XLVIII
How the Bells Rang Out at Darrington
It was long past sunrise when I rose on the morning of my wedding-day, for the excitement of the previous night’s adventure and the task of carrying Rupert Watson home had wearied me no little, and I had slept as soundly as a tired dog. When I went downstairs all was bustle and hurry in our house, for various female acquaintances of the family had arrived and were already busied in dressing the brides, which matter seemed likely to be a long operation, judging from the importance they all gave to it. As for Ben Tuckett, he had been up and about for an hour or two, and was busy studying his attire in the mirror when I found him, for he had taken exceeding great pains in making himself fine.
“I thought thou wert going to sleep forever,” said he, as I came behind him. “What, man, ’tis nine o’ the clock now, and we are to start for church at ten. Had we not best be seeing to our horses?”
“Time enough for that, Ben, in an hour. As for my horse, he will not be able to go out. Last night’s work took too much out of him for that.”
“Alack!” said Ben. “I have been dreaming of it all night. Never again shall we see such a sight as that. ’Twas no pleasant matter to be engaged in on the eve of a man’s wedding.”
“Have you told the girls of it?” I inquired.
“Yea, they and I were down here eating our breakfast by seven o’clock and I told them the whole story,” answered Ben. “I feared lest they should hear of it elsewhere. All the guests will be full of it, thou wilt see, when they come hither.”
Then he fell to work smoothing his fine coat and arranging and rearranging his neckcloth, and staring at himself in the mirror, so I left him and went to see that all things were in order for the marriage-feast, which was to be held when we came back from church. Now, we had no room in the house large enough for this, and we had therefore had one of the granaries swept and garnished for the occasion, and there the maids were laying out the feast under the orders of Mistress Deborah, who had come over to give us the benefit of her experience for that day. From the granary I went to the stables, where I found Jacob Trusty, who was busied in decorating all the horses with gay-coloured ribbons. Jacob himself was very fine, for he had gotten himself new garments from the tailor, and wore a hat with a great plume in it, which was extravagance I never knew him guilty of before. Now, I no sooner appeared at the stable door than Jacob seized me by the hand and greeted me warmly, and gave me his fervent blessing, with a wish that I might live long and happily and see my children’s children around me. No more earnest wish had I that day than this of Jacob’s, for he meant every word of it.
“ ’Tis a great day this, lad,” said Jacob, still busied with his ribbons. “I could die happy now that thou art taking thyself a wife. However, let me see thy son before I die. Then shall I have known four generations of Dales. Only one regret have I this day, lad, namely, that thy father and thy mother are not alive to see it.”
“That is all that troubles me, Jacob.”
“We cannot have all we would in this world,” said he. “I doubt not they are better off where they are, lad. Master Benjamin hath been telling me of what ye were at last night. Did I not tell thee, William, long ago, that thy father’s murderers would reap the fruit of their misdeeds? Thou seest how it hath come about. When I spoke our house was full of woe and death; today it is full of joy and life, and Rupert Watson lieth yonder dead, and there is none left of his name. He and his have received ample reward for their sins.”
There was yet another task I had before me ere I returned to the house to receive the guests, who were already arriving. I took a spade and went to the corner of the garden where, many a year before, I had buried the little box containing Philip Lisle’s guinea and the primrose which Rose had given me at my first parting from her. I soon brought the box to light, and opened it and took out the guinea and the flowers, which, because the box was of lead and airtight, were still preserved. There was the primrose which she had given me down in Went Vale, and with it the rose she added to it years after. Faded as they were, I pinned them carefully in my coat, and so went back to the house to look for Ben.
By that time there had already arrived a considerable number of our guests, who were all very gaily attired, and had decorated their horses with ribbons. Now, too, came Jack Drumbleforth, who immediately constituted himself master of the ceremonies, and set to work to marshal everybody into his or her proper place. By the time I had gone round and shaken hands with everybody it was ten o’clock, and time to set out for the church. Then came the brides from their chamber, and all the women ran to see them in the parlour, and Ben and I wanted to see them too, but were prevented by Jack, who vowed that we should not set eyes upon them until they joined us at the altar. So we were forced to be content, and went out to our horses with our friends, and were duly arranged in a grand procession by Jack and Tom Thorpe. First of all rode twelve young farmers, my friends, whose horses were gaily decorated with ribbons and flowers; then came Ben and myself; after us followed several other of our friends, all similarly mounted and decorated, and after them rode Jack Drumbleforth and Tom Thorpe, escorting the brides, who rode on pillions behind them, and these were followed by four young gentlemen, escorting four young ladies, who were to act as maids to Rose and Lucy; and winding up the procession came Jacob Trusty and Timothy Grass, mounted on my two best carthorses, and carrying great boughs of green stuff, so that the whole affair was quite magnificent, and delighted Ben so greatly that he sat his horse like an emperor.
