第 21 页

to an end? In which direction was it finished? There was no end,

no finish, only this roaring vast space. Did one never get old,

never die? That was the clue. He exulted strangely, with

torture. He would go on with his wife, he and she like two

children camping in the plains. What was sure but the endless

sky? But that was so sure, so boundless.

Still the royal blue colour burned and blazed and sported

itself in the web of darkness before him, unwearyingly rich and

splendid. How rich and splendid his own life was, red and

burning and blazing and sporting itself in the dark meshes of

his body: and his wife, how she glowed and burned dark within

her meshes! Always it was so unfinished and unformed!

There was a loud noise of the organ. The whole party was

trooping to the vestry. There was a blotted, scrawled

book--and that young girl putting back her veil in her

vanity, and laying her hand with the wedding-ring

self-consciously conspicuous, and signing her name proudly

because of the vain spectacle she made:

"Anna Theresa Lensky."

"Anna Theresa Lensky"--what a vain, independent minx she

was! The bridegroom, slender in his black swallow-tail and grey

trousers, solemn as a young solemn cat, was writing

seriously:

"William Brangwen."

That looked more like it.

"Come and sign, father," cried the imperious young hussy.

"Thomas Brangwen--clumsy-fist," he said to himself as he

signed.

Then his brother, a big, sallow fellow with black

side-whiskers wrote:

"Alfred Brangwen."

"How many more Brangwens?" said Tom Brangwen, ashamed of the

too-frequent recurrence of his family name.

When they were out again in the sunshine, and he saw the

frost hoary and blue among the long grass under the tomb-stones,

the holly-berries overhead twinkling scarlet as the bells rang,

the yew trees hanging their black, motionless, ragged boughs,

everything seemed like a vision.

The marriage party went across the graveyard to the wall,

mounted it by the little steps, and descended. Oh, a vain white

peacock of a bride perching herself on the top of the wall and

giving her hand to the bridegroom on the other side, to be

helped down! The vanity of her white, slim, daintily-stepping

feet, and her arched neck. And the regal impudence with which

she seemed to dismiss them all, the others, parents and wedding

guests, as she went with her young husband.

In the cottage big fires were burning, there were dozens of

glasses on the table, and holly and mistletoe hanging up. The

wedding party crowded in, and Tom Brangwen, becoming roisterous,

poured out drinks. Everybody must drink. The bells were ringing

away against the windows.

"Lift your glasses up," shouted Tom Brangwen from the

parlour, "lift your glasses up, an' drink to the hearth an'

home--hearth an' home, an' may they enjoy it."

"Night an' day, an' may they enjoy it," shouted Frank

Brangwen, in addition.

"Hammer an' tongs, and may they enjoy it," shouted Alfred

Brangwen, the saturnine.

"Fill your glasses up, an' let's have it all over again,"

shouted Tom Brangwen.

"Hearth an' home, an' may ye enjoy it."

There was a ragged shout of the company in response.

"Bed an' blessin', an' may ye enjoy it," shouted Frank

Brangwen.

There was a swelling chorus in answer.

"Comin' and goin', an' may ye enjoy it," shouted the

saturnine Alfred Brangwen, and the men roared by now boldly, and

the women said, "Just hark, now!"

There was a touch of scandal in the air.

Then the party rolled off in the carriages, full speed back

to the Marsh, to a large meal of the high-tea order, which

lasted for an hour and a half. The bride and bridegroom sat at

the head of the table, very prim and shining both of them,

wordless, whilst the company raged down the table.

The Brangwen men had brandy in their tea, and were becoming

unmanageable. The saturnine Alfred had glittering, unseeing

eyes, and a strange, fierce way of laughing that showed his

teeth. His wife glowered at him and jerked her head at him like

a snake. He was oblivious. Frank Brangwen, the butcher, flushed

and florid and handsome, roared echoes to his two brothers. Tom

Brangwen, in his solid fashion, was letting himself go at

last.

