Part 20

Nevertheless, as they walked through the churchyard, Daniel was conscious of a dawning sense of discomfort, for was not that Abel Bolt who stood under the yew tree, and who stepped aside with such exaggerated deference to let them pass? Even his hat seemed to Daniel to be cocked with a sarcastic air. Martha Hansford and Freza Pitcher nudged each other as Phœbe preceded him up the church--he was almost sure he saw Martha spread out her hands in allusion to Phœbe’s figure, which certainly looked particularly ample in her thick cloth jacket. To increase his uneasiness Jarge Vacher took up his position immediately behind him. It must be owned that this proximity was seriously detrimental to poor Daniel’s devotions. When Phœbe found the place for him and invited him to sing out of her own hymn-book he heard a choking sound in his rear, which he knew proceeded from Jarge. As he stole a cautious glance round he observed that the eyes of more than one member of the congregation were directed towards him and the unconscious Phœbe, who happened to be in particularly fine voice and was singing away with entire satisfaction. Daniel fidgeted and reddened and grew more and more wrathful. He couldn’t see anything to laugh at, not he. The maid was right to sing out, and to be a bit more tender than usual to the man who, before twenty-four hours were out, would be her husband. Yes, it would be all over by this time to-morrow--that was one comfort; and it was a mercy he had fixed an early hour; none of these impudent chaps would be there to dather him.

At the conclusion of the service he started up and hurried from the church with what seemed to Phœbe, as she waddled in his wake, unseemly haste. Indeed they very nearly had their first serious “miff” on the subject. However, once out of sight of the mockers, and wandering with his sweetheart in the quiet lanes, where the hedgerows were all ablaze with scarlet berries, and primrose and amber leaves made little points of light here and there amid the more sober September green, he forgot his discomfiture.

“We be like to have a hard winter,” said Phœbe, as they paused to look over the first gate in the prescribed fashion of rustic lovers.

“I don’t care,” returned Daniel, gazing at her amourously from beneath his tilted hat. “I’ve got a snug little place of my own and a missus to make me comfortable. It may snow for all as I do care.”

Alas for Daniel! His jubilation was short-lived. Early on the morrow he was up and doing, putting the final touches to his preparations for welcoming his bride, and he set forth in good time to join the wedding party, whom he found ready and waiting for him, sitting stiffly in a row in the parlour. Mr. Cosser, magnificent in broadcloth and his father’s deerskin waistcoat; Mrs. Cosser in a violet gown and a Paisley shawl; Dick Cosser, Phœbe’s younger brother, in a suit of checks that would set an æsthetic person’s teeth on edge; Phœbe herself in a crimson silk with a white hat and a fluffy tippet, over which her eyes twinkled with most uncanny effect. Daniel privately thought she looked very well, and extended his arm to his future mother-in-law, with a bosom swelling with pride. Mr. Cosser had already preceded them with Phœbe, and Dick brought up the rear with his cousin Mary Ann, a tall maid of sixteen, who had an unusual capacity for giggling; these two were to officiate respectively as best man and bridesmaid. Daniel’s parents had long been dead, and most of his relations scattered, but his married sister who lived at some little distance, had promised to drive over and meet them at the church. She and her husband and their three or four olive-branches were, in fact, already installed in one of the front pews when the little procession arrived; the clergyman was in readiness, and the ceremony began without delay.

All went well at first; Phœbe was jubilant and extremely audible in her replies, Daniel gruff and sheepish as it behoved a rustic bridegroom to be, but just as the Rector uplifting his voice inquired “Dost thou take this woman to be thy wedded wife?” a certain scuffling sound was heard at the further end of the church, and the half-made husband might have been seen to start and falter. “Daniel, wilt thou have this woman to be thy wedded wife?” repeated the Rector sternly.

Suppressed titters were heard, not only from the direction of the porch, but actually from the aisles. For the life of him, Daniel could not resist turning his head right and left with an anguished gaze. Horror! There was Abel Bolt peering from behind one pillar, and surely that was Jarge’s impudent face grinning at him from the opposite side. The Rector glared through his spectacles and uplifted his voice yet more.

