"Why not let Tilly do it?" a young wag farther down the table asked, merrily. "Any bride these days ought to be thankful to get a square meal on the first day of her married life, if never afterward."
"You will all excuse me, I know," Tilly said, simply, and with a sweet, half-forced smile.
Thereupon her father, who was getting the opportunity he wanted, cleared his throat, tapped on his plate for silence, and with lowered head prayed long and unctuously. He touched on the duties of the newly married to God and the Church, that they might be examples for the generations who were to follow them. He hinted—and John knew what was meant—that there were young men of the present age who were indifferent to the full meaning of a Christian life and its forms, and upon all such delinquents he implored the mercy of a long-suffering and patient God.
John's eyes were on his plate. He imagined that every one present was taking note of the veiled rebuke to him. How odd that he should hate Tilly's father so profoundly and feel like striking the cold face between the spiritless eyes. How strange that he should feel almost the same toward that silent, didactic copy of her husband, his mother-in-law, who now seemed to be weighing so judiciously the subtle charges against him, the new member of the family!
The prayer was over; a great clatter swept from end to end of the tables. Everybody was eating, proffering food, laughing, and jesting in munching, mouthful tones. Suddenly, and before she had turned up her plate, John felt Tilly's little hand steal into his.
"Never mind what he said." She smiled as she pressed his fingers. "That was in him. It has rankled a long time and he had to get it out."
"It doesn't matter," John responded, defiantly. "He has the upper hand and he uses it like all men of his brand."
The supper went off merrily, and when it was ended the guests began to depart. All said good-by to Tilly. Some shook hands with John and congratulated him, but that there was a certain restraint between him and all those present he as well as they did not doubt. A few thought that he was "stuck up," but the more penetrating attributed his attitude to his youth and the belief that men of his trade were really not so refined as farmers, who were more or less like the slaveholding planters of the past, from whom the countryside had inherited its manners.
Cavanaugh had provided a livery-stable trap to convey the bride, the bridegroom, and himself to the station, and as the time was up he hurried John and Tilly away. Mrs. Whaley kissed her daughter coldly on the cheek, as if unaccustomed to open affection, and Whaley simply shook hands with her and his son-in-law. The trap contained only two seats, and Cavanaugh sat with the negro driver on the front one, giving the rear seat to John and Tilly.
"Now don't mind me and this chap here," he said, his eyes fixed on the back of the horse as they started on. "We are not going to look, and you can hold hands and hug and kiss all you want to."