These three brothers dominated the whole company. Tom

Brangwen wanted to make a speech. For the first time in his

life, he must spread himself wordily.

"Marriage," he began, his eyes twinkling and yet quite

profound, for he was deeply serious and hugely amused at the

same time, "Marriage," he said, speaking in the slow,

full-mouthed way of the Brangwens, "is what we're made

for----"

"Let him talk," said Alfred Brangwen, slowly and inscrutably,

"let him talk." Mrs. Alfred darted indignant eyes at her

husband.

"A man," continued Tom Brangwen, "enjoys being a man: for

what purpose was he made a man, if not to enjoy it?"

"That a true word," said Frank, floridly.

"And likewise," continued Tom Brangwen, "a woman enjoys being

a woman: at least we surmise she does----"

"Oh, don't you bother----" called a farmer's

wife.

"You may back your life they'd be summisin'." said Frank's

wife.

"Now," continued Tom Brangwen, "for a man to be a man, it

takes a woman----"

"It does that," said a woman grimly.

"And for a woman to be a woman, it takes a man----"

continued Tom Brangwen.

"All speak up, men," chimed in a feminine voice.

"Therefore we have marriage," continued Tom Brangwen.

"Hold, hold," said Alfred Brangwen. "Don't run us off our

legs."

And in dead silence the glasses were filled. The bride and

bridegroom, two children, sat with intent, shining faces at the

head of the table, abstracted.

"There's no marriage in heaven," went on Tom Brangwen; "but

on earth there is marriage."

"That's the difference between 'em," said Alfred Brangwen,

mocking.

"Alfred," said Tom Brangwen, "keep your remarks till

afterwards, and then we'll thank you for them.-=--There's

very little else, on earth, but marriage. You can talk about

making money, or saving souls. You can save your own soul seven

times over, and you may have a mint of money, but your soul goes

gnawin', gnawin', gnawin', and it says there's something it must

have. In heaven there is no marriage. But on earth there is

marriage, else heaven drops out, and there's no bottom to

it."

"Just hark you now," said Frank's wife.

"Go on, Thomas," said Alfred sardonically.

"If we've got to be Angels," went on Tom Brangwen,

haranguing the company at large, "and if there is no such thing

as a man nor a woman amongst them, then it seems to me as a

married couple makes one Angel."

"It's the brandy," said Alfred Brangwen wearily.

"For," said Tom Brangwen, and the company was listening to

the conundrum, "an Angel can't be less than a human being. And

if it was only the soul of a man minus the man, then it would be

less than a human being."

"Decidedly," said Alfred.

And a laugh went round the table. But Tom Brangwen was

inspired.

"An Angel's got to be more than a human being," he continued.

"So I say, an Angel is the soul of man and woman in one: they

rise united at the Judgment Day, as one Angel----"

"Praising the Lord," said Frank.

"Praising the Lord," repeated Tom.

"And what about the women left over?" asked Alfred, jeering.

The company was getting uneasy.

"That I can't tell. How do I know as there is anybody left

over at the Judgment Day? Let that be. What I say is, that when

a man's soul and a woman's soul unites together--that makes

an Angel----"

"I dunno about souls. I know as one plus one makes three,

sometimes," said Frank. But he had the laugh to himself.

"Bodies and souls, it's the same," said Tom.

"And what about your missis, who was married afore you knew

her?" asked Alfred, set on edge by this discourse.

"That I can't tell you. If I am to become an Angel, it'll be

my married soul, and not my single soul. It'll not be the soul

of me when I was a lad: for I hadn't a soul as would make

an Angel then."

"I can always remember," said Frank's wife, "when our Harold

was bad, he did nothink but see an angel at th' back o' th'

lookin'-glass. 'Look, mother,' 'e said, 'at that angel!' 'Theer

isn't no angel, my duck,' I said, but he wouldn't have it. I

took th' lookin'-glass off'n th' dressin'-table, but it made no

difference. He kep' on sayin' it was there. My word, it did give

me a turn. I thought for sure as I'd lost him."

