Part 22 (1/2)

Every woman turned to look at him as he pa.s.sed.

”Look at 'e now, Mrs. Ovey! He be staying with me. Did 'ee iver zee sich a butivul face. Jist like a picture. Sit 'ee still, young Gracie, an' doan 'ee walk over thikee graves, now! I tell 'ee 'e'd make a proper bridegroom, 'e wud!”

”Iss, I reckon! 'Er 'av done mighty fine fer 'erself, 'er 'ave; Mrs.

Tucker tol' me all 'bout 'un, but 'er be terr'ble young, b'ain't 'er, for the likes of thikee ol' man?”

The country women patted and pulled at their best clothes, and turned their sweet, slightly bronzed faces, with skins like satin, up to the blazing sun.

”Iss, vrai! that 'er be Mrs. Pugsley! But did 'ee iver zee the likes on they ther zatins an' laces an' juels they vine wimen be wearin'?”

”Iss! an' luk at th' ol' paint an' stuff ther be ol over ther vaces?

Dear, dear now, ther lips be terr'ble raid, b'ain't 'un? Luks lik'

they'd bin stealin' cherries! An' ther eyes be terr'ble black! Luks lik' the'd bin fightin' with ther 'usbands.”

Silence fell, during which sweet music stole through the church windows to fall like a benison upon the charming simple folk who, by their courtesy and gentleness, make Devon such a blissful county to dwell in.

”Can't think, now,” suddenly remarked Mrs. Ovey, ”w'y thikee young lady 'av chose Mortehoe Church fer 'er weddin'!”

”I've year'd tell that 'er vather be related to zum lord 'oo 'elped kill some ol' parson, yers an' yers gone by! Gracie! now wat be th'

ol' man's name now that taicher tol 'ee 'bout?”

”Tracey!”

”Iss, iss! I've year'd tell 'e be buried zumwher yer 'bouts, an' th'

ol' bridegroom be proper zet to be married down yer!”

”After th' weddin',” continued Mrs. Ovey, supplying information, ”all th' vine volks be goin' on to Lay Hotel vur summat t' ate. Arter that they tu be goin' vor 'oneymun over ta 'ardland in li'le ol' 'ouze.

Poor li'le lady, an' th' ouze they be goin' to be so small ther b'ain't no room vur zervants nor nothin'!”

”My now, Mrs. Ovey, but that young feller be proper 'ansom, b'ain't 'e now? I reckon it be a pity that 'er 'adn't zeen 'im befor 'er vixed up with old 'un. I remember when Bill was courtin' me, 'ow----”

And so on and so forth, whilst inside the ”vine wimen” from London Town made comments after their own kind.

”Some women have all the luck,” remarked an enamelled dame, whose bridge and dressmakers' debts were on a par with those of her three daughters who had safely, oh! quite, but most unsuccessfully survived many seasons, ”I wonder how Susie managed it? Gawky young miss, isn't she? Just out of school. Um--um--um!”

”_Really! is_ she! Strange in her manner--you don't mean it--oh! of _course_ not, dearest! _Fancy_! hates society, swims at night, walks ten miles a day--yes, of course! not quite cosmos, what d'you call it--um--um--um?”

”Miraud Soeurs, I believe--yes--did you like that draped effect? I suppose he did--poor old Susie's up to her eyes in debt! Didn't the happy bride look ghastly? Wonder how she came by the accident--and what it was--and means--um--um--um!”

”Yes! _very_, in a bizarre way. I'm d.a.m.ned sorry for her. Did you hear about the girl in the shop bas.e.m.e.nt?--heavy! I should think so--put the screw on what?--hear the bride's settlement is simply enormous--um--um--um!”

And as they gossiped and criticised, tearing each other to pieces without zest, having already done it so often that their minds resembled rows of backyards piled with the rags and bones of their mutual enemies--or so-called friends--the organ played softly, and the sun through the stained gla.s.s flung dazzling lozenges of colour upon the tiles and pillars.

Then came that unmistakable rustle of antic.i.p.ation, followed by the satisfied sigh of those who have patiently waited either for the hoisting of the black flag upon the prison wall, or the appearance of a popular bride in the doorway of the church.