God and the Wedding Dress
Page 8
“Well, Kate, do not run on so, but tell me what this little secret is.”
She raised her brilliant eyes appealingly and her delicate fingers continued to play with the ribbons beneath her fine lawn band.
“It is the wedding dress. We could not be content with a country tailor — we sent for it from London.”
“Why, Kate, that’s very extravagant. George Vickers is an excellent tailor and gets fine cloth from Derby, ay, and good silk too.”
“But this is satin, fine white satin,” said Kate coaxingly. “It is laced with silver and a design of lilies. And the petticoat is of silver tissue.”
“And what is the cost of all this to be, sweetheart?” He put her from him into the tapestry chair with arms. He was weary, in no mood to be angry with her frivolity yet feeling a lack of comfort in coming home to this — his Kate’s absorption with worldly gear, after a day that had been empty and in a way humiliating.
She chattered on about the gown. George Vickers, who was the tailor and lived between the barber and the cobbler in the group of houses beyond Eyam Church, had long had, it seemed, a box of patterns, of fine French and Italian brocades and silks that he procured, when need arose, from an English merchant whose warehouse was on St. Paul’s Wharf in London. It had been some years since Mr. Vickers had had any need to call upon his London supply, though he had in the past made fine gowns of these brocades for Madame Corbyn and for the wives of some of the other gentry in the Peak. For though he lived modestly in the small village, Vickers had a reputation for fine work and care and diligence.
The story that Catherine Mompesson told now was that of a visit paid to this tailor by herself and Bessie some months ago.
“Before we knew that the expenses would be so high,” pleaded Kate. And there they had chosen the thick white French satin and all the trimmings that were to make the wedding gown for Bessie.
When they learned of the Rector’s disapproval of so many extravagances for this village wedding, they would, although half-heartedly, have cancelled the order. But Vickers said that it was too late and the stuff was already on the road. It had lain for a while at Derby and only two days before had it been forwarded, by the carrier’s cart to Eyam. Kate, feeling very discreet, had told Mr. Vickers to leave the box unopened until the wake was over.
She and Bessie could have it sent up to the house and fitted and altered in peace — “for Ann Trickett, you know, and the kitchen woman, and even Jonathan Mortin and all had been so distracted by the Fair.”
"You have not, then, seen the dress?” said William Mompesson, trying to feign an interest in this piece of extravagant finery and wondering in his mind how much it would cost and feeling that his resources would be strained to pay for it, for as poor Bess was nearly dowerless, he could by no means bring himself to accept money from Corbyn for her wedding attire.
“Oh, I don’t know how much it will cost, dear. You think of nothing else but that, and I suppose you are right. But I’m sure Lady Halifax would give it to us as a present.”
“Kate, I could not think that she should be asked for so much. She has given us more than I care about as it is. This furnishing of the Rectory causes something of a scandal here in this poor rough place.”
Kate tossed her pretty head.
“We’ll leave that,” she said, with a touch of sharpness, “for it’s a matter on which we differ.”
Then, instantly repenting, she added: “Wait until you see it. Mr. Vickers has made a drawing of what it is to be when it is completed.”
“It is made up then?” asked the Rector indifferently.
“Yes, it was made up in London by the London tailors and has only to be fitted to Bess and some of the trimmings put on here. Why, you foolish man, there would not be time to make it up now. Bessie’s wedding is but a week off.”
William Mompesson kissed his wife’s brow.
“Then I will leave you now to your sleep and go to mine, and in the morning you must send for this gown and I will see it on Bess.”
“You are not angry then?”
She clung to him and embraced him, giving him hard, cool kisses that expressed her pleasure at his acquiescence in her folly, as no doubt he considered it, and her appeal for a complete forgiveness.
The Rector soothed his wife and returned her kisses, persuaded her to go to bed and so left her for his own closet.
More and more this marriage that the women made so much of weighed upon his spirit. He would be glad when it was over and all the junketings vanished. What a to-do there was in a household that should have been so quiet, the hiring of extra women, the baking already of cakes and sweetmeats and the making of preserves and comfits. The house would be full of guests, and already Kate had complained that her room was not large enough for the wedding feast.
Ambition and vanity, no less, though prettily disguised.
Chapter II
THE PAGAN ALTAR
The Rector fell asleep from weariness and sank into deep dreams. He did not remember them when he woke suddenly with a start. In his sleep a thought had come to his disordered mind that caused him to sit up, wide awake, in bed — between a nightmare and reality.
London! The wedding dress had come from London! The Lord-Lieutenant had warned him to have nothing to do with any goods that came from the capital.
Why? The plague, despite the severity of the last winter, had come creeping in again. There were various rumours, exaggerated perhaps, or false, but the Earl had warned him to have nothing to do with anything that came from London.
The Rector slept no more that night. With early sunlight he was dressed and left the Rectory.
The day was bright and clear, the linden trees showed gold against the cloudless blue; it was already hot; everything was dry and gilded.
