“Late” is the adjective you get, instead of the plain civilian title of “Mister” you had while you were in the flesh. It depends whether this exchange implies demotion or immortal inflation. But there can be no doubt about the significance of “Sam” in this connection. Mr. Adams was a carpenter, and a good one, but he never received credit in this present world for the concluding, dignifying syllables of his Christian name.
In this same paragraph it tells how the bride was dressed, who her attendants were and what they wore. And simmers down in the last sentence to a description of the gowns worn by the respective mothers of the bride and groom. The word “exeunt” does not occur, of course; but that lick-and-a-promise praise of their toilettes really implies that this is the last prominent appearance of these worthy women.
The concluding paragraph is devoted to the groom. And it is evident that the writer saved his most obsequious words for this final flare of flattery. The groom was the son of “our distinguished fellow townsman, Mr. George William Cutter”—a “university man”; some reference was made to his “sterling qualities” and bright future. He had recently “accepted” a position in the First National Bank where he had already “made an enviable record”—cordial finger pointing to “bright future.” “The young couple left on the noon train for a wedding tour in the East. Upon their return they will take up their residence in their new home on Wiggs Street.”
You and I may both believe that either one of us could have written a better account of this wedding, imparted more dignity to the occasion, as undoubtedly a real artist might paint a more pleasing portrait of you or me. But for a naively truthful likeness, we both know that a country-town photographer surpasses the artist when it comes to portraying the warped noses of our countenances, the worried eye and the mouths we really have. This is why we avoid his brutal veracity when we can afford the expense. Neither one of us cares to leave the very scriptures of our faces to appall posterity.
In the same manner, I contend there is always an artless charm, a sweet and scandalous candor in what appears in a country newspaper, which is more refreshing and informing than the elegance of our best writers in the use of words. For example, does not the Sentinel’s account furnish a clearer picture and even a more intimate interpretation of this bride and groom and the whole scene, than you could possibly receive of a fashionable wedding from the social columns of a big city paper? Personally, I have frequently been offended by the cool, bragging insolence of these announcements of city weddings, as if all we were entitled to know is that they can afford the pomp and circumstance; nothing about their “bright future,” or the bride’s “accomplishments,” or the groom’s “sterling qualities” to bid for our interest and good will. Why swagger in print about being married? It is not a thing to boast about, but to be humble about, and to entreat the prayers of all Christian people, that they may behave themselves, keep their vows and do the square thing by each other and society.
George and Helen returned to Shannon and their new home on Wiggs Street the last of October.
Helen was far more beautiful than she had ever been, with that sedate air young wives acquire before they are becalmed by the stupefying monotony of love, peace and duty. The lines in George’s handsome young face were firmer. He had that look of resolution men of his type show, before it is confirmed into the next look of arrogance and success.
When Helen and George became engaged in August the Carrol house was simply an old gray farmhouse, overtaken years ago by the spreading skirts of Shannon, but never assimilated. This was due to the fact that when Wiggs Street was lengthened, it must be made straight whatever happened. The old house was left far to one side on a wide lawn. No one lived in it. Altheas and roses bloomed among the weeds, like gentle folk who have lost their station in life and make common lot with the mean and the poor. Grass grew between the bricks of the walk which led to the front door. There was a hedge of bulbous-bodied boxwood on either side of this walk. The windows of the old house looked out on this green and growing desolation with the vacant stare they always have in an empty house.
But since the end of August carpenters, plasterers and painters had swarmed over it and through it. Laborers had cleaned and cleared and pruned. At last came van loads of carpets, furniture and draperies. These had been smoothed, placed and hung inside. Now it looked like the same old house that had suddenly come into a modest fortune, gone to town and bought itself a lot of nice things to wear. Not a gable had been changed, but the new roof had been painted green. The walls were so white that they glistened. The windows were so clean that they looked like the bright eyes of a lady with her veil lifted.
On the evening of her first day in this house, Helen stood on the veranda waiting for George, watching the elm leaves sweeping past, a golden shower in the November wind. She had been very busy all day, not that there was anything to do, because everything had been done. But she had been going over her possessions, feeling the fullness and vastness of her estate. She had silver, yes, and fine linen. Her furniture was good, golden oak, every piece. Her rugs were florescent, very cheerful.