_ PART II CHAPTER LIX. JOE THOROUGHBUNG'S WEDDING
While some men die others are marrying. While the funeral dirge was pealing sadly at Tretton, the joyful marriage-bells were ringing both at Buntingford and Buston. Joe Thoroughbung, dressed all in his best, was about to carry off Molly Annesley to Rome previous to settling down to a comfortable life of hunting and brewing in his native town. Miss Thoroughbung sent her compliments to Mrs. Annesley. Would her brother be there? She thought it probable that Mr. Prosper would not be glad to see her. She longed to substitute "Peter" for Mr. Prosper, but abstained. In such case she would deny herself the pleasure of "seeing Joe turned off." Then there was an embassy sent to the Hall. The two younger girls went with the object of inviting Uncle Prosper, but with a desire at their hearts that Uncle Prosper might not come. "I presume the family at Buntingford will be represented?" Uncle Prosper had asked. "Somebody will come, I suppose," said Fanny. Then Uncle Prosper had sent down a pretty jewelled ring, and said that he would remain in his room. His health hardly permitted of his being present with advantage. So it was decided that Miss Thoroughbung should come, and every one felt that she would be the howling spirit,--if not at the ceremony, at the banquet which would be given afterward.
Miss Thoroughbung was not the only obstacle, had the whole been known. Young Soames, the son of the attorney with whom Mr. Prosper had found it so evil a thing to have to deal, was to act as Joe's best man. Mr. Prosper learned this, probably, from Matthew, but he never spoke of it to the family.
It was a sad disgrace in his eyes that any Soames should have been so far mixed up with the Prosper blood. Young Algy Soames was in himself a very nice sort of young fellow, who liked a day's hunting when he could be spared out of his father's office, and whose worst fault was that he wore loud cravats. But he was an abomination to Mr. Prosper, who had never seen him. As it was, he carried himself very mildly on this occasion.
"It's a pity we're not to have two marriages at the same time," said Mr. Crabtree, a clerical wag from the next parish. "Don't you think so, Mrs. Annesley?" Mrs. Annesley was standing close by, as was also Miss Thoroughbung, but she made no answer to the appeal. People who understood anything knew that Mrs. Annesley would not be gratified by such an allusion. But Mr. Crabtree was a man who understood nothing.
"The old birds never pair so readily as the young ones," said Miss Thoroughbung.
"Old! Who talks of being old?" said Mr. Crabtree. "My friend Prosper is quite a boy. There's a good time coming, and I hope you'll give way yet, Miss Thoroughbung."
Then they were all marshalled on their way to church. It is quite out of my power to describe the bride's dress, or that of the bride's maids. They were the bride's sisters and two of Joe's sisters. An attempt had been made to induce Florence Mountjoy to come down, but it had been unsuccessful. Things had gone so far now at Cheltenham that Mrs. Mountjoy had been driven to acknowledge that if Florence held to her project for three years she should be allowed to marry Harry Annesley. But she had accompanied this permission by many absurd restrictions. Florence was not to see him, at any rate, during the first year; but she was to see Mountjoy Scarborough if he came to Cheltenham. Florence declared this to be impossible; but, as the Buston marriage took place just at this moment, she could not have her way in everything. Joe drove up to the church with Algy Soames, it not having been thought discreet that he should enter the parsonage on that morning, though he had been there nearly every day through the winter. "I declare, here he is!" said Miss Thoroughbung, very loudly. "I never thought he'd have the courage at the last moment."
"I wonder how a certain gentleman would have felt when it came to his last moment," said Mr. Crabtree.
Mrs. Annesley took to weeping bitterly, which seemed to be unnecessary, as she had done nothing but congratulate herself since the match had first been made, and had rejoiced greatly that one of her numerous brood should have "put into such a haven of rest."
"My dear Mrs. Annesley," said Mrs. Crabtree, consoling her in that she would not be far removed from her child, "you can almost see the brewery chimneys from the church tower." Those who knew the two ladies well were aware that there was some little slur intended by the allusion to brewery chimneys. Mrs. Crabtree's girl had married the third son of Sir Reginald Rattlepate. The Rattlepates were not rich, and the third son was not inclined to earn his bread.
