God and the Wedding Dress

by Marjorie Bowen

  William Mompesson was silent. He felt that indeed there was no more to be said, and that even if Bessie’s marriage with Jack Corbyn was likely to bring her pain, it must go forward. It might be that the incident at Bakewell was no more than a jest such as any lusty young man might indulge in when in his cups, and not what Sythe Torre had said, and that it would not seem to anyone save the most fastidious the blasphemy and the treachery that it seemed to William Mompesson. Good corn or fruitless weeds, if ever Bessie was to have harvest she must garner it now.

  At last he said:

  “The money must be returned to Jack. I will give it to you to-morrow. You and Kate shall go and give it to him. Does he know for what you wanted it?”

  “I did not tell him. I think he does not like Mr. Stanley. I believe he would even have him sent to gaol. There are some things that Jack does not understand. Perhaps,” added Bessie Carr humbly, “I may teach him.”

  “Indeed, Bessie, thou mayest teach him much by the mild art of love. And now go in, dear, and tell Kate, who I doubt not is waiting impatiently, that all is well and that grey Merriman shall be returned to Thomas Stanley.”

  She kissed him for that, reaching up and touching his cheek with her cool lips. In that instant she seemed to him as young and innocent as the other little Bessie, his infant daughter.

  He watched her shadow among the shadows, hastening towards the dark house.

  Well, Kate would be pleased. He had made the two young women happy, and their action had been one of the sweetest charity. Yet he knew that humanly speaking he had made a fool of himself. The story would be all over the parish, nay, all over the Peak. Thomas Stanley would, perhaps, refuse to accept the gift. And even if he did not, it meant that he, William Mompesson, was aiding a law-breaker. It was but one more small tangle to be adjusted, one more small knot to be untied.

  Mr. Mompesson turned towards the Rectory.

  And Sythe Torre and his appeal for help? His clumsy half-confession came back to the Rector’s mind. He, too, had spoken of Thomas Stanley and of his advice. The man seemed to seduce everyone to listen to him.

  As the Rector crossed his threshold he decided: ‘This fellow, be he saint or charlatan, must leave my parish. Two of us cannot hold the same post.’

  And he wondered uneasily if it were true, as the dissenter had declared it was, that when Thomas Stanley had been Rector here the place had been more quiet, more law-abiding. Whether the disturbances and scandals that had begun to show their ugly heads during the rule of Mr. Sherland Adams had really increased during the few months that he, William Mompesson, had been at Eyam?

  He did not go to bed at once, but passed into his little closet that was next to the library and lit his lamp and looked about him. He had arranged this room as a laboratory, but his equipment was modest, as he had neither means nor time to pursue deeply the study of chemistry. This science, which was but a new name for the old toil of the alchemists, had spread through the whole of England and had been greatly fostered by the examples of the King and his uncle, Prince Rupert, who were both noted chemists and spent many hours daily in their well-fitted laboratories.

  Sir George Savile, like almost every other elegant gentleman of the time, had been interested in the newfangled matters and at Rufford Park William Mompesson had learnt almost all he knew of chemicals and of medicines.

  Here he had a still and alembic, some jars and bottles of various drugs and compounds, syrups and unguents with which, if need arose, he dosed his parishioners and family, a small furnace, now unlit, some bellows and retorts, and some shelves on which stood books dealing with the subject that William Mompesson found so entrancing.

  He had soon discovered when he arrived at Eyam that he would have to be both very frank and very secret as to his experiments. His medicines and healing plasters must be made openly and candidly explained; his more difficult investigations must be kept from the knowledge of all save the taciturn Jonathan Mortin. For the inhabitants of this place were wrapped in gross superstitions that would have been laughed at at Rufford Park. William Mompesson had marked with astonishment the survival of pagan customs that must have been handed down from parent to child since the Roman occupation of the Peak.

  Indeed, he was forced to admit to himself that Christianity had here been merely superimposed upon paganism, a palimpsest. And added to all these superstitions and traditions of paganism, was a rich store of legends that had gathered during the succeeding ages.

