CHAPTER IX.

Cancel all our vows; And, when we meet at any time again, Be it not seen in either of our brows That we one jot of former love retain.

Michael Drayton.

George Wells and Jane Dixon had been asked for the last time, and the wedding was fixed for the Wednesday following. George Wells had not again visited the family of the Fosters. His mind was more at ease since he had spoken to Susan; but he found that the sight of her meek countenance, the sound of her gentle voice, and the recollection of former days, unsettled him. Neither did Susan desire that he should call any more. She was never again to consider him but as the husband of another, and she wished for time to accustom herself to this idea before she again heard his voice: she wished to school and calm her feelings, so as to be sure her heart would not beat when she heard his step and recognised his hand upon the latch.

The sun rose in the full effulgence of a September morning, and all seemed gay in the village of Overhurst: the children were all sporting in and out of every cottage-door: the bells began to ring a merry peal while the Fosters were yet at breakfast; and Betsey Smith, who was Jane's particular friend, was seen by old Sarah, in her white gown and her new shawl and ribands, carefully picking her way across the road, as she came from her home, in the outskirts of the parish, to join the rest of the party at the Dixons. Susan and her father did not see the bridesmaid in her gala dress; but they heard the merry chimes of the bells, and Susan with difficulty swallowed the cup of tea her mother had prepared for her. The chime of church bells is of all sounds that which conveys the most melancholy, or the most joyous impressions to the heart, according to the circumstances under which it is heard, and the associations with which it is connected. If the feelings are not in accordance with their peal, there is no sound so unutterably, so unaccountably sad as that of a merry chime. It may well be imagined that to Susan, that morning, it was more sad than a funereal toll, and it was a relief when the ringers relaxed from their exertions. Dame Foster's eyes were frequently turned upon her daughter with increased tenderness.

The countenances of the mother and of the daughter formed a singular contrast. The old woman, who bore her bodily sufferings without uttering a complaint,--who never allowed her voice to fall into a cadence, which could express pain, or peevishness, or vexation, lest she should grieve the two objects of her love,--had, from the knowledge that they could not read her looks, allowed her features to set themselves into a form expressive of intense agony, and constant anxiety. Those of the daughter, on the contrary, who was aware that her feelings might be the subject of observation to others if suffered to show themselves on her face, seldom, if ever, varied in their placidity. She knew not when her mother might be gazing upon her; and, from the fear of grieving her, she had learned to wear a gentle smile, whatever might be her mental sufferings.

The village noises gradually subsided. Susan felt that the wedding had drawn off the idle children and the village loungers in another direction. Neither Nicholas nor Sarah spoke. There was no sound except the incessant and buzzing hum of the autumn flies in the sunny window.

"It is a beautiful day, is not it, mother?" at length inquired Susan.

"Yes, my dear; a beautiful sunshiny day," answered the dame, with a deep-drawn sigh.

"I thought it was, for the flies buzz so. I am glad of it. It is a pity when a wedding comes on a bad day. I hope 'tis a good omen for poor George!"

"I have heard say, that the duller the day, the brighter the marriage; not but what I wish well to George and his wife."

"It would be very wrong in us not to pray for his happiness, mother; for I have not a word to say against his behaviour to me from first to last."

"Jane Dixon is a lucky girl. He's sure to make a good husband, for he has good principles."

"And he her first lover and all, too!" replied Susan. "She _is_ a lucky girl! I used to feel sorry for her, when first George slighted her for me; for I saw she did not laugh and joke with him as she did with the other men. Now 'tis her turn to be sorry for me, and perhaps she is, though she has given up calling to see me almost ever since I have been afflicted. But it was not to be wondered at, when she began to think of George again. That was one thing made me almost sure what would come to pass at last."

"Why 'twas to be expected that things should fall out much as they have done. But I do not know how it was, when I found George seem so attentive and so constant for such a long time, I thought, mayhap, he would always go on as he did then. I believe it is the way with parents, they can't help fancying their own children something beyond other people's; and so I began to count George would never be looking out for any body else. However, 'tis my belief he will never love Jane Dixon, as he has loved my Susan."

"If he does not yet, mother, he will soon. George will be sure to love his wife, and he will grow to love her better and better every day, and then he will quite forget me; but that is all as it should be. Do you think, mother, I shall ever forget him? I mean to try hard to do so; and I don't mean to talk over what has gone before, even with you, mother; and then do you think at last, mother, I shall quite forget to think of him, except as a friend?"