“Daniel!” he cried emphatically, “wilt thou have this woman to be thy wedded wife?”

The best man cleared his throat warningly, and the bride turning a reproachful glance somewhere in the direction of the west window, nudged him with her elbow.

“Speak up!” she whispered. This was the last straw.

Hardly knowing what he did, Daniel started away from her, and whisking round charged through the bridal party, down the nave, thrust aside the knot of gaping onlookers in the porch, descended the flight of steps apparently with one stride, and bounding over the lychgate fled into the fields on the opposite side of the road.

Phœbe, with a stifled shriek, hastened after him with all the speed that her distress of mind and amplitude of person would admit of, but was almost knocked over by her brother Dick, who had started in hot pursuit of the fugitive. Mary Ann, not to be outdone, gallopaded in the rear, and Mr. Cosser with muttered threats of vengeance hobbled in her wake at a considerable distance.

“Yoicks! Gone away!” shouted Abel Bolt, tumbling out of the church followed by Jarge and the whole of the idle crew who had brought about the catastrophe. In another minute, the whole party joined in the chase, and the church was left entirely deserted except for the astonished and scandalised Rector, his clerk and poor old Mrs. Cosser, who remained dissolved in tears in the front bench. Even Daniel’s own relations had joined in pursuit, his sister announcing breathlessly, as she hastened forth, that he must have gone out of his mind.

Meanwhile the fugitive, in spite of the tightness of his wedding boots and the stiffness of his new clothes, careered across country, with almost incredible speed. Now his blue-coated form might be seen leaping a hedge, now scudding over a stretch of pasture. Dick, the best man, was the nearest to him, family pride lending wings to his long legs, but even he was soon distanced, and by the time he had reached the second bank and forced his way through the thorns and briars which topped it, the runaway bridegroom was nowhere to be seen. Dick was at fault, and though when the rest of the pursuers came up they scoured the fields, and “drew” the thickets, and hunted up and down by the banks, and even searched the willow-bed by the river, no trace of the fugitive was to be found. Phœbe had come to a standstill in the midst of the third field, where her father presently joined her. They stood panting opposite each other for a moment or two, after which Phœbe, unfolding a lace-bordered handkerchief, wiped her brow; then restoring it to her pocket, she remarked in a tone of conviction:

“I d’ ’low he’ve a-changed his mind.”

“Looks like it,” returned her parent shortly. “Ye can have the law on him for this.”

“That wouldn’t be much comfort to I,” she retorted.

“What be goin’ to do then?”

“I d’ ’low I’ll go home-along,” said the forsaken bride with decision. “There bain’t no use in standin’ here for the folks to gawk at, an’ I mid just so well take up one o’ they fowls. I shouldn’t think any o’ Dan’l’s folks ’ud want to show their faces at our place.”

“I d’ ’low they won’t,” returned Mr. Cosser in a menacing tone, as though who should say, “they’d better not!”

“Let’s be steppin’ then,” said Phœbe. “You’d best look in at church and fetch mother. I’ll make haste home.”

“That there Dan’l o’ yourn be a reg’lar rascal!” shouted her father.

Phœbe, who had already proceeded some paces on her way, turned her head and called back over her shoulder: “I can’t say as how he’ve acted so very well!” Then she went on again.

When the baffled hunting party finally gave up the chase and returned to Cosser’s, partly with the hope of being commended for their zeal, which they felt must have atoned for all previous errors, partly to see how the forsaken bride bore herself, they found that damsel in her working dress, “salting down” a fine piece of beef.

“There’ll be a terr’ble lot o’ waste over this ’ere job,” she remarked, “but we must do our best to save all what we can.”

“We couldn’t find en nowheres, Phœbe,” cried Dick. “Abel here d’ say he’s very like drownded; serve en right if he be.”

Phœbe paused in her labours to cast a reflective glance at the horizon.

“I’ll go warrant he bain’t drownded,” she said. “He don’t want to marry I, that’s what ’tis. He wouldn’t ha’ married I a bit the more if you’d ha’ catched en.”