"Thank God, yes!" said Mrs. Annesley, through her tears. "Whenever I shall see them I shall know that there's an income coming out with the smoke."
The boys were home from school for the occasion. "Molly, there's Joe coming after you," said the elder.
"If he gives you a kiss now you needn't pretend to mind," said the other.
"My darling, my own one, that so soon will be my own no longer!" said the father, as he made his way into the vestry to put on his surplice.
"Dear papa!" It was the only word the bride said as she walked in at the church-door, and prepared to make her way up the nave at the head of her little bevy. They were all very bright, as they stood there before the altar, but the brightest spot among them was Algy Soames's blue necktie. Joe for the moment was much depressed, and thought nothing of the last run in which he had distinguished himself; but nevertheless he held up his head well as a man and a brewer.
"Dont'ee take on so," Miss Thoroughbung said to Mrs. Annesley at the last moment. "He'll give her plenty to eat and to drink, and will never do her a morsel of harm." Joe overheard this, and wished that his aunt was back in her bed at Marmaduke Lodge.
Then the marriage was over, and they all trooped into the vestry to sign the book. "You can't get out of that now," said Mrs. Crabtree to Joe.
"I don't want to. I have got the fairest girl in these parts for my wife, and, as I believe, the best young woman." This he said with a spirit for which Mrs. Crabtree had not given him credit, and Algy Soames heard him and admired his friend beneath his blue necktie. And one of the girls heard it, and cried tears of joy as she told her sister afterward in the bedroom. "Oh, what a darling he is!" Molly had said, amid her own sobbing. Joe stood an inch higher among them all because of that word.
Then came the breakfast,--that dullest, saddest hour of all. To feed heavily about twelve in the morning is always a nuisance,--a nuisance so abominable that it should be avoided under any other circumstances than a wedding in your own family. But that wedding-breakfast, when it does come, is the worst of all feeding. The smart dresses and bare shoulders seen there by daylight, the handing people in and out among the seats, the very nature of the food, made up of chicken and sweets and flummery, the profusion of champagne, not sometimes of the very best on such an occasion; and then the speeches! They fall generally to the lot of some middle-aged gentlemen, who seem always to have been selected for their incapacity. But there is a worse trouble yet remaining--in the unnatural repletion which the sight even of so much food produces, and the fact that your dinner for that day is destroyed utterly and forever.
Mr. Crabtree and the two fathers made the speeches, over and beyond that which was made by Joe himself. Joe's father was not eloquent. He brewed, no doubt, good beer, without a taste in it beyond malt and hops;--no man in the county brewed better beer; but he couldn't make a speech. He got up, dressed in a big white waistcoat, and a face as red as his son's hunting-coat, and said that he hoped his boy would make a good husband. All he could say was, that being a lover had not helped to make him a good brewer. Perhaps when Molly Annesley was brought nearer to Buntingford, Joe mightn't spend so much of his time in going to and fro. Perhaps Mr. Joe might not demand so much of her attention. This was the great point he made, and it was received well by all but the bride, who whispered to Joe that if he thought that he was to be among the brewing tubs from morning till night he'd find he was mistaken. Mr. Annesley threw a word or two of feeling into his speech, as is usual with the father of the young lady, but nobody seemed to care much for that. Mr. Crabtree was facetious with the ordinary wedding jests,--as might have been expected, seeing that he had been present at every wedding in the county for the last twenty years. The elderly ladies laughed good-humoredly, and Mrs. Crabtree was heard to say that the whole affair would have been very tame but that Mr. Crabtree had "carried it all off." But, in truth, when Joe got up the fun of the day had commenced, for Miss Thoroughbung, though she kept her chair, was able to utter as many words as her nephew: "I'm sure I'm very much obliged to you for what you've all been saying."
"So you ought, sir, for you have heard more good of yourself than you'll ever hear again."
"Then I'm the more obliged to you. What my people have said about my being so long upon the road--"
"That's only just what you have told them at the brewery. Nobody knows where you have been."
"Molly can tell you all about that."
"I can't tell them anything," Molly said in a whisper.
"But it comes only once in a man's lifetime," continued Joe; "and I dare say, if we knew all about the governor when he was of my age, which I don't remember, he was as spooney as any one."
"I only saw him once for six months before he was married," said Mrs. Thoroughbung in a funereal voice.