  Therefore the Rector knew that were it to be bruited abroad that he did anything more than prepare simple medicines in his laboratory, he would be considered an astrologer, or wizard, no better than old Mother Sydall who gathered her herbs upon the moor when the moon was beneficent, or than those wandering quacks and charlatans who set up business under the sign of The Brass Head of Friar Bacon in Derby, Bakewell, or Buxton, and to whom all the credulous folk of the district flocked to hear their fortunes told, buy love charms, and be mulcted of their savings.

  Such gross quackery was extremely odious to the Rector, the more so as he saw that it affected all classes. He even suspected that Kate and Bessie had sometimes purchased copies of Kelly’s Almanac or ‘Poor Robin's Book of Prophecies,’ though he hoped they had not gone so far as to visit the astrologer who had lately hung out his sign opposite the church in Bakewell and whom Torre had mentioned.

  Now he looked round his own small laboratory with a regret for this strong interest that had to be forgone. His own ignorance seemed to hamper him like strong bonds round hands and feet.

  In the company of intelligent, eager men, who had gathered in the handsome rooms at Rufford Park, he had heard so many amazing projects propounded, so many potential discoveries discussed. He would have liked to give his life to this science, at present so cloudy, but which he felt contained so many possible benefits for mankind. And he wondered why God did not disclose his wonders sooner and more easily and thus tune disordered man by knowledge into harmony.

  Mr. Mompesson sat down on the rude wooden chair by the cold furnace. The ceiling was painted as a cloudy sky and some few dispersed stars, and the light of the lamp flickered oddly on these false fires. Paper rolls of rich tobacco were on a shelf and long, smooth clay pipes, the gift of Sir George Savile, but never touched by Mr. Mompesson.

  He thought: ‘This idleness must cease to-day. To-morrow at least I shall have to begin my task. I shall lock up this room and not be tempted to these experiments that are but toys. I will put aside my books, save my Bible and Holy Living and Dying. There are many matters that somehow I must adjust, I must get in touch with these people. I must see that Thomas Stanley leaves the district. I must speak again to Jack Corbyn. I must help Sythe Torre in his trouble. I must see St. Helen’s Wake past without too much riot and blasphemy. How I am parcelled out! Every hour shows some lack. I will cast off grossness.’

  But these resolutions did not serve to calm his spirit. He was restless and went to the window and pulled aside the green drugget and stared from the painted stars to those that sparkled in the purple heavens between the curled clouds, seemingly formed of pale blue vapour, that floated like little puffs of smoke amid the dark hills.

  ‘Why am I not happy in this place?’ thought the Rector. ‘Should I now really prefer to be in the city where God is everywhere invisible or dim? Should I care to be wandering in the streets amidst the pimps and knaves, the catchpoles, where jaded lust searches for a mate, and all is noise and lashing whips, the shouts of chairmen, the wheels of hackneys, the scolding and bawdy songs, and the complaints of the tired lackeys? I am worthless indeed, if I lament that I am exiled here.’

  The Rector remained musing at the open window until it was later than he thought, and then went upstairs to his bedchamber where his Kate lay, next to the room in which were Ann and the two children.

  William Mompesson did not disturb his wife, but gently moved aside the bed-curtains, which were of white wool worked to a design of foxglove
s and acorns by her own hand, and glanced down at her as she lay lightly asleep on the large, frilled pillow.

  The night-lamp in the hearth gave a soft glow to the room and filled it with wide shadows from the large pieces of furniture that had been part of Kate’s dowry, and that she kept so finely polished that the room smelt faintly of wax as well as of the brown bay leaves and grey lavender flowers that were packed among the hidden clothes and linen in the presses.

  Kate looked young, pretty, and exempt from common frailty; she was flushed with sleep; her hair was bound by a rainbow-coloured ribbon through which the long curls escaped on to her throat and plump, white shoulder showing above the dropped lawn of the bed-gown. Her husband tenderly raised the slipping quilt so that she was covered; her breath came quickly, her upper lip, slightly raised, showed the small teeth pressed on the lower; the small muslin bags of dried violets under the pillow gave out a faint, dusty, sweet perfume.

