And while Sam’s monologue was going on, in came the bridal procession, – first, Harry, with his golden head and blue eyes, and, leaning on his arm, a cloud of ethereal gauzes and laces, out of which looked a face, pale now as a lily, with wandering curls of golden hair like little gleams of sunlight on white clouds; then the tall, splendid figure of Ellery Davenport, his haughty blue eyes glancing all around with a triumphant assurance. Miss Mehitable hung upon his arm, pale with excitement and emotion. Then came Esther and I. As we passed up the aisle, I heard a confused murmur of whisperings and a subdued drawing in of breath, and the rest all seemed to me to be done in a dream. I heard the words, “Who giveth this woman to be married to this man?” and saw Harry step forth, bold, and bright, and handsome, amid the whisperings that pointed him out as the hero of a little romance. And he gave her away forever, – our darling, our heart of hearts. And then those holy, tender words, those vows so awful, those supporting prayers, all mingled as in a dream, until it was all over, and ladies, laughing and crying, were crowding around Tina, and there were kissing and congratulating and shaking of hands, and then we swept out of the church, and into the carriages, and were whirled back to the Kittery mansion, which was thrown wide open, from garret to cellar, in the very profuseness of old English hospitality.
There was a splendid lunch laid out in the parlor, with all the old silver in muster, and with all the delicacies that Boston confectioners and caterers could furnish.
Ellery Davenport had indeed tendered the services of his French cook, but Miss Debby had respectfully declined the offer.
“He may be a very good cook, Ellery; I say nothing against him. I am extremely obliged to you for your polite offer, but good English cooking is good enough for me, and I trust that whatever guests I invite will always think it good enough for them.”
On that day, Aunt Lois and Aunt Keziah and my mother and Uncle Fliakim sat down in proximity to some of the very selectest families of Boston, comporting themselves, like good republican Yankees, as if they had been accustomed to that sort of thing all their lives, though secretly embarrassed by many little points of etiquette.
Tina and Ellery sat at the head of the table, and dispensed hospitalities around them with a gay and gracious freedom; and Harry, in whom the bridal dress of Esther had evidently excited distracting visions of future probabilities, was making his seat by her at dinner an opportunity, in the general clatter of conversation, to enjoy a nice little tête-à-tête.
Besides the brilliant company in the parlor, a long table was laid out upon the greensward at the back of the house, in the garden, where beer and ale flowed freely, and ham and bread and cheese and cake and eatables of a solid and sustaining description were dispensed to whomsoever would. The humble friends of lower degree – the particular friends of the servants, and all the numerous tribe of dependants and hangers-on, who wished to have some small share in the prosperity of the prosperous – here found ample entertainment. Here Sam Lawson might be seen, seated beside Hepsy, on a garden-seat near the festive board, gallantly pressing upon her the good things of the hour.
“Eat all ye want ter, Hepsy, – it comes free ‘s water; ye can hev ‘wine an’ milk without money ‘n’ without price,’ as ‘t were Lordy massy, ‘s jest what I wanted. I hed sech a stram this mornin’, ‘n’ hain’t hed nothin’ but a two-cent roll, ‘t I bought ‘t the baker’s. Thought I should ha’ caved in ‘fore they got through with the weddin’. These ‘ere ‘Piscopal weddin’s is putty long. What d’ ye think on ‘em, Polly?”
“I think I like our own way the best,” said Polly, stanchly, “none o’ your folderol, ‘n’ kneelin’, ‘n’ puttin’ on o’ rings.”
“Well,” said Hepsy, with the spice of a pepper-box in her eyes, “I liked the part that said, ‘With all my worldly goods, I thee endow.’”
“Thet ‘s putty well, when a man hes any worldly goods,” said Sam; “but how about when he hes n’t?”
“Then he ‘s no business to git married!” said Hepsy, definitely.
“So I think” said Polly; “but, for my part, I don’t want no man’s worldly goods, ef I ‘ve got to take him with ‘em. I ‘d rather work hard as I have done, and hev ’em all to myself, to do just what I please with.”
“Wal, Polly,” said Sam, “I dare say the men ‘s jest o’ your mind, – none on ’em won’t try very hard to git ye’ out on ‘t.”
“There ‘s bin those thet hes, though!” said Polly; “but ‘t ain’t wuth talkin’ about, any way.”
And so conversation below stairs and above proceeded gayly and briskly, until at last the parting hour came.