“But what’s the meanin’ of it,” thundered Mr. Cosser from his corner, “what’s the meanin’ on’t, I want to know. He did seem to know his own mind afore--very well he did.”

“I think he was gallied like,” said Phœbe. “E-es, I d’ ’low that’s what he wer’.”

Abel and Jarge began to edge away from the group, but Phœbe went on without seeming to notice them.

“When Parson did ax en the question straight-out like, I d’ ’low he felt ’fraid. That’s what ’twas, he was ’fraid.”

Withdrawing her gaze from the distant hills and heaving a gentle sigh she carried away her beef; and as there was no indication that any outsider was expected to join the family circle, or indeed to partake of any refreshment, the bystanders walked slowly away, and the Cosser family proceeded gloomily to divest themselves of their holiday clothes.

It was quite dark when Daniel rose from his cramped and exceedingly moist hiding-place in the sedges by the river, and slowly betook himself homewards. During the many hours he had lain cowering there, listening to the voices of his pursuers, he had had leisure to repent of and marvel at the senseless impulse which had brought him to his present plight.

“Well, I be a stunpoll!” he had said to himself over and over again. “I be a dalled stunpoll! What the mischief did I do it for? Whatever will the poor maid think of I? She’ll never look at I again--she’ll never take the leastest notice of me.”

More than once he had been half-inclined to rush out of his lair and give himself up to justice, but how could he face that grinning multitude? If they had made fun of him before, what would they do now? Besides her family were furious, and the rustic mind loves justice of a certain rough kind. Daniel was not more of a coward than another, but he had a wholesome dread of broken bones. No, he dursn’t show his face for a long time, that was certain; and as for ever making up with Phœbe again, it was out of the question--no woman could forgive such treatment.

Very disconsolately, indeed, did Daniel turn in at his own little gate; even in the dusk he could see how nice the place looked, how complete were his arrangements. He opened the door and slunk in, dropping into the nearest chair with a groan. After quite a long time he made up his mind to strike a match and look round, though he knew the sight of the cosy little room would increase his melancholy. He lit the blue glass lamp which had been placed in readiness on the dresser, and with a heavy sigh poked up the fire which had been carefully “kept in” with a thick layer of wet slack. The light leaped on the newly-papered walls with their neat design of blue roses on a buff ground--he had papered these walls himself, in honour of the coming event--on the two elbow-chairs, just re-covered with a gay chintz. On the table in the centre was a small tray with a biblical design in prodigiously bright colours, which bore a curious old decanter containing elderberry wine, a plate of mixed biscuits and two tumblers. In setting these forth that morning he had thought with tender glee of how Phœbe’s first wifely task would be to “hot-up” some of that wine in one of her new saucepans. Had it not been for his own inconceivable folly, they might at that very moment have been sitting face to face drinking each other’s health. And now! Daniel dropped his face in his hands and fairly sobbed.

One day about a fortnight after the untoward event which had so rudely quenched her simple hopes, Phœbe Cosser was standing by the wash-tub up to her eyes in suds, with Mary Ann similarly engaged; while Mrs. Cosser in the inner room laboriously ironed out a few of the fine things which had already passed through her daughter’s hands. All at once, Mary Ann, raising her eyes, uttered a little scream which immediately lost itself in a fit of giggles.

“There! I never did see such a foolish maid!” commented Phœbe severely. “Whatever be gawkin’ at?”

“Lard! There now! Well, to be sure!” ejaculated Mary Ann between spasmodic titters. “Look yonder behind the thorn tree!”

The Cossers’ garden sloped downwards towards the road, and a gnarled May tree filled the angle where the front hedge joined that which separated their piece of ground from their neighbour’s; the twisted trunk was split down to a few feet from the ground, and through this aperture Daniel Chaffey’s woeful face was peering. As Phœbe turned towards him he immediately dived out of sight. After waiting a moment and finding he did not reappear Phœbe philosophically went on with her washing. In a few minutes, however, Mary Ann began to giggle afresh. Phœbe whisked round so sharply that she caught a glimpse of her former lover’s vanishing face.

