Sunday Street was dazzled by its multitude of marriages. There had been Tom Beatup’s, not a year ago, then the curate’s, and Polly Sinden’s, on the top of each other in January, and now, in February, Nell Beatup’s. The last was a surprise; who would have thought, asked the village, that Nell would be married before Ivy? One or two mothers improved their daughters’ minds with the moral of demure, gentle Nell’s marrying before her sister with her loud, friendly ways. There was some jealousy, too, for Kadwell, heir of Stilliands Tower, was considered a good match, though a certain amount of suspicion attached locally to his morals, due to his having once spent a leave in Paris.

Nell’s wedding was a shorn affair. Her father was, of course, unable to come and give her away, and she had to go up the aisle on the arm of a shuffling and miserable Harry, to be finally disposed of by Mrs. Beatup, who was full of doubts as to the legality of a marriage thus officiated. Ivy could not get another day off, so had been obliged to content herself with sending Nell a silver-plated cruet and a rather tactless message to “come to [234] her if ever she felt things going a bit wrong.” Thyrza was not present, either. She had mended slowly, in spite of the joy of her little son, and felt unequal to the fag and excitement of a wedding, either socially or ecclesiastically. The gaps were completed by the absence of Mr. Poullett-Smith, who was still away on his honeymoon. He was expected back next week, and it was considered locally that Nell and Kadwell would have shown a more becoming spirit if they had waited for his ministrations. No one guessed that it was just this chance of being married in the curate’s absence which had finally dropped the balance, and made Nell give way to her lover’s entreaties and make him happy at once.

After the ceremony there was a breakfast at Worge, and that too was shorn. There had been no Ivy to help Mrs. Beatup with the cooking, and trug-faced Ellen had burnt the cake, which was not only sugarless, as Tom’s had been, but without peel or plums. “Might as well eat bread and call it caake,” said Mrs. Beatup drearily. “They both taaste lik calf-meal.”

There was no butter, as butter did not pay at its present price, and was no longer made at Worge. Some greenish margarine had been Ellen’s reward for standing two hours outside the grocer’s in Senlac, but the cake had swallowed it all up, and wanted more, judging by its splintering behaviour under the teeth. To balance these scarcities there was tinned salmon and tinned crab and tinned lobster—also two bottles of wine, left over from Tom’s wedding, and watered to make them go further.

“This is wot you might call a War wedding,” said Mrs. Beatup. “Nell, I’m unaccountable glad you got married in church—if it had bin a chapel marriage on the top of this”—and she waved her hand over the table—“I’d never quite feel as you wur praaperly wed.”

As a further counterblast to irregularity she had [235] insisted on Nell’s being married in white satin, with a stiff white veil like a meat-safe bound over her hair with a wreath of artificial orange-blossom. She looked very pretty, with a becoming flush in the thick pallor of her skin. Her eyes were bright and restless, and she breathed quickly, so that her little pearl-and-turquoise locket, “the gift of the bridegroom,” heaved under her transparencies—she was too shrinking and modest to have her gown cut low—like a shallop on a wave. She scarcely spoke during the meal, but sat twisting her wedding-ring and staring at her husband—following each movement with her eyes, apparently unable to look away from him.

The meal was not lively; it lacked Ivy’s good-humour, Mus’ Beatup’s talkativeness, Bill Putland’s wit, Mr. Sumption’s big laugh and childish enjoyment of his food. The party consisted only of the two families—Beatups and Kadwells. Old Mus’ Kadwell droned about the War, and the “drore” in which he prophesied it would end, Mrs. Kadwell compared with Mrs. Beatup a day’s adventures in search of meat, Lizzie Kadwell tried to flirt with Harry, who was overwhelmed with shame and annoyance at her efforts, and Sim Kadwell, who had been best man, gave wearying details of the Indispensable’s Progress from tribunal to tribunal.

Steve Kadwell could get only a week-end’s leave, so the honeymoon would be short, and afterwards Nell would come back to Worge, and live there as before, except for her “teachering,” which her husband had made her give up, so that she might be at hand when he wanted her, free to go with him on any unexpected leave. He would have longer leave given him soon, he promised her, and they would go to London and have a valiant time. On this occasion they were going no further that Brighton, but they would stay at a fine hotel and have late dinner and a fire in their bedroom.

[236]

Nell drove away with her hand limp and rather cold in Kadwell’s big fondling clasp. The pale February sun slanted to Worge’s roof from the west, and a clammy, mould-flavoured mist hung over the hedges, like the winter ghost of those fogs which had webbed the farm with dusty gold in harvest-time. Nell looked back at the old house and the fields behind it—since she was leaving home only for two days, it was queer to feel that she was leaving it for ever.

9

It was raining and foggy when she came back. Thick white muffles of cloud drifted up the fields, and hung between the hedges, catching and choking all sound. Rain fell noiselessly, almost invisibly, apparent only in an occasional whorl, in the dripping eaves of the stacks, the shining roofs of the barns, and the whiteness of the beaded grass. Nell came from Hailsham station in a cab—her husband had told her to do so, giving her paper money for the fare. He certainly was princely in his ideas of spending, and there were loud and envious exclamations at Worge when, instead of the soaked and huddled figure expected, Nell appeared bone-dry, without even her umbrella unfurled.

“A cab from Hailsham!” cried Mrs. Beatup. “Reckon you’ve got a good husband.”

“And did you have the fire in your bedroom?” asked Zacky.

“Yes,” said Nell. “A shilling every night.”

She kissed her mother and brothers, and Ivy, who was over for the day and now came out of the kitchen, with a bear’s hug for her sister.

“You’ve got a new hat!” she exclaimed.

[237]

“Yes; Steve saw it in a shop in Brighton and bought it for me.”

“Lork!” cried Mrs. Beatup.

“But it aun’t your usual style,” said Ivy; “you most-ways wear ’em more quiet-like. I’ve seen many of that sort of hat come on the tram, and it’s generally what the boys call a tart.”

Nell flushed and looked away.

“We’ve got Thyrza here,” said Mrs. Beatup. “She came ............