Everybody in Hopewell was bidden to Margeret Radpath’s wedding, and everybody was bound to come, of that one could be quite certain. All the village housewives, as soon as the day was finally set, fell to rubbing shoe-buckles, polishing silver buttons, getting out their finest white kerchiefs and looking to their husbands’ best Sabbath clothes. Many of those stout grey coats had been worn to the marriages of a generation before, but were only the more respected for that reason. Every kitchen was fragrant with baking, for there was no person who did not wish to send an offering to the wedding feast of Master Simon’s daughter. There were other gifts, too, of every sort and shape, from the great, chased, silver cup sent by the Governor down to little Jonathan Allen’s laboriously whittled birch broom. When Margeret or Roger walked up the street of Hopewell, men and women would lean out through the open half doors of their cottages and cry, “Good wishes to you, Mistress Radpath,” or, “Good luck and long happiness, Master Bardwell,” so that the whole air seemed to be filled with the pleasant sunshine of friendly hopes and cheery blessings.
More than a year had passed since that winter evening in the schoolhouse lane, but Margeret and Roger had waited patiently until all could be set in order for their marriage. With his quick shrewdness, Roger had seized upon a fact that was, later, clear enough to every one, namely, as he told Master Simon, “that New England’s prosperity would come more from her ship-captains than her farmers.” So he had sailed away upon a trading venture in a ship of which he hoped some day to be the owner, while Margeret had sat by the fireside at home, spinning flax, weaving linen, and stitching away at the household gear that must belong to every properly dowered bride. Master Simon, sitting in his great chair opposite, would beguile her with stories of the foreign lands to which Roger had gone, tales brought back by his own father from voyages made nearly a hundred years ago. Then at last the ship had come to port again, the final stitch had been taken and the marriage day was at hand.
The time of the wedding was late June and the place, as all agreed to be most fitting, was Master Simon’s garden. For weeks Margeret’s father had been directing two busy helpers there, since his own stiff joints were not equal to their old tasks. With patience and skill that were almost uncanny he had brought the garden to its fairest flowering. Early blossoms he had coaxed into lingering, late ones to hasten their bloom, so that, as the day approached, the whole place was a miracle of abundant pink and white, banks of roses against cool dark hedges, smooth lawns fringed with fragrant pinks, sweetbrier, tall trim hollyhocks, masses of white syringa and early-flowering sweet-william.
“There is one thing that troubles me,” said Master Simon to his daughter and to the lad he already loved as well as a son, “one plant that mars the pink and white harmony of the garden. There is a clump of sweet-william that should have bloomed white, but instead, has opened its flowers a brilliant crimson. So eagerly has it answered my call to grow abundantly for your wedding day that I scarcely can bring myself to root it up, poor faithful thing. I fear that I am too soft-hearted to be a proper gardener!”
He leaned forward in his chair that had been set near the cottage door, and tried to point out the flower that had played him false. It could not be seen, however, from where he sat, so Margeret and Roger went down into the garden to look for themselves. Neither of them could summon courage to pull up the too-willing plant, so it was left to bloom unabashed, among the softer colours of the other flowers. The next day, just at sundown, the marriage was to take place, in the little square Queen’s Garden where the last level rays always fell in a farewell radiance. Later, the wedding supper would be spread indoors, and for this great preparations had been made, the larder filled with good things, and rows of bayberry candles set ready to light the scene.
One or two last errands remained to be done, and for these Margeret and Roger were setting forth together. It was a clear June night with thick-sprinkled stars, shining serenely as though to say, “Never fear, to-morrow will be as full of sunshine as the heart of a bride could wish.”
At the gate the two met a visitor, Goody Parsons, leaning on her cane and moving slowly, but still not too old and stiff to come with her good wishes and a wedding gift.
“Let me not keep you,” she said as they stopped and would have turned back. “I will set that which I have brought within, and abide with Master Simon until you return. I have heard much of the glory of this garden made ready for your wedding, Mistress Margeret, and I can take my time at seeing the flowers while you are gone. Nay, I will not step inside the gate until you go forth; I have no wish to keep you from your errand.”
So Margeret and Roger continued on their way up the lane while Goody Parsons limped across the grass toward the house.
“She has come on another mission, too,” Margeret told Roger, “for she told me some days since, that my marriage would not be lucky if I neglected to tell the bees of my wedding day. She was a wonderful bee-mistress once, so people say, and she has told me many a charm and spell to bring honey to the hive. When I said that telling the bees was mere superstition she was greatly troubled, and she has, I think, toiled hither to do it for me and is glad that we should be away.”