"He's made up for it since," said Miss Thoroughbung.
"I'm sure I'm very proud to have got such a young lady to have come and joined her lot with mine," continued Joe; "and nobody can think more about his wife's family than I do."
"And all Buston," said the aunt.
"Yes, and all Buston."
"I'm sure we're all sorry that the bride's uncle, from Buston Hall, has not been able to come here to-day. You ought to say that, Joe."
"Yes, I do say it. I'm very sorry that Mr. Prosper isn't able to be here."
"Perhaps Miss Thoroughbung can tell us something about him?" said Mr. Crabtree.
"Me! I know nothing special. When I saw him last he was in good health. I did nothing to him to make him keep his bed. Mrs. Crabtree seems to think that I have got your uncle in my keeping. Molly, I beg to say that I'm not responsible."
It must be allowed that amid such free conversation it was difficult for Joe to shine as an orator. But as he had no such ambition, perhaps the interruptions only served him. But Miss Thoroughbung's witticism did throw a certain damp over the wedding-breakfast. It was perhaps to have been expected that the lady should take her revenge for the injury done to her. It was the only revenge that she did take. She had been ill-used, she thought, and yet she had not put Mr. Prosper to a shilling of expense. And there was present to her a feeling that the uncle had at the last moment been debarred from complying with her small requests in favor of Miss Tickle and the ponies on behalf of the young man who was now sitting opposite to her, and that the good things coming from Buston Hall were to be made to flow in the way of the Annesleys generally rather than in her way. She did not regret them very much, and it was not in her nature to be bitter; but still all those little touches about Mr. Prosper were pleasant to her, and were, of course, unpleasant to the Annesleys. Then, it will be said, she should not have come to partake of a breakfast in Mr. Annesley's dining-room. That is a matter of taste, and perhaps Miss Thoroughbung's taste was not altogether refined.
Joe's speech came to an end, and with it his aunt's remarks. But as she left the room she said a few words to Mr. Annesley. "Don't suppose that I am angry,--not in the least; certainly not with you or Harry. I'd do him a good turn to-morrow if I could; and so, for the matter of that, I would to his uncle. But you can't expect but what a woman should have her feelings and express them." Mr. Annesley, on the other hand, thought it strange that a woman in such a position should express her feelings.
Then at last came the departure. Molly was taken up into her mother's room and cried over for the last time. "I know that I'm an old fool!"
"Oh, mamma! now, dearest mamma!"
"A good husband is the greatest blessing that God can send a girl, and I do think that he is good and sterling."
"He is, mamma,--he is. I know he is."
"And when that woman talks about brewery chimneys, I know what a comfort it is that there should be chimneys, and that they should be near. Brewery chimneys are better than a do-nothing scamp that can't earn a meal for himself or his children. And when I see Joe with his pink coat on going to the meet, I thank God that my Molly has got a lad that can work hard, and ride his own horses, and go out hunting with the best of them."
"Oh, mamma, I do like to see him then. He is handsome."
"I would not have anything altered. But--but--Oh, my child, you are going away!"
"As Mrs. Crabtree says, I sha'n't be far."
"No, no! But you won't be all mine. The time will come when you'll think of your girls in the same way. You haven't done a thing that I haven't seen and known and pondered over; you haven't worn a skirt but what it has been dear to me; you haven't uttered a prayer but what I have heard it as it went up to God's throne. I hope he says his prayers."
"I'm sure he does," said Molly, with confidence more or less well founded.
"Now go, and leave me here. I'm such an old stupid that I can't help crying; and if that woman was to say anything more to me about the chimneys I should give her a bit of my mind."
Then Molly went down with her travelling-hat on, looking twice prettier than she had done during the whole of the morning ceremonies. It is, I suppose, on the bridegroom's behalf that the bride is put forth in all her best looks just as she is about to become, for the first time, exclusively his own. Molly, on the present occasion, was very pretty, and Joe was very proud. It was not the least of his pride that he, feeling himself to be not quite as yet removed from the "Bung" to the "Thorough," had married into a family by which his ascent might be matured.
