts us. Where you go I will go, and where you lodge I will lodge, and your people shall be my people — and your will my will.”
She broke down there, and the tears ran down her face. He drew her to him. He had no power to answer her.
CHAPTER XI
THE elopement made a great, a far-reaching, an astounding noise. Dr. Portnal was so much more than Rector of Beremouth, so much more than a mere country parson, he had so long held his head high at Quarter Sessions and County Meetings, that the echoes of his mishap were not confined to his own neighbourhood. They spread far. They startled Tavistock, they surprised Dartmouth, they were heard even in the Close at Exeter. In country houses and parsonages from the one end of Devon to the other men chuckled over the story, while women lifted their hands and asked “What next?” And, this being an envious world, wherein good fortune is seldom popular and wisdom, proclaimed in the market-place, is welcome to a fall, it was hard to say whether the scandal was acclaimed with more wonder or more amusement. “The little baggage!” the men said with a grin. “And Lord, Lord! Portnal of all people! I’d have given a guinea to see his face when he missed her!” Their wives declared the affair disgraceful and the girl a hussy, vowed that men were blind, and that they would have seen it themselves with half an eye. Next day they remembered that they had always predicted it.
But face to face with the Rector few ventured to broach the subject, and a group still smaller to offer condolence. He carried it off well, even his critics had to admit that. To those who hazarded a word he turned a bleak face. In the coldest of accents, “I am much obliged to you,” he would reply, “but I prefer not to speak of it. My daughter has made her bed and must lie on it, but that is now her affair, not mine.” No one presumed to carry the matter farther.
Yet, great as was the sensation in the country and among the Portnals’ intimates, it was nothing to the excitement that the news created in Beremouth, where the Rector reigned supreme. It happened that the prolonged absence of the privateer had been, during the week before, in all mouths. She had overstayed the time for which she was victualled, no word had come in from her, and along the water-side, in the Privateersman, and in the snug of the Keppel Head, men of experience began to shake their heads. Old salts whispered in corners that she had gone the way of the Pride. Their eyes followed Budgen as he slouched with humped shoulders across the wharf to his boat. They muttered that Ozias, who for two years past had declared each cruise to be his last, had risked it once too often. Worst sign of all, they lied with astonishing freedom and profanity when they were attacked by tearful wives and frightened mothers.
“She ha’ been driven into the ‘lantic, I tell ‘ee!” they swore. “Ha’nt ye seen the winds? What do ‘ee expect!” Or, “Never fear, mothe
r! Like enough she’ve gone up the Straits for beef or water, and is wind-bound off Tetuan! A fortnit? What’s a fortnit at sea? Ha’ you never heard tell o’ Christian, as was forty-seven days out o’ Spithead for the Bermudies, and never no nearer to the Bermudies than Spithead when he anchored? Lord love ‘ee, there’s no such thing as time at sea!”
In spite of these assurances, and the oaths that backed them, the alarm was general, and would have been greater had more people had a stake in the venture. But when the news of the elopement of the Rector’s daughter with young Bligh broke upon the astonished town, the other Peggy was for whole days forgotten, or if remembered, was named only in some humorous connection with the errant maid. “Seemin’ly there be two Lively Peggies!” the wits said, grinning broadly, “and both a-missing! And that young chap! Lord ha’ mercy, bold as brass he mun be to carry off the Rector’s daughter, and him in Budgen’s yard but yesterday! She mun be a pretty spanking piece too!” There was no end to the sniggering and to jokes about hugging with one arm — jokes not always of the most delicate.
Even Budgen put off for a few hours his face of settled gloom, and was heard to chuckle over his books. Apparently he also opened his purse, for Joe Fewster, who had been cadging drinks, for a month past and swearing with maudlin tears that he would go for a soldier, had once more shillings in his pocket, and bragged in his cups of the good time that was coming.
Naturally the women’s sympathy was with the young couple. “The Rector be a hard one!” they agreed, as they gossiped on door-steps and marvelled how he would take it and what he would do. They were of one mind, that he’d never forgive her, not he — such a come-down and him that proud! But mainly they wondered whether the erring pair would be seen again in Beremouth. The common view was that they would not dare to show themselves. It was rumoured that old Bligh was packing, that he was going, some even swore that they had seen him go.
The news became known on a Monday. By Thursday, even as the most violent fevers are the shortest, it had been fairly talked out, and anxiety about the safety of the Lively Peggy had regained its place. But with Sunday a desire to see how the Rector took the matter, and whether it had altered him, restored the affair to momentary importance. The knots of people who dotted the winding ascent to the church, and hastened their steps as the last bell quickened its measure, were both larger and more lively than usual.
There were, indeed, some who declined to be tempted, alleging that his reverence would not appear, for there were Sundays when he honoured Ipe or Chiddingfold by reading the lessons, or in a stately manner preaching to an awed congregation.
But for those who flocked late up the road and laughed and chattered as they went, misgivings on this score were quickly allayed. They had a glimpse of the Rector passing across the churchyard, and as they trooped in, they whispered the news to others. It travelled from pew to pew and every eye was on the alert when the bell stopped, the fiddlers and hautboys in the gallery ceased to time up, and the usual procession emerged from the vestry. The Rector, preceded by the clerk and his curate, moved to his place, while every eye devoured him.
Alas, he looked much as usual. A little colder, a little prouder, a little more remote, perhaps. Here and there an infrequent worshipper felt that he had made a costly effort for a small return.