  William Mompesson let the curtains fall together and went softly from the room.

  “If there are sorrows laid up for me, let her be spared.”

  *

  The villagers celebrated the last day of St. Helen’s Wake on the green of Eyam. The moon was full and the evening very warm, even excessively so for this mountainous district. The doors and windows of all the cottages stood open and most of the entrances were wreathed with flowers slung from poles on which fluttered flags, or attached by hooks to the lintels. Ferns, ox-eyed daisies, pansies, wild mint, and thyme, arum lilies and parsley plucked from the hedgerows and the fields mingled with the treasures of the cottage gardens — gillyflowers, roses, amaryllis, wallflowers, and stocks.

  The flags were made of scraps of coloured silk, tiffany, and cloth, some were very old and tattered. All the little houses had horn-lanterns hung in front, some had torches made of pine-knots, which sent a smoky flame into the evening air.

  On the green itself booths had been erected for the trading of sweetmeats, gingerbread, ribbons, toys and chapbooks.

  The entrances to all the inns stood wide open and bright light blazed from their long, low windows; these had been decorated with bunches of ash that had been brought from the hills and with streamers of gilded paper.

  The travelling mummers had erected a stage in front of The Bull Inn as the yard was not large enough to accommodate the spectators, and on the platform in front of the dark curtains, stuck with spangled stars and moon, the gibbering clown ran to and fro waving his bladder-skin and horse-tail.

  On another booth nearer the lych-gate, for once unguarded, Sythe Torre, supported by a large crowd of ribald miners, was challenging a professional wrestler.

  Here and there, surrounded by groups of their friends, the newly married brides danced upon the green, their wreaths twined with ribbon confining their flowing hair.

  Stoups of ale passed from hand to hand and the potboys were continually running to and from the inn with fresh supplies of liquor. The elder men sat on the ground or on benches smoking pipes and urging on the antics of the youngers. An orchestra of marrow bones, cleavers, and kitchen pans made a persistent din added to by the shrill trumpets blown by the mummers from the two corners of their platform.

  Nearly a thousand people were assembled in the wide village streets, for friends and relatives of the villagers had come from all over the Peak District to join in the revelry.

  The Rector moved among the merry-makers and was received with a casual recognition and a perfunctory respect. He had not been successful in drawing many of either his own parishioners or their visitors into the church. Morning after morning he had preached to benches empty save for the members of his own household. His efforts to repress gross disorder during the wake, though ably seconded by the village constable, a stern and able man suspected of being a dissenter, had not been popular or fruitful.

  Mr. Mompesson tried now to join in the merriment of his parishioners, to tell himself that their plays and pastimes were innocent and even necessary, but he could neither enjoy himself nor sympathize much with the enjoyment of others; these whirling dancers, these blowsed faces, these raucous shouts and coarse jests, the steady cacophony of the local musicians, all disgusted him, made his head ache, and even, as the night continued, his senses reel.

  This last night of St. Helen’s Wake seemed to whirl round him like a tawdry phantasmagoria, and the scene on which the moon poured down her cold bluish light became as unreal as hideous.

  All Mr. Mompesson’s delicate senses as he made his way, trying to speak a courteous word here and give a pleasant smile there, were assailed at once. There were smells of sweat, of drink, of frying food, the odour of the acrid smoke of the torches, of the rancid oil in the lamps in front of the booths, there was the clatter of coarse voices, the shrill of tin trumpets, the shriek of unrestrained laughter, while sight was bewildered with the whirling shapes of so many scrambling, leaping, pushing figures in gaudy finery hung with strips of ribbon, stuck with broken feathers, with coloured belts and draggled skirts.

  The sweet short grass of the village green had been worn away under foot, and though the space was wide open to the unclouded mountain air, yet the atmosphere seemed tainted. The long poles of mountain ash festooned with flowers, the garlands above the door were withered and hanging in lank, rotting wreaths.

  The coarse scene was misted to Mr. Mompesson’s eyes by the fumes of tobacco, smoke from the open fires and the knot torches.

