Chapter XXII: Wedded

"WHY, Mrs. Dodd, why ever didn't 'ee turn up on Wednesday to our young leddy's weddin'?"

"Ah, me dear soul! I were comin' right enough, and fit to cry I was when my 'usband's aunt from Damerton, 'er what has a bit of money, took me by surprise, and come over for the day. And nothin' would do but I must cook 'er a dinner of pork chops which she brought in her bag! I be fair longin' to hear all of it!"

"Well!" said Mrs. Judd, settling herself back in the van, and preparing to be chief spokeswoman. "We've never 'ad such a thorough downright, enjoyable ceremony. To begin with, the peal o' bells began just after ten o'clock. My nevvy Frank was chief ringer, and he made the chaps put their 'arts in it, I can tell you! They was clashin' and boomin' on an 'off for over an hour. The church were as well filled as 'tis at 'Arvest Thanksgivin'. An' the children were let out o' school ten minutes to eleven. I didn't go inside church too soon, for I wanted to ketch sight of the bride a-walkin' from the 'ouse. But the bridegroom, he arrived at church soon after the Rector."

"What did he look like?" demanded Mrs. Dodd, with breathless interest. "I always have feelin' for the man; he do cut such a poor show by the bride."

"Oh, as grave as a judge, and his lips clapped close and his eye like a hawk's, dartin' roun' the corner at everybody!"

"Ah, well," put in another woman, "he was a fine set-up gentleman, an' when he saw 'er comin', he fair ketched his breath like us all did!"

"But I seed her comin' out of her own door," went on Mrs. Judd, in lofty voice. "She were in the most bee-oo-tiful gown of white satin and a veil were hangin' over her, but it 'coulnn't' hide her pretty face, bless her 'art! And the grand leddy from London were walkin' beside her."

"You don't say so! But surely she had a gentleman to walk with her!"

"Not one, this 'ere leddy—a leddyship I heard tell—is her stepmother and she giv' her away. She were dressed in plum satin with a feather boa, and she 'ad a pair o' spectacles fixed on a 'andle which she 'eld up to her eyes, and looked—well, she looked like a duchess! Miss Tomina she stepped along very softly and quietly, and there was that boy she be so taken with—Harry—he comes after her close at 'er 'eels! Well, just as they comes to church door, she lifts her eyes, catches sight of me as were prepared to follow 'em in as fast as I could. And she just give me the sweetest nod, seemin' to say: 'There you are, glad to see you!'"

"But do tell who were in the church of the gentry."

"'Twas all kept very quiet; the Rector he married 'em, an' Mrs. Herbert, an' Dr. and Mrs. Merton, an' Sir Alfred, and Miss Merryweather turned up, she 'as come to see Mrs. Merryweather through her first baby. It come yesterday; did you hear of it?"

"Yes, that I did. The milkman from farm told me so—"

"Well, she were there, and then there were a strange gent, a friend of the Colonel's—he looked as if he were lookin' on at a show. His lips were curled up nasty, and he gave a heave of his shoulders now and agen in an impatient sort o' way. But there, when I was tucked in tight along with some others, I 'ad no thought but for our young lady."

"An'," interrupted Mrs. Tibbs, "there were one that thought a mighty lot of 'erself, and that were Susan! She 'ad her best black silk and 'ad a red rose in her buzzom, and her hat! Well, it must have bin one of Miss Tomina's cast-offs! We all said that, for we 'ad a partikler look at it. It were black, but it 'ad some wonderful cream roses, made almost to smell, they was so perfec'! And a lace veil twined in and out like a regular creeper! She 'eld her head as high as the leddyship, an' I were just in the pew behind, so I whispers over:

"'You do be lookin' up!'

"An' she never so much as turns her 'ead, the hussy!"

"Tell on!" said Mrs. Dodd, who was drinking in every detail with great avidity.

"When they stood together, he were a whole head taller than 'er. Her voice were clear as a bell when she made responses. I were near cryin' the whole time. But when they went in the vestry an' the Weddin' March begun, my 'art began to palpitate. It fair burst the 'ooks and eyes of my bodice! And then they come down the aisle, and Miss Tomina were noddin' and smilin' to everybody all round. An' he 'ad lost his stern face and were quite affable like. Then the chillen awaitin' for them outside dropped roses in their path, and then every one of the gentry went back to the Cottage. The Rectory maids 'ad helped, and we heard tell there was quite a choice meal laid out.

