The Way We Live Now, Anthony Trollope [good story books to read .txt] 📗

is your own flesh and blood⁠—and your name, too, Mr. Ruggles. And she’s going to be the respectable wife of a respectable man, Mr. Ruggles.”

“I won’t give ’em no breakfast;⁠—that’s flat,” said the farmer.

But he had yielded in the main when he allowed himself to base his opposition on one immaterial detail. The breakfast was to be given at the King’s Head, and, though it was acknowledged on all sides that no authority could be found for such a practice, it was known that the bill was to be paid by the bridegroom. Nor would Mr. Ruggles pay the five hundred pounds down as in early days he had promised to do. He was very clear in his mind that his undertaking on that head was altogether cancelled by Ruby’s departure from Sheep’s Acre. When he was reminded that he had nearly pulled his granddaughter’s hair out of her head, and had thus justified her act of rebellion, he did not contradict the assertion, but implied that if Ruby did not choose to earn her fortune on such terms as those, that was her fault. It was not to be supposed that he was to give a girl, who was after all as much a Pipkin as a Ruggles, five hundred pounds for nothing. But, in return for that night’s somewhat harsh treatment of Ruby, he did at last consent to have the money settled upon John Crumb at his death⁠—an arrangement which both the lawyer and Joe Mixet thought to be almost as good as a free gift, being both of them aware that the consumption of gin and water was on the increase. And he, moreover, was persuaded to receive Mrs. Pipkin and Ruby at the farm for the night previous to the marriage. This very necessary arrangement was made by Mr. Mixet’s mother, a most respectable old lady, who went out in a fly from the inn attired in her best black silk gown and an overpowering bonnet, an old lady from whom her son had inherited his eloquence, who absolutely shamed the old man into compliance⁠—not, however, till she had promised to send out the tea and white sugar and box of biscuits which were thought to be necessary for Mrs. Pipkin on the evening preceding the marriage. A private sitting-room at the inn was secured for the special accommodation of Mrs. Hurtle⁠—who was supposed to be a lady of too high standing to be properly entertained at Sheep’s Acre Farm.

On the day preceding the wedding one trouble for a moment clouded the bridegroom’s brow. Ruby had demanded that Joe Mixet should not be among the performers, and John Crumb, with the urbanity of a lover, had assented to her demand⁠—as far, at least, as silence can give consent. And yet he felt himself unable to answer such interrogatories as the parson might put to him without the assistance of his friend, although he devoted much study to the matter. “You could come in behind like, Joe, just as if I knew nothin’ about it,” suggested Crumb.

“Don’t you say a word of me, and she won’t say nothing, you may be sure. You ain’t going to give in to all her cantraps that way, John?” John shook his head and rubbed the meal about on his forehead. “It was only just something for her to say. What have I done that she should object to me?”

“You didn’t ever go for to⁠—kiss her⁠—did you, Joe?”

“What a one’er you are! That wouldn’t ’a set her again me. It is just because I stood up and spoke for you like a man that night at Sheep’s Acre, when her mind was turned the other way. Don’t you notice nothing about it. When we’re all in the church she won’t go back because Joe Mixet’s there. I’ll bet you a gallon, old fellow, she and I are the best friends in Bungay before six months are gone.”

“Nay, nay; she must have a better friend than thee, Joe, or I must know the reason why.” But John Crumb’s heart was too big for jealousy, and he agreed at last that Joe Mixet should be his best man, undertaking to “square it all” with Ruby, after the ceremony.

He met the ladies at the station and⁠—for him⁠—was quite eloquent in his welcome to Mrs. Hurtle and Mrs. Pipkin. To Ruby he said but little. But he looked at her in her new hat, and generally bright in subsidiary wedding garments, with great delight. “Ain’t she bootiful now?” he said aloud to Mrs. Hurtle on the platform, to the great delight of half Bungay, who had accompanied him on the occasion. Ruby, hearing her praises thus sung, made a fearful grimace as she turned round to Mrs. Pipkin, and whispered to her aunt, so that those only who were within a yard or two could hear her; “He is such a fool!” Then he conducted Mrs. Hurtle in an omnibus up to the Inn, and afterwards himself drove Mrs. Pipkin and Ruby out to Sheep’s Acre; in the performance of all which duties he was dressed in the green cutaway coat with brass buttons which had been expressly made for his marriage. “Thou’rt come back then, Ruby,” said the old man.

“I ain’t going to trouble you long, grandfather,” said the girl.

“So best;⁠—so best. And this is Mrs. Pipkin?”

“Yes, Mr. Ruggles; that’s my name.”

“I’ve heard your name. I’ve heard your name, and I don’t know as I ever want to hear it again. But they say as you’ve been kind to that girl as ’d ’a been on the town only for that.”

“Grandfather, that ain’t true,” said Ruby with energy. The old man made no rejoinder, and Ruby was allowed to take her aunt up into the bedroom which they were both to occupy. “Now, Mrs. Pipkin, just you say,” pleaded Ruby, “how was it possible for any girl to live with an old man like that?”

“But, Ruby, you might always have gone to live with the young man instead when you pleased.”

“You mean John Crumb.”

“Of course I mean John Crumb,