“Don’t take no notice,” she said sternly, implanting a vicious nudge in her cousin’s ribs; after which she shifted her position so as to turn her back to the thorn.

After another short interval, however, the sound of her own name breathed in the most dolorous of tones caused her to turn her head once more. Daniel had thrown an arm round each half of the trunk, and was craning forth through the gap, his face vying in colour with the clusters of haws which surrounded it.

“Phœbe!” he pleaded with a gusty sigh.

“Well?” returned she, slowly wiping the suds from her stout red arms.

“Phœbe, I’ve acted terr’ble bad to ye.”

“E-es, you have,” replied Phœbe succinctly.

“I d’ ’low I have,” he agreed dejectedly. “I be pure sorry, dalled if I bain’t.”

Miss Cosser snorted.

“I’ve a-repented, my dear, ever since. E-es, I have! Sure I have! Phœbe!”

“Well?”

“I’ve a-been thinkin’--would ye go to church wi’ me now?”

“This minute?” queried Phœbe with alacrity; the muscles of her face relaxed, and she twitched down first one of her rolled-up sleeves and then the other.

“E-es, this very minute; the Reverend ’ull tie us up right enough if I ax en.”

“Gie me a clean apron!” cried Phœbe, turning quickly to Mary Ann and jerking at the string of the very damp garment which protected her dress.

She already wore her hat, and by the time her cousin, who had vanished with a bound, reappeared shaking out the crisp folds of the clean white apron, she had unpinned her skirt.

“Now, then,” she remarked after tying it on, and she fixed her best eye with a business-like air on her Daniel, who had been gazing at her with almost incredulous rapture. He left off embracing the hawthorn and reached the garden gate at the same moment as Phœbe herself; and before Mrs. Cosser, attracted by Mary Ann’s shrieks of enjoyment, had had time to reach the door they had set off arm-in-crook and disappeared round the angle of the lane.

“A TERR’BLE VOOLISH LITTLE MAID.”

The cottage next door to Mrs. Cross had long been occupied by Mr. and Mrs. Frizzel, but when that good couple went to live “Darchester-side” near their married daughter Susan, their discarded dwelling was taken by a respectable widow woman named Chaffey; and on a certain autumn morning she entered into possession.

From under the green “shed” of his cart the carrier extracted a variety of goods and chattels, exciting keen interest in the mind of Mrs. Cross, who, with her nose flattened against the leaded panes of her bedroom window, watched the proceedings closely. The large articles of furniture had arrived on the previous day in a waggon--a wooden bedstead, so solid in construction and uncompromising in shape that its legs had hung over the edge; an oak settle and carved linen chest at which Mrs. Cross had turned up her nose, deeming them “terr’ble old-fayshioned”.

She was better pleased with the parlour suite of painted wood cushioned with brightly coloured cretonne--couch, armchair and three small chairs; the lot must have cost at least three pound ten, thought Mrs. Cross, for she had seen the like in the upholsterer’s window at Branston. Her respect for the newcomer immediately increased, and this morning as she squinted down at her from her attic, vainly endeavouring to see all round her at once, she was much impressed by her appearance.

Mrs. Chaffey was a spare woman of middle height, wearing a decent brown stuff gown and grey fringed shawl. Her black bonnet with its yellow flowers was quite “fayshionable” in shape, and though her black kid gloves were unbuttoned and had moreover grown somewhat grey about the finger-tips, they nevertheless conveyed the idea of exceeding respectability.

“Quite a genteel sort o’ body,” commented Mrs. Cross, “and do seem to know what she be about too,” she added a moment later, as Mrs. Chaffey, having entered the house presently emerged again, having changed her headgear for a gathered print sun-bonnet, and protected her dress by the addition of a large white apron.

Mrs. Cross screwed her head in the other angle of the window and again squinted down.

“That’s a feather bed,” she observed as a large tied-up bundle was placed in the expectant arms of the newcomer who clearly staggered beneath its weight; “carrier did ought to carry it for she. Pillows next! And a basket--chaney most like. Fender--fire-irons--kettle--pots and a pan or two--very small ’uns they be. ’Tis but a lone ’ooman they d’ say, she’ll not want so much cookin’--clock--hassock----”

The carrier’s voice now interrupted the inventory: “This ’ere basket, mum--that do make the lot. I hope ye’ll find all reg’lar, mum, and no damage done.”