“Now jest all on ye step round ter the front door, an’ see ’em go off in their glory. Them two white hosses is imported fresh from England, ‘n’ they could n’t ha’ cost less ‘n’ a thousan’ dollars apiece, ef they cost a cent.”
“A thousand!” said Jenkins, the groom, who stood in his best clothes amid the festive throng. “Who told you that?”
“Wal!” said Sam, “I thought I ‘d put the figger low enough, sence ye would n’t tell me perticklers. I like to be accurate ‘bout these ‘ere things. There they be! they ‘re comin’ out the door now. She ‘s tuk off her white dress now, an’ got on her travellin’ dress, don’t ye see? Lordy massy, what a kissin’ an’ a cryin’! How women allers does go on ‘bout these ‘ere things. There, he ‘s got ‘er at last. See ’em goin’ down the steps! ain’t they a han’some couple! There, he ‘s handin on ‘er in. The kerrige’s lined with blue satin, ‘n’ never was sot in afore this mornin’. Good luck go with ‘em! There they go.”
And we all of us stood on the steps of the Kittery mansion, kissing hands and waving handkerchiefs, until the beloved one, the darling of our hearts, was out of sight.
CHAPTER XLVI.
WEDDING AFTER-TALKS AT OLDTOWN.
WEDDING joys are commonly supposed to pertain especially to the two principal personages, and to be of a kind with which the world doth not intermeddle; but a wedding in such a quiet and monotonous state of existence as that of Oldtown is like a glorious sunset, which leaves a long after-glow, in which trees and rocks, farm-houses, and all the dull, commonplace landscape of real life have, for a while, a roseate hue of brightness. And then the long after-talks, the deliberate turnings and revampings, and the re-enjoying, bit by bit, of every incident!
Sam Lawson was a man who knew how to make the most of this, and for a week or two he reigned triumphant in Oldtown on the strength of it. Others could relate the bare, simple facts, but Sam Lawson could give the wedding, with variations, with marginal references, and explanatory notes, and enlightening comments, that ran deep into the history of everybody present. So that even those who had been at the wedding did not know half what they had seen until Sam told them.
It was now the second evening after that auspicious event. Aunt Lois and my mother had been pressed to prolong their stay over one night after the wedding, to share the hospitalities of the Kittery mansion, and had been taken around in the Kittery carriage to see the wonders of Boston town. But prompt, on their return, Sam came in to assist them in dishing up information by the evening fireside.
“Wal, Mis’ Badger,” said he, “‘t was gin’ally agreed, on all hands, there had n’t ben no weddin’ like it seen in Boston sence the time them court folks and nobility used to be there. Old Luke there, that rings the chimes, he told me he hed n’t seen no sech couple go up the broad aisle o’ that church. Luke, says he to me, ‘I tell yew, the grander o’ Boston is here to-day,’ and ye ‘d better b’lieve every one on ’em had on their Sunday best. There was the Boylstons, an’ the Bowdoins, an’ the Brattles, an’ the Winthrops, an’ the Bradfords, an’ the Penhallows up from Portsmouth, an’ the Quinceys, an’ the Sewells. Wal, I tell yer, there was real grit there! – folks that come in their grand kerridges I tell you! – there was such a pawin’ and a stampin’ o’ horses and kerridges round the church as if all the army of the Assyrians was there!”
“Well, now, I ‘m glad I did n’t go,” said my grandmother. “I ‘m too old to go into any such grandeur.”
“Wal, I don’t see why folks hes so much ‘bjections to these here ‘Piscopal weddin’s, neither,” said Sam. “I tell yer, it ‘s a kind o’ putty sight now; ye see I was up in the organ loft, where I could look down on the heads of all the people. Massy to us! the bunnets, an’ the feathers, an’ the Injy shawls, an’ the purple an’ fine linen, was all out on the ‘casion. An’ when our Harry come in with Tiny on his arm, tha’ was a gineral kind o’ buzz, an’ folks a risin’ up all over the house to look at ‘em. Her dress was yer real Injy satin, thick an’ yaller, kind o’ like cream. An’ she had on the Pierpont pearls an’ diamonds –”
“How did you know what she had on?” said Aunt Lois.