  Games were in progress in one part of the green to which he made his way; large tubs of water had been supplied and in these youths were diving for apples. Some of the games in which the villagers liked to indulge were so barbarous that Mr. Mompesson had forbidden them. He knew this had caused muttering against him; in particular, the people regretted their favourite cruel pastime of goose-riding.

  The yelling apple-divers, who were half-drunk, took no notice of the Rector, who turned away and passed a bridal party seated on the grass drinking ale and eating love cakes. He noted with a slight wince their pagan custom of passing the bottle or glass according to the course of the sun. The thing itself was a foolish trifle, but everything he saw convinced him that these people were pagans, and not true Christians, although the grey church had stood so long in their midst.

  Earlier that day he had taken a walk that was a favourite of his leisure, to Wett-Withins, where stood a strange temple or circle of sixteen oblong sand-stones placed in an upright position and surrounded by a deep ridge of earth. The use and antiquity of these stones could only be guessed, but Mr. Mompesson had a scholarly interest in such antiquities and knew that they were very old indeed and probably represented the remains of some heathen temple, in which hideous sacrifices had taken place with mysterious and accurst rites of shameful slaughter.

  Near to this ruined temple were several mighty barrows; the Rector had been told that some years since one of these had been opened and found to contain ashes, bones, arrow-heads of flint, a little charcoal and urns of exceeding beauty, which had however been smashed in the hopes that they contained coins.

  These uncouth and dreadful symbols of paganism came into his mind as he watched St. Helen’s Wake, and he asked himself if these were not the true descendants of those people who had watched their bloody priests slit the throats of their victims on the sacrificial stone. Even now, if they were allowed to, they would have their blood feasts, of animals if not of human beings.

  As the night grew on the revellers became with every hour more drunk, more obscene, more noisy and ferocious.

  By midnight almost the only sober man was Samuel Ealott, the village constable, a man on whom the Rector placed great reliance, although he probably was a secret follower of Thomas Stanley.

  Ealott, lean and vigorous, now strode from group to group, using his bludgeon on those who defied his authority, threatening the scolds with the cucking-stool, the cheating mountebanks with the pillory or Derby gaol, and dragging, with the assistance of the pot-boys, the drunkards f
rom off the green into the porches of the inns, in order to save them from being kicked to death by the merry-makers.

  ‘I can do no good here,’ thought William Mompesson. ‘What have I to say to them, if they should listen?’

  He made his way through the pressing throng, the confusing shadows and spurts of light, towards the church and the Rectory.

  It was with a sinking of the heart that he observed by the flare of the lamps in front of the mountebanks’ booth the stalwart and comely figure of Jack Corbyn. The young gentleman, though sober compared to his fellows, was red-faced, sweating and shouting.

  The long, fair love-lock that hung over his brow was tied up with a tawdry pink ribbon that he had bought at the fair. His lace cravat hung unknotted and there was dust and wine-stains on his elegant, peach-coloured coat.

  As he represented the family that had been for years the most powerful in the neighbourhood, he received the respect and attention that had been denied the Rector. He was popular, too, for he was a good sportsman, a fine athlete and open-handed with his money. Now he continually put his hand in his pocket and flung silver pieces among the crowd whom he entertained with his jests, mocks and snatches of bawdy song.

  Some of his party were urging him on to try a fall with Sythe Torre who had defeated his rival and stood panting and triumphant, his arms folded over his chest, in front of the little ragged booth where the mutton-fat candles flared in their horn cups.

  It was but a week to John Corbyn’s wedding and the Rector was deeply offended by his present demeanour. But he was offended by almost everything that John Corbyn did and he had resolved to endure the pranks of this man whom Bessie loved. But then it was galling to see the bridegroom who was loved standing there to make a show for fools, and Mr. Mompesson was half-minded to step up to him and tell Jack to be gone. But he knew that to do so would be only to provoke a party against himself, for all were in favour of their young lord, and he, William Mompesson, had no hold over them whatsoever, either through his own personality or as representative of the Church.