Whenever Daniel uttered this last phrase he seemed to pluck up courage, and a momentary cheerfulness returned to his face, which, nevertheless, speedily became overcast again. Dall it all, he thought, why couldn’t folks keep their tongues quiet. What was it to them what kind of missus Daniel chose, that they must come tormenting and ballyragging him? He didn’t meddle wi’ nobody, and didn’t want nobody to meddle wi’ he, but there, even the lord’s roughrider stopped him on the road to deliver, as his opinion, that he, Daniel, had chosen a plain-headed one. Old Mrs. Inkpen of the shop had laughed at him for marrying a woman so many years older than himself. Well, she’d be all the more sensible.
“Let ’em laugh if they do have a mind to; it’ll not hurt Phœbe and I. We’ll soon show ’em who’s in the right.”
And with that, he heaved a sigh and went indoors.
Next day he went to call for Phœbe, whom he had promised to escort to afternoon church. She stood awaiting him in her own doorway, which she filled up pretty well it must be owned—a little ball of a woman with the ugliest, merriest face it was possible to conceive. She wore a very fine purple hat with a feather in the middle and two red roses on each side, and this arrangement of headgear seemed to accentuate the somewhat roving propensities of her eyes. Pinned to her jacket was a bunch of natural roses that vied with these in hue, and in one stout hand she waved a posy, similar in colour and almost equal in size, which was intended for her swain.
At sight of her bright face Daniel forgot all his troubles, and after bestowing a sounding salute on her hard red cheek, stood straight and stiff to be decorated, then, “Come along, my dear,” said he, and they set forth arm-in-crook, entirely satisfied with each other.
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.