"And 'twasn't long before the fly drove up. Peter Hamblin drove, and then was our time. We closed in and gave 'em a reg'lar good peltin' o' rice, and then Miss Tomina afore she gets into the carriage, she looks at us and laughs. She's always different to other ladies—she calls out in her pretty way, wavin' her hand to us:

"'Good-bye,' she says, 'but I promise when I get tired of my husband, I'll run back to Little Honeycombe and drive the van again!'

"And didn't us laugh? And give such cheerin'. Well, it must have been 'eard a mile off!"

"Oh, I do wish I had been there!"

"An' then we all had a big tea in the schoolroom. 'Twas her wish; but, eh, dearie me, we shall never have a carrier agen like Miss Tomina!"

The sighs that echoed this speech were great. Tomina had gone out of their life for the time. But she had left behind her many legacies of goodwill and friendship amongst the simple village folk.

She and her bridegroom went to a quiet little Cornish fishing-village. They would not be out of reach of Mrs. Norman. Christabel Avenel was with her, and she proved quite a success. And for a fortnight, Tomina and Gerald were rapturously happy. They determined to live only in the present, and enjoy life as they had never enjoyed it before. Then at the end of their time, they returned to Torquay, and gladdened the heart of the poor invalid.

Tomina did indeed prove herself to be the sunshine in the house. She was always gay and sweet-tempered; Mrs. Norman's fretful complaints only brought out the deeper tenderness in her nature. Gerald would look at her and marvel.

Their stolen time together was very sweet. And though sometimes they were met with reproachful tears upon their return to the sick-room, Mrs. Norman did make an effort now and then to be unselfish.

They went to Edinburgh when Torquay became too warm. And when the end of summer came, they began to discuss a winter abroad.

But Mrs. Norman managed to contract Influenza, and was so weakened and pulled down by it, that her doctor advised them not to leave England. They finally went down to Penzance, and took rooms in the most comfortable hotel there.

As time went on, Tomina began to find that what she first treated so lightly was gradually becoming an effort and a struggle. There were days when the fractiousness and unreasonableness of the sick woman told upon her nerves, and she felt she longed to get away from it all. One morning, when by a violent fit of weeping Mrs. Norman had stopped a little expedition planned by husband and wife, Tomina sat in her room work in hand, but with a frown upon her brow. She had been silent for some time, and Mrs. Norman hated silence.

"Where is Gerald?" she asked presently.

"Gone down to the Club, I think, to have a look at the papers."

Tomina's tone was curt. She was still harbouring resentment towards her mother-in-law for having stopped their expedition.

Mrs. Norman heaved a heavy sigh.

"I hardly ever see him! He used to sit with me in the morning and read the papers—I couldn't have believed that he would have become so neglectful."

"But you have me, and he will come in to lunch."

"A daughter-in-law is never the same as a son, and you are irritable to-day, or sulky, I don't know which. I might have known how things would turn out. Since you have married Gerald, you try to keep him away from me. I'm a lonely, unhappy woman. You are both longing for me to die. I wish I could. My life is one long misery; you have stolen my son from me. He no longer cares to be with his poor mother, and you mount guard in my room, and try to keep him away from it."

Mrs. Norman had often spoken in this strain before, but Tomina had had sufficient self-control and patience to answer her gently. Now it seemed the last straw.

"You are most unjust and selfish," she said, rising from her chair; "we are both spoiling our lives for your sake, and this is how you treat us. If you think I am keeping Gerald out of your room, I had better go. I will send your maid to you—"

She walked out of the room, with head erect. But when she reached the sitting-room, she sat down at the table in the window and, resting her head in her hands, burst into tears.

Gerald came in, and found her sobbing her heart out. She tried to tell him what had happened.

"I have lost my temper with your mother, and been very rude to her. I can't go on any longer, Gerald. It's beyond my strength. Nothing pleases her now. The more we give up to her, the more she demands. She is wearing us both out, and she is getting to dislike me. She thinks I turn you against her."

