Part 56 (2/2)

The neighbours brought in the joints of beef and mutton, the chickens and the ducks. Caesar and the parson carved. Black Tom, who had been invited by way of truce, served out the liquor from an eighteen-gallon cask, and sucked it up himself like the sole of an old shoe. Then Caesar said grace, and the company fell to. Such noise, such sport, such chaff, such laughter! Everything was a jest--every word had wit in it. ”How are you doing, John?”--”Haven't done as well for a month, sir; but what's it saying, two hungry meals make the third a glutton.”--”How are _you_ doing, Tom?”--”No time to get a right mouthful for myself Caesar; kept so busy with the drink.”--”Aw, there'll be some with their top works hampered soon.”--”Got plenty, Jonaique?”--”Plenty, sir, plenty. Enough down here to victual a menagerie. It'll be Sunday every day of the week with the man that's getting the lavings.”--”Take a taste of this beef before it goes, Mr. Thomas Quilliam, or do you prefer the mutton?”--”I'm not partic'lar, Mr. Cregeen. Ateing's nothing to me but filling a sack that's empty.”

Grannie praised the wedding service--it was lovely--it was beautiful--she didn't think the ould parzon could have made the like; but Caesar criticised both church and clergy--couldn't see what for the cross on the pulpit and the petticoat on the parson. ”Popery, sir, clane Popery,” he whispered across Grannie to Philip.

Away went the shanks of mutton, the b.r.e.a.s.t.s of birds, and the slabs of beef, and up came an apple-pudding as round as a well-fed salmon, and as long as a twenty-pound cod. There was a shout of welcome. ”None of your dynamite pudding that,--as green as gra.s.s and as sour as vinegar.”

Kate was called on to make the first cut of the monster. A faint colour had returned to her cheeks since she had come home. She was talking a little, and even laughing sometimes, as if the weight on her heart was lightening every moment. She rose at the call, took, with the hand nearest to the dish, the knife that her father held out, and plunged it into the pudding. As she did so, with all eyes upon her, the wedding-ring on her finger flashed in the light and was seen by everybody.

”Look at that, though,” cried Black Tom. ”There's the wife for a husband, if you plaze. Ashamed of showing it, is she? Not she, the bogh.”

Then there was much giggling among the younger women, and cries of ”Aw, the poor girl! Going to church has been making her left-handed!”

”Time enough, my beauties,” cried Pete; ”and mind you're not struck that way yourselves one of these days.”

Away went the dishes, and the parson rose to return thanks.

”Never heard that grace but once before, Parson Quiggin,” said Pete, ”and then”--lighting his pipe--”then it was a burial sarvice.”

”A _burial_ sarvice!”

A dozen voices echoed the words together, and in a moment the table was quiet.

”Yes, though,” said Pete. ”It was up at Johannesburg. Two chums settled there, and one married a girl. Nice lil thing, too; some of the Boer girls, you know; but not much ballast at her at all. The husband went up country for the Consolidated Co., and when he came back there was trouble. Chum had been sweethearting the wife a bit!”

”Aw, dear!”--”Aw, well, well!”

”Do? The husband? He went after the chum with a repeater, and took him.

Bath-chair sort of a chap--no fight in him at all. 'Mercy!' he cries. 'I can't,' says the husband. 'Forgive him this once,' says the wife. 'It's only once a woman loses herself,' says the man. 'Mercy, mercy!' 'Say your prayers.' 'Mercy, mercy, mercy!' 'Too late!' and the husband shot him dead. The woman dropped in a faint, but the man said, 'He didn't say his prayers, though--I must be doing it for him.' Then down he went on his knees by the body, but the prayers were all forgot at him--all but the bit of a grace, so he said that instead.”

Loud breathings on every side followed Pete's story, and Caesar, leaning over towards Philip, whose face had grown ashy, said, ”Terrible, sir, terrible! But still and for all, right enough, though, eh! What's it saying, Better an enemy than a bad friend.”

Philip answered absently; his eyes were on the opposite side of the table. There was a sudden rising of the people about Kate.

”Water, there,” shouted Pete. ”It's a thundering blockhead I am for sure--frightning the life out of people with stories fit for a funeral.”

”No, no,” said Kate; ”I'm not faint Why should you think so?”

”Of coorse, not, bogh,” said Nancy, who was behind her in a twinkling.

”White is she? Well, what of it, man? It's only becoming on a girl's wedding-day. Take a lil sup, though, woman--there, there!”

Kate drank the water, with the gla.s.s jingling against her teeth, and then began to laugh. The parson's ruddy face rose at the end of the table. ”Friends,” he said, ”after that tragic story, let us indulge in a little vanity. Fill up your gla.s.ses to the brim, and drink with me to the health of the happy couple. We all know both of them. We know the bride for a good daughter and a sweet girl--one so naturally pure that n.o.body can ever say an evil word or think an evil thought when she is near. We know the bridegroom for a real Manxman, simple and rugged and true, who says all he thinks and thinks all he says. G.o.d has been very good to them. Such virginal and transparent souls have much to be thankful for. It is not for them to struggle with that worst enemy of man, the enemy that is within, the enemy of bad pa.s.sions. So we can wish them joy on their union with a full heart and a sure hope that, whatever chance befall them on the ways of this world, they will be happy and content.”

”Aw, the beautiful advice,” said Grannie, wiping her eyes.

”Popery, just Popery,” muttered Caesar. ”What about original sin?”

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