Now, when we got into the village street at Darrington, we found that the folks there had been very busy since early morning, and had prepared us such a welcome as showed that they wished us well. For there was a great arch of green stuff across the high-road at the inn, and another at the entrance to the churchyard, and the church porch was gay with flowers. Here there was a great concourse of people gathered together, and we were saluted with right hearty cheers as we left our horses and walked into the church, where Parson Drumbleforth waited, book in hand, to receive us in the presence of a congregation which filled every corner. So Ben and I took up our places, and our friends stood round us, and presently appeared Jack and Tom leading the brides, and the Vicar began the solemn service that was to make us one for life. And when he came to that part where it is necessary that someone should give the woman to the man, I stayed him and beckoned Jacob Trusty to come forward, and it was Jacob’s hand that put my wife’s in mine. So the service went on, and presently the last words were said, and we went out into the sunlight with the bells clashing and clanging joyously from the old tower above.
Now, we had no sooner emerged from the porch with our wives than we were surrounded by the crowd and greeted with such warmth as deeply touched us. Then Ben and I threw away all our small money for the children to scramble for, and sent more to the ringers in the belfry, so that they might refresh themselves and ring their merriest. And all this done, we mounted our horses and reformed our procession to return home, but now our wives rode at the head with us, and Parson Drumbleforth, very fine in his best cap and cassock and silver-buckled shoes, rode at our side on his white mare. So we returned to Dale’s Field and were greeted with much affection by those who had remained behind, and I lifted Rose from my horse and took her across the threshold for the first time as mistress of my house.
Then followed the wedding-feast, whereat almost every friend we had was present, and the tables were crowded. Whether Ben or I felt most proud I know not, but he did often say in after-years that I looked as if I had conquered a city and won a rich treasure—as indeed I had. As for him, he plucked up his courage wonderfully now that the ordeal was over, and laughed and joked with everyone, and made a speech that caused everybody to laugh exceedingly. We had plenty of speechmaking indeed, for the Vicar had some grave remarks to make, and Jack some humorous ones, and old Jacob, whom I had caused to sit near me in an honoured place, addressed a few words to us, and there were toasts proposed and spoken to until everybody’s health had been drunk. But there was one toast drunk in solemn silence and received with sad feelings by all of us, and that was to the memory of my dear father and mother and of Philip Lisle.
When the feast was over nothing would content Jack but a dance, and very soon he had sent for the fiddler and was arranging matters for country dances on the lawn before the house. So all the young folks danced and the old ones sat round the garden and watched them, and whenever the fiddler stopped playing we heard the joyous jangle of the bells ringing out across the fields. So the afternoon wore away to evening, and at last the shadows fell across garden and meadow, and our guests prepared to depart. And first of all Ben saddled his horse and made ready the pillion, and brought forth his wife, between whom and Rose there was much embracing, and they, too, rode away, with half a dozen cavaliers to escort them to Master Ben’s house at Pontefract. Then followed the others, in twos and threes and fours, their laughter ringing out happily along the highway. And last of all went Jack and his father, with many a wish for our happiness, and many a pressure of our hands, and we stood at the garden-gate, listening to the dying away of their horses’ feet in the distance, and to the last merry peal of the bells in the church tower.
The last sound died away, the bells ceased with a final note of triumph; the twilight deepened, and the moon rose above the dark woods. We stood for a moment and looked across the familiar fields; then, hand in hand, we went into our house and closed the door and left the land sleeping in the moonlight.
And now if I had my own way I would add nothing more to this history, because in all such matters that I have read there was no more written after the marriage of the folks most concerned. But my daughter Dorothy, who knows more of these things than I, insists that we must add somewhat to our narrative, because those who read it will want to know what became of all the people we have mentioned. Wherefore I must set down some particulars of them, according to her desire. Certainly I cannot say all that I might, because it is now near forty years since I was married to my dear wife, and in that time there have been all manner of things happen to me and my friends. But some particulars I can give, and will now proceed with my task.