Gerald sat down, with a worried look upon his face.

"Tomina, sweetheart, be brave a little longer. I will not harbour the thought that we were mistaken in marrying. We have had, and will still have, happy times together. If your nerves and health are giving way, would you like to pay a few visits? Then you would come back fresher, and more able to bear with my poor mother."

"Without you? Oh no. I couldn't. Don't ask me! There! I have done—I think tears do one good sometimes. I am not going to give up my 'rôle' as carrier so easily, but I have had a tumble and dropped my load. Now I am up again. Don't look so grave, Gerald. I wish I was as strong and serene as you are. Nothing ever moves you!"

"My wife's distress does, especially when it is I and mine who bring it upon her."

His voice broke for a moment. He drew her to him.

"Sweetheart, if you can bear it a little longer, I think one day you will look back and be glad. I had a long talk with our doctor this morning. I met him out. He says my mother is weaker in every way, and that he does not think she will last through this next winter."

"Oh, Gerald!"

Quick tears sprang into Tomina's eyes.

"I am so ashamed of myself. I told you I would fail you, didn't I? We must, we 'must' let her have all the sunshine we can in the Valley! I won't break down again. Will you go to her? I will come in later. I hope she will have forgotten my rudeness."

She put up her face to his and kissed him, then pushed him from her.

"Go quickly, and I will run out and buy a few flowers as a peace offering."

The little storm blew over for the time. Tomina was daily learning that, though weak in herself, there was a Power that could keep her, and with the sad knowledge in her heart that Mrs. Norman's days were numbered, she kept back hasty words, and only showed a bright smiling face.

The time came when Mrs. Norman grew more placid. As weakness increased, gentleness came with it, and she now listened with interest when Tomina took up her Bible and read to her from it.

When Christmas Day dawned, it found husband and wife sorrowing over their loss. Though for her they could rejoice, they missed intensely the object of their loving ministrations.

Mrs. Norman had not found her Valley shadowed by fears. Like a little child, she had been led to trust in the One Who could carry her through it in perfect peace. Her mind was, fortunately for herself, not strong enough to dwell much in the past. But her last conscious words were to Tomina—

"You have been so good, so patient with me! I wish I had been more patient myself."

And Tomina felt thankful that she had been allowed to ease those last suffering months.

When the spring came, husband and wife began to plan out their future, and then a very warm invitation came from Dr. and Mrs. Merton to go and stay with them.

"Let us go, Gerald. I long to see Little Honeycombe again; will you be sad being so near your old home?"

"I don't think I shall ever be sad, as long as I have my wife with me."

So they went.

The following two letters speak for themselves:—

"MY DEAREST TOMINA,

"This is to let you know that I have a baby boy, the image of his father! When I married, I hardly thought of motherhood. This tiny atom has brought quite a fresh range of ideas and thought to me. I thought my life would be spent in nursing and training and watching over plants and flowers. Now they only form a background to my son. I am now nursing and training and watching over a human soul. And I am trembling at the responsibility. I want you to talk to me. I want—I think I want your bright unwavering faith in God. Will you be his godmother and will you come to his christening? Do, if you have a little bit of love for me.

"Your loving sister,

"DOREEN.

"P.S.—Do tell me your news, and where you are going to settle."

"MY DEAREST DOREEN,

"Your news enchants me! Of course I will come, if only for a few days. I cannot leave Gerald for long. You don't know how he has felt the strain of the last year or so. He still looks worn and thin, but his energy is coming back, and our plans are made. We are going to take over an untenanted farm on the Yockley Court estate. Major Holme has gone out on a shooting expedition to the Himalayas, and he asked Gerald if he could look after his property for him. He has only a very young and inexperienced agent. I think with some alterations, we shall make this farmhouse into a very pretty and cosy home, and I shall get the desire of my heart—to live in the country! I know you will sympathise with me.

"How selfish I am writing about our affairs and leaving your sweet baby out in the cold! My dear Doreen, I shall love to be his godmother! Thank you a thousand times for asking me. How pleased and proud Tom will be! I can't imagine him a father. How well I can understand the difference he will make in your life, and I am glad and thankful you will not be limited to your garden children, but will have the enjoyment of seeing his dear little life unfold and develop. I feel I know something of small boys now after my experience with Harry. They are so delicious in their eagerness and freshness and strong faith! What talks we will have when I come! Meanwhile talk to God about him, dear. He sent him to you, and He loves him and wants him to grow up in His family.