"I hope you may, my child; but it is always harder for a woman to forget than it is for a man: and 'tis harder still for you, who have nothing to draw off your mind. I have often heard old folks say, that scarce anybody marries their first love; and, if that is true, many and many must have got over such things. But I can't justly say myself, for I never kept company with anybody but your father, and we have been married so long that I can't frame to myself a notion of anything but being his wife."

Susan sighed. "And that's just what I used to feel about George; and I always thought he and I should be just such another couple as you and father."

Susan had indulged herself in thinking and speaking of George as her lover till the images of the past had usurped the place of the realities of the present. The growing hum of voices struck her quick ear. The village was all alive again. The shouts of children and the steps of passers-by recalled her to herself, and painfully dispelled the recollections which had taken possession of her mind. It was over, and he was now the husband of another; and she felt wicked in having given way to such thoughts.

"Mother, we must not say any more: the time is come when it is not enough for me to put a guard upon my words and my actions; I must now set a watch over my thoughts. I do not often talk as I have done to-day; and I felt as if it would do me good to speak of him once more:--but there's an end now."

Towards the afternoon the bridal party paraded the humble street, as is the custom among the peasantry. The bride and bridegroom, and the bride's-maids and bride's-men, dressed in their holiday apparel, and paired for the day, perambulated the most frequented parts of Overhurst; the laughing blushing bride received the hearty, if not refined, congratulations of her neighbours; and, probably, among some of the wedding guests the foundations were laid for another festival of the same kind.

George had as much as possible curtailed the usual march of the little procession, and had contrived that only once did they pass before Master Foster's cottage. He was ashamed on his wedding-day to say he wished to avoid that part of the village, and yet his heart sunk within him as he approached it. He almost rejoiced for a moment that Susan could not _see_ the merry troop; and, as he passed, he dared not raise his eyes in that direction.

Many remarked that day, that Jane was all joy and smiles as would have befitted the bridegroom, while George's down-cast looks would better have suited the bride.

Dame Foster was at her window, and saw the party advancing. Susan heard them almost before her mother perceived them, and inquired if the wedding procession was not passing. Her mother answered in the affirmative; and could not help adding, that she had not believed George would have been so unfeeling.

"Do you see him, mother?"

"Yes, there he is, Susan, sure enough!"

"Oh, mother, how does he look? I gave him a handkerchief two years ago last summer, and he said he should keep it for his wedding-day. He has not got that on, sure?"

"'Tis a checked brown and yellow he wears round his neck."

"No! 'twas a spotted blue I gave him."

"Poor fellow!" exclaimed the dame, in a more kindly tone; "he holds down his head, and now he looks the other way,--quite away from his bride, up the hill. Poor fellow! he can't bear to turn this way after all. I'll be bound he does feel it!"

"Jane must know all that has been between him and me," said Susan with some bitterness; "and I do think she need not have led him this way neither! But I am glad you have seen him, mother. I like to know how he looks; for I may still wish him well." Susan's fingers resumed their knitting, and the dame proceeded with her darning.

George would have silenced their merriment had he had the presence of mind to do so; but a peasant bridegroom is of all creatures the most awkward, the most shame-faced: far from bearing himself as the man who has won the prize he sought, he has the air of one who has been fairly caught in the snare, and has no longer a chance of escape.

George, however, felt it impossible to again march, as it were in triumph, by Susan's door; he led Jane the back way into the village: it was nearly the same path he had taken the day he had told Susan of his marriage: and it is to be feared that Jane did not find her George the more gay or the more tender for being removed from the observation of others. Presently the sounds of gay voices once more grew upon the ear as the party returned on their steps.

Dame Foster again put down her spectacles, and gazed through the window: "God bless him!" she exclaimed; "he could not stand it again, and he is not with the rest."

"Not gone away and left Jane?" inquired Susan in a tone of alarm,--"that would not be right."

"No, no, she's gone too. I warrant me, they've taken the back way round to Master Dixon's, and I like him all the better." The dame felt more in charity with him than she had done a few minutes before; and Susan was gratified, and yet grieved, that George should not be thoroughly happy. "He will be so soon!" she thought, however;--and so he was.

He enjoyed the comforts of a tidy home, a blazing fire, a warm supper, and a smiling wife to greet him on his return from work. His days were occupied in his accustomed labour; his after-hours were filled up by cultivating his garden; and the helpmate who received him kindly, and provided him with comforts, became daily more endeared to him. The birth of a child gave him a fresh object of interest, and George was a happy man.

Susan also was calm, if not happy. He was another woman's husband--he was a married man--and all was over for her. The barrier was so entirely insuperable that her feelings did change, that she did learn to think of him, merely as of a kind friend, and that the past did at length appear to her only as a dream.