Yet, no. As the thought saddened these, and the pale-faced curate rose to give out the opening hymn, a thrill ran through the congregation. A well-known sound caught every ear. It was the tap-tap of old Bligh’s wooden leg on the flags of the aisle. And he was not alone, as very many — for nearly all turned at the sound — were quick to discern. Moving up the aisle before him and walking side by side came Charles Bligh and his bride. The bridegroom stared before him; he tried his best to appear indifferent, though he did not quite succeed. But Peggy? Who can describe the mingling of pride and bashfulness that clothed her, as blushing and with eyes cast down, she advanced leaning on her husband’s arm l There was a modest dignity in her mien, a courage free from challenge in her bearing that, as she passed up with parted lips, breathing a little quickly, won many a heart.
It was a sight that rewarded the laziest and would have drawn the most rabid Wesleyan to church. When the three reached old Bligh’s humble pew, that yet, the church being larger than the population, was pretty far forward, and entering one by one, knelt down, a gasp that was almost a murmur stirred the dead air. Unfortunately, to look at the same time at the couple and at the Rector was impossible, and the most curious had to imagine the wrath that raged behind his impassive face. The curate did imagine this — so clearly and so powerfully that he lost his nerve, and remained silent until the party knelt down. Then, feeling Dr. Portnal’s cold eye upon him — and very cold it was — he gave out the hymn in a flurry that made matters worse.
Thankful were the rearmost that they sat where they did. They had the whole show before them. They could stare at will, yet maintain an air of devotion. They could feed their eyes on the bride’s Dunstable straw, her blushing cheek, on the ringlet that fell behind her ear, the tippet that covered her dainty shoulders. They could nudge one another when Peggy, finding the place for her one-armed husband, read from his book. Or, sated with this, they could look a little farther to the front, search the Rector’s set face, imagine the anger he controlled, and picture his stupefaction at seeing himself thus bearded. Returning to their former target, they could review the Captain’s half-pay neatness, and strive to determine whether he were elated or appalled.
The treat lightened vastly the weary succession of Prayers and Litany and Decalogue. When the Fifth Commandment was read, cunning ears caught the falter in the curate’s voice, and sly eyes watched the errant couple to see if the injunction came home to them. Happy, happy people storing up for a future generation the events of a remarkable day! What to them was the Armed Neutrality, or the Continental System, or the rise of the First Consul?
They who sat in the front lacked some of these pleasures, but had their compensations. They had the chancel before them and the great ones who sat in it; Augusta in the pew which she had shared so many times with her sister, Lady Bicester and Charlotte seated opposite her, in the Manor pew Sir Albery. They were all there, and the first and the last had more than their share of attention. Augusta behaved as became her — she would. After a few seconds of panic, she dropped her eyes on her book and, calm and statuesque, gave herself to devotion. Charlotte should have followed her example, but did not rise to it, She coloured and leant forward, her lips parted, her eyes dewy with feeling. Then her mother touched her, and she remembered herself.
Of them all, however, it was Wyke who came in for the closest scrutiny and on whom the more astute bent their gaze. But he refused to see. He looked graver than usual, and he refrained from looking down the church. But he masked his chagrin, if he felt it, so well that little was to be gained by staring at him, and some inferred that, after all, it was Augusta whom he had courted.
There was a stir when Dr. Portnal withdrew to change his surplice for his black gown and, scandal had it, to take a glass of port. Some anticipated that he would preach against the sin of disobedience; a few, skilled in St. Paul’s writings, even foresaw the text. But though his voice was a little colder than usual, his matter was as dry and jejune and his manner as colourless as on other Sundays: in a word, he expounded a doctrinal point with the dispassionate authority that became his position. Nevertheless the sermon was less tedious than ordinary, because his hearers had something to expect. Had not the young couple still to pass out, and everyone to decide whether he would keep his seat till the show was over, or hasten forth to seize a post of vantage in the churchyard?
But more than these happy people supposed was in store for them. The Rector had given the blessing — it sounded much like a denunciation — and some, anxious to seize the best places outside, were rising to their feet when the thing happened. With the soft shuffling of the first to move blended a strange and untimely sound. The ropes in the to
wer began to rattle through their bearings. Men already on the move looked up, and suddenly, high above the listeners’ heads, there burst forth a merry, a triumphant peal. Those who stood stared in wonder, those who still knelt sought their neighbours’ eyes. One thought possessed all — wedding-bells! But who had dared? The boldest could not believe their ears, the timid wilted, while louder and quicker, swung now to their full measure, the joy-bells shook the sturdy Norman tower, beat their heavy music down upon the trembling church, flung it far and wide over the startled town, the shining sea, the winding vale.
What did it mean? The foremost pressed towards the entrance, those on their knees scrambled to their feet. Suddenly the western doors swung inward, and between them the figure of an old man, dark against the sunlight, was seen gesticulating. Forgetful of decorum and of everything but his news, he raised a quavering voice that yet made itself heard. “She’s in! She’s in, lads!” he shouted. “A prize, lads! A prize!”
No more thought of bride and bridegroom! No more reflections on the Rector’s displeasure! The Peggy was in, and she had taken. Men bawled the tidings in one another’s ears. “A prize, man, a prize!” Somewhere amid the hubbub a woman broke into weeping. Another cried audibly, “The Lord be praised!” And struggling and shouldering one another, gabbling, laughing, exclaiming, the congregation pressed towards the doorway. Those who reached it first — and they were the boys — raced round the church to the walk that overlooked the sea. The rest followed, crossing graves without a thought, stumbling, hurrying, bawling, Within two minutes every man, woman, and child was ranged along the east wall of the churchyard, waving hats and cheering, as the scene below burst upon their view and confirmed the tale.
Complete Works of Stanley J Weyman Page 752