“O, I hes ways o’ findin’ out!” said Sam. “Yeh know old Gineral Pierpont, his gret-gret-grandfather, was a gineral in the British army in Injy, an’ he racketed round ‘mong them nabobs out there, an’ got no end o’ gold an’ precious stones, an’ these ‘ere pearls an’ diamonds that she wore on her neck and in her ears hes come down in the Devenport family. Mis’ Delily, Miss Deborah Kittery’s maid, she told me all the partic’lars ‘bout it, an’ she ses there ain’t no family so rich in silver and jewels, and sich, as Ellery Devenport’s is, an’ hes ben for generations back. His house is jest chock-full of all sorts o’ graven images and queer things from Chiny an’ Japan, ‘cause, ye see, his ancestors they traded to Injy, an’ they seem to hev got the abundance o’ the Gentiles flowin’ to ‘em.”
“I noticed those pearls on her neck,” said Aunt Lois; “I never saw such pearls.”
“Wal,” said Sam, “Mis’ Delily, she ses she ‘s tried ’em ‘long side of a good-sized pea, an’ they ‘re full as big. An’ the earrings ‘s them pear-shaped pearls, ye know, with diamond nubs atop on ‘em. Then there was a great pearl cross, an’ the biggest kind of a diamond right in the middle on ‘t. Wal, Mis’ Delily she told me a story ‘bout them ‘ere pearls,” said Sam. “For my part, ef it hed ben a daughter o’ mine, I ‘d ruther she ‘d ‘a’ worn suthin on her neck that was spic an’ span new. I tell yew, these ‘ere old family jewels, I think sometimes they gits kind o’ struck through an’ through with moth an’ rust, so to speak.”
“I ‘m sure I don’t know what you mean, Sam,” said Aunt Lois, literally, “since we know gold can’t rust, and pearls and diamonds don’t hurt with any amount of keeping.”
“Wal, ye see, they do say that ‘ere old Gineral Pierpont was a putty hard customer; he got them ‘ere pearls an’ diamonds away from an Injun princess; I s’pose she thought she ‘d as much right to ’em ‘s he hed; an’ they say ‘t was about all she hed was her jewels, an’ so nat’rally enough she cussed him for taking on ‘em. Wal, dunno ‘s the Lord minds the cusses o’ these poor old heathen critturs; but ‘s ben a fact, Mis’ Delily says, thet them jewels hain’t never brought good luck. Gineral Pierpont, he gin ’em to his fust wife, an’ she did n’t live but two months arter she was married. He gin ’em to his second wife, ‘n’ she tuck to drink and le ‘d him sech a life ‘t he would n’t ha’ cared ef she had died too; ‘n’ then they come down to Ellery Davenport’s first wife, ‘n’ she went ravin’ crazy the fust year arter she was married. Now all that ‘ere does look a little like a cuss; don’t it?”
“O nonsense, Sam!” said Aunt Lois, “I don’t believe there ‘s a word of truth in any of it! You can hatch more stories in one day than a hen can eggs in a month.”
“Wal, any way,” said Sam, “I like the ‘Piscopal sarvice, all ceppin’ the minister ‘s wearin’ his shirt outside; that I don’t like.”
“‘T is n’t a shirt!” said Aunt Lois, indignantly.
“O, lordy massy!” said Sam, “I know what they calls it. I know it ‘s a surplice, but it looks for all the world like a man in his shirt-sleeves; but the words is real solemn. I wondered when he asked ’em all whether they hed any objections to ‘t, an’ told ’em to speak up ef they hed, what would happen ef anybody should speak up jest there.”
“Why, of course ‘t would stop the wedding,” said Aunt Lois, “until the thing was inquired into.”
“Wal, Jake Marshall, he said thet he ‘d heerd a story when he was a boy, about a weddin’ in a church at Portsmouth, that was stopped jest there, ‘cause, ye see, the man he hed another wife livin. He said ‘t was old Colonel Penhallow. ‘mazin’ rich the old Colonel was, and these ‘ere rich old cocks sometimes does seem to strut round and cut up pretty much as if they hed n’t heard o’ no God in their parts. The Colonel he got his wife shet up in a lunatic asylum, an’ then spread the word that she was dead, an’ courted a gal, and come jest as near as that to marryin’ of her.”
“As near as what?” said Aunt Lois.
“Why, when they got to that ‘ere part of the service, there was his wife, good as new. She ‘d got out o’ the ‘sylum, and stood up there ‘fore ’em all. So you see that ‘ere does some good.”