The young man’s heart was heavy because of his errand. He could not really credit that there could be much danger in a parcel that had come from so far and been so long on the road, and though he had studied medicine he knew little about contagion. He had heard an old Turkish story that the plague had been brought into Constantinople in the jacket of a janizary, and this last outbreak in London was said by some to have been brought by Dutch prisoners of war, who in their turn had caught it from cargoes brought into Amsterdam from the East.
And this illness in Derby! What was that? One heard so many tales and knew not what to believe. When he was a child, William Mompesson had heard his father talk of the many illnesses that were rife during the Civil War and in particular of that horrid outbreak of the sweating sickness which had ruined the troops of my Lord Essex outside Oxford and infected the whole city.
He remembered, too, with scorn for his own superstition, the comet of last year, the words of Sythe Torre about a judgment sent by God for undiscovered crime, and Thomas Stanley’s words last night about punishment for licence and blasphemy.
Well, this doom might be evaded by the exercise of a little common sense, he told himself grimly as he passed the low churchyard wall. The box had not yet been opened, it must be taken out to one of the moors beyond the town and there burned and the reason given. And Bessie and Kate would be in tears; there would be a gloom over the wedding. Some gown must be found for the disappointed girl: no doubt there were many that were suitable in the wardrobe that she and Kate had been getting together with so much busy chatter.
With these thoughts, the Rector passed rapidly round the church and was surprised to find his way barred by a group of noisy young miners who had not been to bed that night and who were celebrating the end of the wake by coarse pastimes.
In their midst was a young cow that one of them was leading by a straw halter. When the Rector, pausing, asked sternly why they had the animal so near the churchyard, Sythe Torre, who dominated his fellows by the power given to him by his gigantic stature, grinned:
“They did more than have it in the churchyard, sir. It was taken in the church!”
“This
is more than a drunken jest! It is hideous blasphemy!” cried the Rector, deeply outraged. “Away with you! Take the beast to where it belongs, and I shall devise some penance.”
He spoke with more authority than he had used before, and the men were cowed, all except Sythe Torre, who stood leaning against the churchyard gate, his arms folded on his bare chest, his ragged shirt hanging in tatters on his gleaming shoulders.
“A penance, sir!” he jeered in hoarse, sulky tones. “Now what penance would you set on me? The other night I asked you about a penance and you had no word of comfort. Well, sir, if there’s no penance for a crime, what is there for taking a cow into a church?”
The scene had become ludicrous; without further speech, the Rector moved away. He heard the miners whistling and laughing among themselves as they drove the cow down the village street. This was behaviour that he must take notice of…he thought: ‘Thomas Stanley would not have endured this.’
And then into his tired mind slipped the remembrance of the grey horse, Merriman, and that he must tell Mortin to take it to the head of the glen. But his immediate errand was with George Vickers.
He paused outside the small thatched house from which hung the sign of a large pair of shears. On one side was the striped pole and brass basin of Henry Sentem, the barber-surgeon of the village, and on the other a wooden statue of Saint Crispin that marked the residence of the shoemaker and cobbler, James Frogatt.
The Rector knocked at the door vigorously with his ivory-headed cane, and a night-capped head was soon thrust out at the upper window. The slim figure, handsome face, auburn curls and elegant clothes of William Mompesson formed in the eyes of the villagers a picture of an elegant gentleman as complete as that represented by Sir George Savile, who once or twice had visited his Manor, or my Lord at Chatsworth. They were still not used to considering him as the Rector, that term being reserved in the hearts of almost all of them for Thomas Stanley.
So Vickers blinked stupidly for a while, not recognizing in the young man looking up at him, William Mompesson. When he did, he excused himself hastily and protested he would come down as soon as he could get his breeches on.
“It’s the wedding dress that my wife and sister-in-law had from London,” explained the Rector, looking up. He was hatless, and the pure chill morning air was blowing the hair backwards from his face. He had dressed carelessly and there was an air of disorder about his person and his manner that was most uncommon, for usually he was, at least outwardly, serene.
“Oh, you’re in a hurry for it, sir,” cried Vickers, plucking off his nightcap as a mark of respect for the fine gentleman standing below. “Well, it shall be sent up at once.”
“Nay, nay! That it must not be. It must be taken out and burnt in the fields. I will make full compensation. Pray, do not open the box!”
“But it was opened last night, sir. We thought that the clothes would be getting damp, and so my man had them out and hung them in front of the fire in the kitchen. The box was on the road longer than usual, sir — as far as I understand, a matter of six or seven weeks.” Then the core of the Rector’s words drifting into his bewildered brain, the tailor exclaimed: “Burnt, sir! Did you say they must be burnt!”
“Do not shout from the window, come down to the door. Let me into your parlour and I will speak to you quietly.”
The Rector’s senses became alert; he realized that he must not cause any alarm or panic in Eyam. The awful word ‘plague’ must not be mentioned. After all, there might be nothing in this fear of his…the Lord-Lieutenant’s warning might have been merely a matter of precaution. He certainly must not upset these simple people.