Mrs. Cross, who had been breathing hard in her excitement, was at this point constrained to polish the window with her apron; by the time the operation was concluded and her nose again applied, Mrs. Chaffey had taken out her purse and was slowly counting out a certain number of coins into the carrier’s hand. Mrs. Cross could not for the life of her see how many, but she observed that the man’s face lengthened.

“Bain’t there nothin’ for luck?” he inquired. “I did take a deal o’ trouble wi’ they arnaments and sich-like.”

“You’ve a-had what I did agree for,” responded Mrs. Chaffey with dignity; her voice was high and clear, and as she spoke she turned towards the cottage with a final air.

“I d’ ’low she’s a bit near,” remarked Mrs. Cross as she retired from the window, rubbing her nose pensively. “Poor Martha Frizzel! She was a good soul, she _was_! Just about!”

She stood a moment looking round the little attic chamber, but without seeing either the somewhat untidy bed with its soiled patchwork quilt, or the washstand with its cracked jug, or the torn curtain pinned half-across the window; she saw instead her neighbour’s shrewd, kindly face bending over a pot of well-stewed tea, or nodding briefly in response to sundry requests for the use of a bucket, or the loan of a pan, and sometimes a few “spuds”.

“Mind you do bring ’em back,” was all Mrs. Frizzel would say. Well, sometimes Mrs. Cross did bring them back, and sometimes Martha came and fetched ’em, but she never made a bit of fuss, and was always as kind and neighbourly as she could be.

Mrs. Chaffey must be getting a bit settled by this time, Mrs. Cross thought, and resolved to pop in and ask how she was getting on. She smoothed her rough hair with the palms of her hands, jerked down her sleeves, which she usually wore rolled up till dinner-time, not because she fatigued herself with over-much work, but because it seemed somehow the proper thing to do of a morning; she twitched her apron straight, pinned over a gap in her bodice--Mrs. Cross was a great believer in the efficacy of pins, and rarely demeaned herself by using a needle and thread--and finally composing her features to an expression of polite and sympathetic interest, strolled leisurely downstairs and into her neighbour’s premises.

Mrs. Chaffey was standing by her table, busily unpacking china, but when the other entered remarking genially that she thought she’d just look in to see how Mrs. Chaffey liked her noo place, and if she could lend a hand anywheres, she came forward with a somewhat frosty smile and set a chair.

“Sit down, won’t ye?” she said. “I’m a bit busy, but there! it do do folks good to set a bit now and then.”

“E-es, indeed, my dear,” responded Mrs. Cross enthusiastically; it was a sentiment she cordially endorsed. “Lard! if a body was to keep upon their legs from morn till night, churchyard ’ud be fuller at the year’s end nor it needs to be. I be pure glad you’ve a-took this ’ere house,” she added graciously, “’tis what I scarce expected as any respectable party ’ud come to it. The chimbley smokes,” said Mrs. Cross delightedly; “there, ’tis summat awful how it do smoke! And in the bedroom the rain and wind do fair beat in when a bit of a storm do come--’tis these ’ere queer little vooty winder-panes--rain comes through them so easy as anything. And the damp! there, Mrs. Frizzel, what lived here last, used to say many a time: ‘Mrs. Cross, my dear,’ she did use to say, ‘the damp do seem to creep into my very bwones’. But I be pure glad to see you here, I’m sure,” she summed up cheerfully, “and ’tis to be hoped as you’ll find it comfortable.”

Mrs. Chaffey’s face, always somewhat plaintive in expression, had become more and more dismal as her neighbour proceeded, and she now heaved a deep sigh.

“I d’ ’low ’twill do for I,” she said gloomily; “I be a lone ’ooman, Mrs. ----?”

She paused tentatively.

“Mrs. Cross be my name, my dear. E-es--Maria Cross. E-es, that be my name, my dear.”