“I ‘d rather stay in an asylum all my life than go back to that man,” said Aunt Lois.
“Wal, you see she did n’t,” said Sam; “her friends they made him make a settlement on her, poor woman, and he cleared out t’ England.”
“Good riddance to bad rubbish,” said my grandmother.
“Wal, how handsome that ‘ere gal is that Harry ‘s going to marry!” continued Sam. “She did n’t have on nothin’ but white muslin’, an’ not a snip of a jewel; but she looked like a queen. Ses I to Jake, ses I, there goes the woman ‘t ‘ll be Lady Percival one o’ these days, over in England, an’ I bet ye, he ‘ll find lots o’ family jewels for her, over there. Mis’ Delily she said she did n’t doubt there would be.”
“I hope,” said my grandmother, “that she will have more enduring riches than that; it ‘s a small matter about earthly jewels.”
“Lordy massy, yes, Mis’ Badger,” said Sam, “jes’ so, jes’ so; now that ‘ere was bein’ impressed on my mind all the time. Folks oughtenter lay up their treasures on airth; I could n’t help thinkin’ on ‘t, when I see Tiny a wearin’ them jewels, jest how vain an’ transitory everythin’ is, an’ how the women ‘t has worn ’em afore is all turned to dust, an’ lyin’ in their graves. Lordy massy, these ‘ere things make us realize what a transitory world we ‘s a livin’ in. I was tellin’ Hepsy ‘bout it, – she ‘s so kind o’ worldly, Hepsy is, – seemed to make her feel so kind o’ gritty to see so much wealth ‘n’ splendor, when we hed n’t none. Ses I, ‘Hepsy, there ain’t no use o’ wantin’ worldly riches, ‘cause our lives all passes away like a dream, an’ a hundred years hence ‘t won’t make no sort o’ diffurnce what we ‘ve hed, an’ what we heve n’t hed.’ But wal, Miss Lois, did ye see the kerridge?” said Sam, returning to temporal things with renewed animation.
“I just got a glimpse of it,” said Aunt Lois, “as it drove to the door.”
“Lordy massy,” said Sam, “I was all over that ‘ere kerridge that mornin’ by daylight. “T ain’t the one he had up here, – that was jest common doin’s, – this ‘ere is imported spic an’ span new from England for the ‘casion, an’ all made jest ‘s they make ’em for the nobility. Why, ‘t was all quilted an’ lined with blue satin, ever so grand, an’ Turkey carpet under their feet, an’ the springs was easy ‘s a rockin’-chair. That ‘s what they ‘ve gone off in. Wal, lordy massy! I don’t grudge Tina nothin’! She ‘s the chipperest, light-heartedest, darlin’est little creetur that ever did live, an’ I hope she ‘ll hev good luck in all things.”
A rap was heard at the kitchen door, and Polly entered. It was evident from her appearance that she was in a state of considerable agitation. She looked pale and excited, and her hands shook.
“Mis’ Badger,” she said to my grandmother, “Miss Rossiter wants to know ‘f you won’t come an’ set up with her to-night.”
“Why, is she sick?” said grandmother. “What ‘s the matter with her?”
“S
he ain’t very well,” said Polly, evasively; “she wanted Mis’ Badger to spend the night with her.”
“Perhaps, mother, I ‘d better go over,” said Aunt Lois.
“No, Miss Lois,” said Polly, eagerly, “Miss Rossiter don’ wanter see anybody but yer mother.”
“Wal, now I wanter know!” said Sam Lawson.
“Well, you can’t know everything,” said Aunt Lois, “so you may want!”
“Tell Miss Rossiter, ef I can do anythin’ for ‘er, I hope she ‘ll call on me,” said Sam.
My grandmother and Polly went out together. Aunt Lois bustled about the hearth, swept it up, and then looked out into the darkness after them. What could it be?
The old clock ticked drowsily in the kitchen corner, and her knitting-needles rattled.
“What do you think it is?” said my mother, timidly, to Aunt Lois.
“How should I know?” said Aunt Lois, sharply.
In a few moments Polly returned again.
“Miss Mehitable says she would like to see Sam Lawson.”
“O, wal, wal, would she? Wal, I ‘ll come!” said Sam, rising with joyful alertness. “I ‘m allers ready at a minute’s warnin’!”
Any they went out into the darkness together.
CHAPTER XLVII.
Complete Works of Harriet Beecher Stowe Page 298