"Doreen, I do feel so thankful I came down to Little Honeycombe. It will always be the dearest place in the world to me. The place of my resurrection, when all things became new!

"I am enjoying every moment of every day. Yesterday I went over to see Susan, and from her I wandered round the village. They are all clamouring to have their carrier back, but, do you know, this is just one thing that Gerald will not allow me to do? And by his rather peremptory request that I never drive that van again, I think he must be regaining his health and spirits. We had quite a battle of words this morning about it. But, of course, I gave way and with as good a grace as I could. I feel that the old desire to have my will uppermost has left me. And Gerald is such an adoring husband that when he puts his foot down, I know it is for my sake he does it. I tell him that he fears the van would be a rival, and thinks that if I once began driving it again, it would take possession of me. And so you see, Doreen, here ends 'Tomina the Carrier'!

"Much love, dear. How I long to see you with a baby in your arms!

"Your loving sister,

"TOMINA."

It was a lovely summer evening.

Tomina was in a blue sunbonnet watering her roses.

The pretty thatched farmhouse behind would have delighted an artist's eye. Inside and out there was nothing to spoil the quaint old-fashioned air about it. The broad oak door stood wide open showing a low wide hall, with the stairs winding up from the centre of it. Two dogs, one a red setter, the other a lively terrier, were lying in the porch. Tomina's faithful Thor was standing by her side, looking on with grave interest as his mistress handled her watering-can with much energy.

Then the garden gate slammed, a quick man's tread made all the dogs spring up with welcoming barks, and Gerald greeted his wife—

"Well, here I am, and my work done for the day."

"You look warm and tired, Gerald dear. Come and sit down. Shall I fetch you a drink?"

"No," said Gerald, smiling as he sank into a garden lounge chair under a shady acacia tree on the lawn. "You are sufficient refreshment for me."

Tomina rested her hand lightly on his shoulder, then pressed one of her swift soft kisses on the top of his head.

"Aren't we happy?" she said, her eyes glowing with radiance. "Do you think we always shall be? I wonder if you will get bored with your wife, and only come home to her when you are obliged?"

"Do I deserve such a speech? Isn't it more likely that my bright little wife will get weary of her prosy old husband?"

"Now, Gerald, you are fishing for compliments. You know you are neither prosy nor old. Do you know that I met Mrs. Judd when I was out this morning?

"'Well,' she said, '"they say, ma'am," that marriage makes a woman old afore her time, but you and your Colonel are both years more juvenile than you was afore matrimony!'"

"I think I feel so!" said Gerald.

"Of course," went on Tomina, perching herself on the arm of his chair, "we continued to discuss husbands, for Mrs. Judd has had two, you know, and now is a widow. She says,—

"''Tis a wonderful freedom to be single again, but 'tisn't exactly comfortable.'"

Gerald's arm went round his wife's slim waist.

"Poor little wife!" he said. "Do you miss your freedom? Am I an ogre?"

"You can be. My carrier days are over, and I did love them so."

"But you told me you meant to be a much more efficient and noble one than a mere van driver, and a carrier of burdens will last till the world ends."

"Do you think so? When I was dressing this morning, I was thinking that I have no scope for such carrying at present. There are no burdens to carry in our life now, and I am getting lazy and self-indulgent! And then I came across such a lovely verse in my morning reading,—

"'How beautiful upon the mountains are the feet of him that bringeth
good tidings, that publisheth peace!'

"If I can't always carry burdens for people, I can carry them good tidings, cannot I? And there are a good many even in this quiet part of the country who would be glad to get peace. A carrier of good tidings! Doesn't it sound delightful? So cheery, and comforting and sunshiny!"

Gerald Norman looked at his wife with thoughtful tender eyes.

She was still the same sparkling girl, but the undercurrent of earnestness in her nature would occasionally come to the surface.

"Thank God," he murmured softly, "for Tomina the Carrier!"

THE END

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