When George Vickers, hurriedly clothed and agape and agitated, had admitted him to the tiny house, the Rector said:
“I must trust you with a secret. It is something that might be important and might be of no matter. First of all understand that I will pay you the full value of these garments from London. I have been told by the Lord-Lieutenant that we should have no goods from the capital, the plague has broken out again.”
“Lord have mercy upon us!” muttered the tailor with sagging chops.
“I hope,” said the Rector gravely, “that He will indeed have mercy upon us. But we must take all human means for our safety. Put the clothes back in the box and you and I will take them out on to the moor and there burn them with fire or possibly bury them.”
He consulted in his own mind which was the better method, and then remembered that he had heard something about infected ground.
“The wedding dress is worth twenty pounds, fine braid trimmings all cut and made with whalebone and buckram,” bewailed the tailor.
“Twenty pounds!” Even through his preoccupation the thought of Kate’s extravagance went through him with a pang, but the Rector said: “I will pay that money. Pack up the gown.” And then recalling that he should not ask another to do a dangerous thing that he might do himself, he said: “No, stay here. I will return it to the box.”
“Young Fulwood will do that,” protested the distracted tailor. “But, sir, who ever heard of an illness coming in a box of clothes? And is the plague again in London? Did the comet bring it? And is there likely to be a judgment on the Peak?”
“I can answer none of those questions. Let us about our business before the whole village is astir. Mark you, I am trusting you as an honest, brave man to stand by me in this.”
The little tailor was flattered, though still deeply disturbed. He opened the door into an inner room and there, carefully spread over a wooden horse, was the wedding gown from London. In the bright sunshine that came through the little back window athwart the flowers in the garden, the silk showed with a pearl-like lustre, the silver braids and ribbons gleamed brightly.
“Harry,” shouted the tailor, calling his apprentice. “Harry! Harry! Come here, there’s work for you And quiet about it, lad.”
There was no answer. The tailor ran to the little staircase that twisted out of the closet into the sleeping-room above occupied by the apprentice.
“He’s still asleep. He was always a lazy loon,” he cried, as he scrambled indignantly up the stairs.
William Mompesson stood alone, looking at the wedding dress and thinking tenderly and with regret of Bessie’s disappointment and Kate’s chagrin. Perhaps he was acting foolishly, perhaps there was no danger at all. Maybe, even, his Kate would misunderstand him and think he had had the dress destroyed from malice or anger at her extravagance. Indeed, a gloom would be put over the whole wedding; it might be that John Corbyn would take the women’s part and deride him for being so cautious. There would be twenty pounds good money gone, too — the price had seemed to him excessive. And then there would be the carriage from London…and no doubt the thing was finely cut and fitted and finished. He admitted himself that it was a handsome garment and that Bessie would look charming in it. She was fond of fine clothes, and he was sorry that this lustrous dress must be taken up and burnt as if it were a foul rag.
Mr. Mompesson heard a cry from the tailor; sharp and querulous, it broke through his musing.
He went to the foot of the stairs and called up: “What’s to do?”
“Young Fulwood is taken ill! Come up and see, sir! Maybe he could do with some of your medicine.”
William Mompesson instantly mounted the twisting, steep stairs that spread fan-like from the centre post.
Vickers had drawn the curtains from the small casement; the little room was in full morning sunlight. It was poorly but neatly furnished. On the truckle-bed and covered by a patchwork quilt lay the young man William Mompesson knew as Fulwood, the tailor’s apprentice. He was pale, breathing heavily, his eyes glazed and half-open, his mouth pulled awry, and sweat thick upon his forehead.
“This may be nothing,” whispered the priest, keenly eyeing the sick man. “I will go to the Rectory and fetch some physic. Was he abroad last night in the revels? Did he overheat himself with food or drink?”
“I have not seen him since, nay, nor heard one groan.”
Mr. Mompesson approached the sick youth’s bed.
“How is it with you?” he asked. “What do you feel?”
At this Fulwood roused himself a little and fetched a moan and muttered he had vomited much during the night. He felt that he had had a swelling in his throat and a weight in his head. After being further interrogated by the Rector he admitted, in a low, broken voice, that his senses were confused and that he could remember very little. And then he seemed to lapse into a sleep.
“Sir, what be this?” entreated the tailor, clinging to Mr. Mompesson’s coat, and flinching from the bed. “Is it the sweating sickness, or the ‘French Evil’?”
“We are in the hands of God. You have no surgeon or physician in this place?”
“No, sir, none — save Mr. Walbeoffe who lives up at Chatsworth when the Earl is in residence. The barber will do bleeding and purging. Should I get him brandy, sir. I have some in the house?”
“Nay, better give him water. Put a ewer of water by his side. We still have to burn the dress.”
“Do you think, sir,” whimpered the terrified tailor as he followed, stumbling, William Mompesson down the crooked stairs, “do you think this could have come in the wedding dress — the plague from London?”
The Rector answered:
“Whether it be the plague or not, it will make no difference to our proceedings.”
He took the gown off the wooden rails on which it hung. It was soft, rich and heavy in his hands and his quick fancy saw it — not filled out with the round and rosy limbs of Elizabeth Carr, but by the gleaming bones of a skeleton.