And first as to Ben and Lucy. It was commonly said that there were no people in all England who were so exactly suited to each other as these two, for they seemed to understand each other to the smallest degree, and never had contrary thoughts on any matter. What Lucy liked Ben liked; what Ben wanted Lucy was sure to want. So they walked the path of life, each thinking the other to be well-nigh perfect. They had no less than twelve children—five boys and seven girls—all of whom lived. Ben grew stout and rosy, and got prouder every time Lucy presented him with a new infant. He did well in his business and made money. Then he became a Councillor, and afterwards an Alderman. And in due time matters so prospered with him that they made him Mayor of his native town, and a prouder man I never saw than he was on the day of his election. He continued to grow stouter and rosier, and of more importance, until he died at the age of sixty, leaving Lucy to mourn him with sincere affection, which she did for nearly ten years, when she went to join him in a better world.
As for Parson Drumbleforth, he lived many years after my wedding, and remained hale and hearty to the very end. Until the last week of his life he was used to come out to Dale’s Field now and then and talk with us of the old bygone days. He was invariably accompanied by Jack, who had remained at home studying with his father, and who was, as the Vicar said, very comforting to his declining years. Now, upon the Easter Sunday of 1658 the Vicar had celebrated the Holy Communion in his parish church, and had kneeled down to make his thanksgiving, at which devotion he was so long engaged that Jack went to his side and touched him, only to find that the good old man was dead and had gone to finish his prayers in heaven. So then there came another Vicar to Darrington, and Jack said farewell to us and rode away to London. It was many years before I saw him again, and then he stayed two nights at Dale’s Field on his way north, and told us that he was now become a clergyman and was going to a living in the North Riding. Likewise he had printed a little book of verses which had gained him some fame, and he gave a copy to Rose. So he went to his living and now abideth there, being an old man and a faithful minister, and amuseth himself with his garden and his verse-making, having never married.
Jacob Trusty, who was as true and loyal a friend as ever man had, lived until he was eighty-five years of age, and when he died we wept his loss as sincerely as if he had been a very near relation. For years before he died he did no work, but sat in his armchair by the fireside in our great kitchen. When my first boy was born, which was about a year after our marriage, Jacob’s delight knew no bounds, and from that moment he gave over attending the cows and took to the chimney-corner, so that he might watch the baby. He would sit there and rock the cradle for hours, and for the boy’s sake he recalled many an old song, and sang it in his cracked voice as the lad sat on his knee. He saw more children of mine before he died, but it was my eldest son, William, that he worshipped, and the boy’s hand held his when he died. I think that in him Jacob used to see me, for I often found them talking as Jacob and I had talked in the old days. It was a beautiful spring evening when Jacob died, and he had just said to me that though he had seen a good deal, he had never set eyes on aught so fair as our own acres. Then he laid his head back on the pillow, and holding my boy’s little hand in his own for they had carried the lad up to say “Good night”—he fell asleep, to wake in another world. And in him I lost one who had loved me and mine with a love which no words can do justice to.
And now for myself and my dear, dear wife, whom truly I believe to have grown in every grace and virtue as the years have gone by. We have had six children, three boys and as many girls, and so far God hath taken none of them from us. In all our married life there has been no cloud, for we have been so happy in our love that nothing has seemed powerful enough to touch us. The years have come and gone, and every day she has grown dearer, and, as I think, more beautiful. It is true that she is now old, and that her once dark hair is gray; but to me who have loved her since she was a child, she has never changed. As I write these last words she is walking in the orchard with my eldest daughter, who is the very image of what her mother was many a year ago, and as I watch her my heart thanks God for His mercy in having given me so good and gentle a companion throughout my life. Truly, indeed, I have been favoured not a little. I have had good friends, and loving friends, and there has been more of sunshine than of storm in my life. I have seen my children grow up around me, and at this moment I can hear the voices of my grandchildren playing under the apple-trees in my orchard. So let me bring this story of my life to an end by thanking God for all that He has done for me and mine, and above all for the true and gentle love that has been my guiding-star from first to last, that has made this world a heaven to me, and has never ceased to point my heart to all that is good, and holy, and eternal.