And then, as they went, came the normal shower of rice, to be picked up in the course of the next hour by the vicarage fowls, and not by the London beggars, and the air was darkened by a storm of old shoes. In London, white satin slippers are the fashion. But Buston and Buntingford combined could not afford enough of such missiles; and from the hands of the boys black shoes, and boots too, were thrown freely. "There go my best pair," said one of the boys, as the chariot was driven off, "and I don't mean to let them lie there." Then the boots were recovered and taken up to the bedroom.
Now that Molly was gone, Harry's affairs became paramount at Buston. After all, Harry was of superior importance to Molly, though those chimneys at Buntingford could probably give a better income than the acres belonging to the park. But Harry was to be the future Prosper of the county; to assume at some future time the family name; and there was undoubtedly present to them all at the parsonage a feeling that Harry Annesley Prosper would loom in future years a bigger squire than the parish had ever known before. He had got a fellowship, which no Prosper had ever done; and he had the look and tone of a man who had lived in London, which had never belonged to the Prospers generally. And he was to bring a wife, with a good fortune, and one of whom a reputation for many charms had preceded her. And Harry, having been somewhat under a cloud for the last six months, was now emerging from it brighter than ever. Even Uncle Prosper could not do without him. That terrible Miss Thoroughbung had thrown a gloom over Buston Hall which could only be removed, as the squire himself had felt, by the coming of the natural heir. Harry was indispensable, and was no longer felt by any one to be a burden.
It was now the end of March. Old Mr. Scarborough was dead and buried, and Mountjoy was living at Tretton. Nothing had been heard of his coming up to London. No rushing to the card-tables had been announced. That there were to be some terrible internecine law contests between him and Augustus had been declared in many circles, but of this nothing was known at the Buston Rectory. Harry had been one day at Cheltenham, and had been allowed to spend the best part of an hour with his sweetheart; but this permission had been given on the understanding that he was not to come again, and now for a month he had abstained. Then had come his uncle's offer, that generous offer under which Harry was to bring his wife to Buston Hall, and live there during half the year, and to receive an increased allowance for his maintenance during the other half. As he thought of his ways and means he fancied that they would be almost rich. She would have four hundred a year, and he as much; and an established home would be provided for them. Of all these good things he had written to Florence, but had not yet seen her since the offer had been made. Her answer had not been as propitious as it might be, and it was absolutely necessary that he should go down to Cheltenham and settle things.
The three years had in his imagination been easily reduced to one, which was still, as he thought, an impossible time for waiting. By degrees it came down to six months in his imagination, and now to three, resulting in an idea that they might be easily married early in June, so as to have the whole of the summer before them for their wedding-tour. "Mother," he said, "I shall be off to-morrow."
"To Cheltenham?"
"Yes, to Cheltenham. What is the good of waiting. I think a girl may be too obedient to her mother."
"It is a fine feeling, which you will be glad to remember that she possessed."
"Supposing that you had declared that Molly shouldn't have married Joe Thoroughbung?"
"Molly has got a father," said Mrs. Annesley.
"Suppose she had none?"
"I cannot suppose anything so horrible."
"As if you and he had joined together to forbid Molly."
"But we didn't."
"I think a girl may carry it too far," said Harry. "Mrs. Mountjoy has committed herself to Mountjoy Scarborough, and will not go back from her word. He has again come back to the fore, and out of a ruined man has appeared as the rich proprietor of the town of Tretton. Of course the mother hangs on to him still."
"You don't think Florence will change?"
"Not in the least. I'm not a bit afraid of Mountjoy Scarborough and all his property; but I can see that she may be subjected to much annoyance from which I ought to extricate her."
"What can you do, Harry?"
"Go and tell her so. Make her understand that she should put herself into my hands at once, and that I could protect her."
"Take her away from her mother by force?" said Mrs. Annesley, with horror.
"If she were once married her mother would think no more about it. I don't believe that Mrs. Mountjoy has any special dislike to me. She thinks of her own nephew, and as long as Florence is Florence Mountjoy there will be for her the chance. I know that he has no chance; and I don't think that I ought to leave her there to be bullied for some endless period of time. Think of three years,--of dooming a girl to live three years without ever seeing her lover! There is an absurdity about it which is revolting. I shall go down to-morrow and see if I cannot put a stop to it." To this the mother could make no objection, though she could express no approval of a project under which Florence was to be made to marry without her mother's consent. _