"I can remember," said another man, Tom's sister's husband,

"my mother gave me a good hidin' once, for sayin' I'd got an

angel up my nose. She seed me pokin', an' she said: 'What are

you pokin' at your nose for-give over.' 'There's an angel up

it,' I said, an' she fetched me such a wipe. But there was. We

used to call them thistle things 'angels' as wafts about. An'

I'd pushed one o' these up my nose, for some reason or

other."

"It's wonderful what children will get up their noses," said

Frank's wife. "I c'n remember our Hemmie, she shoved one o' them

bluebell things out o' th' middle of a bluebell, what they call

'candles', up her nose, and oh, we had some work! I'd seen her

stickin' 'em on the end of her nose, like, but I never thought

she'd be so soft as to shove it right up. She was a gel of eight

or more. Oh, my word, we got a crochet-hook an' I don't know

what ..."

Tom Brangwen's mood of inspiration began to pass away. He

forgot all about it, and was soon roaring and shouting with the

rest. Outside the wake came, singing the carols. They were

invited into the bursting house. They had two fiddles and a

piccolo. There in the parlour they played carols, and the whole

company sang them at the top of its voice. Only the bride and

bridegroom sat with shining eyes and strange, bright faces, and

scarcely sang, or only with just moving lips.

The wake departed, and the guysers came. There was loud

applause, and shouting and excitement as the old mystery play of

St. George, in which every man present had acted as a boy,

proceeded, with banging and thumping of club and dripping

pan.

"By Jove, I got a crack once, when I was playin' Beelzebub,"

said Tom Brangwen, his eyes full of water with laughing. "It

knocked all th' sense out of me as you'd crack an egg. But I

tell you, when I come to, I played Old Johnny Roger with St.

George, I did that."

He was shaking with laughter. Another knock came at the door.

There was a hush.

"It's th' cab," said somebody from the door.

"Walk in," shouted Tom Brangwen, and a red-faced grinning man

entered.

"Now, you two, get yourselves ready an' off to blanket fair,"

shouted Tom Brangwen. "Strike a daisy, but if you're not off

like a blink o' lightnin', you shanna go, you s'll sleep

separate."

Anna rose silently and went to change her dress. Will

Brangwen would have gone out, but Tilly came with his hat and

coat. The youth was helped on.

"Well, here's luck, my boy," shouted his father.

"When th' fat's in th' fire, let it frizzle," admonished his

uncle Frank.

"Fair and softly does it, fair an' softly does

it," cried his aunt, Frank's wife, contrary.

"You don't want to fall over yourself," said his uncle by

marriage. "You're not a bull at a gate."

"Let a man have his own road," said Tom Brangwen testily.

"Don't be so free of your advice--it's his wedding this

time, not yours."

"'E don't want many sign-posts," said his father. "There's

some roads a man has to be led, an' there's some roads a

boss-eyed man can only follow wi' one eye shut. But this road

can't be lost by a blind man nor a boss-eyed man nor a

cripple--and he's neither, thank God."

"Don't you be so sure o' your walkin' powers," cried Frank's

wife. "There's many a man gets no further than half-way, nor

can't to save his life, let him live for ever."

"Why, how do you know?" said Alfred.

"It's plain enough in th' looks o' some," retorted Lizzie,

his sister-in-law.

The youth stood with a faint, half-hearing smile on his face.

He was tense and abstracted. These things, or anything, scarcely

touched him.

Anna came down, in her day dress, very elusive. She kissed

everybody, men and women, Will Brangwen shook hands with

everybody, kissed his mother, who began to cry, and the whole

party went surging out to the cab.

The young couple were shut up, last injunctions shouted at

them.

"Drive on," shouted Tom Brangwen.

The cab rolled off. They saw the light diminish under the ash

trees. Then the whole party, quietened, went indoors.

"They'll have three good fires burning," said Tom Brangwen,

looking at his watch. "I told Emma to make 'em up at nine, an'