The little bride wore a new print dress with a tiny spray of rose-buds all over it. Her beautiful hair was bound tightly round her head, but in spite of all her careful brushing, some tendrils would get loose. She wore no ornament of any kind, not even a flower from Silas’s garden. As he took her hand and led her into the midst of his friends, she looked at him as if expecting the gay bouquet which he had promised her. He took no notice of her questioning gaze, however, but, leading her forward, stood before the expectant company.
“Neighbours and friends,” he said, “I ha’ to thank you for coming here to-day. You have known me, most of you, for many years, and I’m sure you are all willing and proud to look on at the great ’appiness which it seems to you I’m ’bout to have.”
When Silas said these words, old Peters made a profound bow to the bride.
“There ain’t no doubt on the pint of your ’appiness, Silas,” he said.
“I don’t think there is any doubt,” answered Silas, with a queer look on his face. “Ef I wor to take this young gel to my ’eart it’d be all the same as ef I wor back again in the spring-time of life. The gladness and the lightness of youth would come back to me. Summer’s all very well,” continued Silas, looking round at his friends, “but for gaiety there’s no time like spring. Now this young gel is in the early spring, and I, neighbours, I’m a man as is enjoying of his late summer. I’m full-blown, and this yere young gel is a bud. Now which, neighbours, would you say wor the most waluable from the market-gardener’s pint of view, the bud or the flower wot’s come to its maturity?”
“I allers set store by buds,” said Mary Ann Hatton, in her tart voice. “There’s a sight o’ promise ’bout ’em, and we know as the full-blown flower have had its day; but I’m meaning no disrespect to you, Silas.”
“No more you are, Mary Ann, and I’m obleeged for a plain answer. Now that pint’s clear. The bud’s more waluable nor the full-blown flower. Neighbours, I’m glad to see yer, for I ha’ got a case for you all to decide. I didn’t think as there wor sech a decision to be made when I asked yer to my wedding, but circumstances has arose sence I last saw any of yer, wot makes it but fair that this young gel should get your mature opinion.”
“Wot is it, Silas?” asked Jill, suddenly turning round and looking at him. “I ha’ come down yere to wed yer; it ain’t no affair of anyone’s but yours and mine. Maybe we ought to be going to the church, Silas; maybe it’s ’bout time.”
“Hark to the little cuttin’” said Silas, with a harsh, troubled laugh; “you can’t none of yer say, neighbours, as she ain’t willin’. Now, my little dearie, you let Silas speak. I ha’ thought it all out, and I means to put the case to my good friends here. I think they has already answered me, but I’ll put the question once more. Neighbours all, ef one of us two could only be made ’appy by this yere wedding, which is to be most considered, the bud or the full-blown flower?”
“It’s a wery queer question,” said Peters, “but, in course, we must give it for the bud, Silas.”