Democratic Sentinel, Volume 11, Number 25, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 22 July 1887 — “BETSY GAMP'S WEDDIN.” [ARTICLE]

“BETSY GAMP'S WEDDIN.”

BY M. J. ROY.

“Fax up, old woman, fix up, put on yer best bib and tucker, fur we’re goin to a shake down ter night.” “Ole man, shet up, yer must be crazy.” “No, I’m not, its nigh onto thirty yeers since I shook my foot, but its got ter trip it ter night, even es it does make my jints crack.” “What ye mean, Jonathan?” “I mean that thars goin’ to be a shake down at Pete Stumps.” And the old man waved his hat over his head while he waltzed about the kitchen. Aunt Tilda Knucklebone sat with a pan of apples on her lap, gazing at her husband in astonishment, while the tea-pot boiled and hissed on the stove. os*'"? “I’m goin’ ter be thar an’ my foot, the fust time in thirty yeers,” added Uncle Jonathan, continuing to waltz about the kitchen. “Jonathan Knucklebone, hev ye lost yer senses?” “No.” “Set down then an’ tell me what yer mean.” Uncle Johnathan was soon out of breath, and gladly enough threw himself into a kitchen chair. “Well, Tilda—” “Well, Jonathan, what d’yer mean?” “Thar’s goin’ ter be a shake-down at Pete Stumps, all on account o’ some one cornin’ back from Californy, an’ yer can’t guess who it is?” “No, o’ course not; who is it?” “Hamp Flatmarsh.” “Who’s he?” “What! don’t yer remember Hamp, the forty-niner, who went away so long ago?” “ ’Pears to mo like I do remember him a little, said Aunt Tilda, resuming the paring of her apples. “O' course ye remember Hamp. Why, he war a leetle boy when we war sparkin’.” “Yes, I remember him now.” “Wall, we ll go to the shake down, fur it's given in honor o’ him.” “But ye furgit, Jonathan; we both belong to the church now,” “Oh, I don’t keer if we do. The Bible say« tbar’s a time to dance, an’ that time’s when Hamp Flatmarsh comes home.” “Jonathan, I don’t believe we ought to go," said Aunt Tilda, yet evincing in her tone just the least inclination to yield. “Yer don’t? Well, I do. Hamp’s come home artor bein’ gone nigh onto twenty yeers, an’ well go; course we will, ole woman, meetin’ or no meetin’; so, fix up, put on yer best bib an’ tucker. Why, I knowed Hamp ever since he war knee high. He's sot on my lap many a time.” “Who all’s goin’ to be thar?” “Oh, everybody. Thar’s the Moores, the Perkinses, the Williamses, the Snyders, Langs, Browns, Smiths, Pinkertons, Allens, Noddingtons, Applegates, Pendergasts, Mitchells, Thrashers, Hamiltons, Eckertons, and Betsy Gamp the school marm.”

“Is Betsv Gamp goin’?” “Yes.” “Sartin' Bure.” “Dead sartin’. Little Alph Lowe overheard Ben Hamilton tell Nick Ahead that Sam Snyder hed heerd her say she was goin', so tbar can’t be any doubt av it.” “Why Jonathan, I declar ye've put me all in a flutter.” “O’ course; git ready, we’re goin’.” “Will our children be thar?” “O’ course, Tom, Sally, Dave, and Ned all axed ” “Well, Jonathan, we’d look like two old fools a dancin’ afore our grown up children.” “We needn’t dance es we don’t want to. Yer see thar’s goin’ ter be a big supper like a barbrecue. Pete’s axed the whole country round, so they kin all git ter see Hamp at onct.” “Are ye sure Betsy’s goin’?” “Course she is.” “Didn’t she use ter know Hamp?” “Guess she did, ole woman, She was a purty leetle gal o’ sixteen when he went away in forty-nine.” “Pore Betsy. She’s a good gal,” said Aunt Tilda, peeling apples vigorously, as if she was in a hurry to get dinner ready. “Yes, Betsy is a tine gal. She’s teachin’ our skule nigh on ter twelve years now, an’ es thars a lady in all Stun Circle neighborhood it’s Betsy Gamp. Guess she’s authority on everything.” “Say, Jonathan, don’t it seem kinder strange ter you that Betsy never got married?” “Yes, a leetle.” “An’ she’s had so many good chances, too. Thar was A 1 Bailes was a good ketch, an : she let him go by; then Phil Nichols war next, but he tuk to drink, and no gal as sensible as Betsy’d ever marry a man wot drinks. Then sence she’s been on the old maid list, Dekin Smart, whose w r ife died, ’s a most ded artcr her.” “Wall, ole woman, I spose she don’t want ter marry. I guess that’s all thar is about it.” “She's a good gal an’ could get anybody she wanted.” Aunt Tilda had now completed peeling her apples, and proceeded to prepare the dinner. Evening came, and all the country was in a bustle. It seemed as if the entire neighborhood had suddenly concluded to go to Pete Stump’s. The large, roomy, old-fashioned country house of Pete Stump, with its heavy oak doors aud solid oak floors and broad fire -places, was crowded to its utmost capacity. To use Uncle Jonathan’s expression, everybody was there. “Come in, come in, how dy do? This is Hamp Platmarsb. I guess ye know him though; don’t look as es he’d changed much,” said Peter Stump who stood at the front door. At his side was a tall, broadshouldered man, with heavy mustache, and

face bronzed by long exposure to wind and weather. He was probably forty years of age, liis hair once dark was now streaked with gray, and the heavy mustache was also growing a little frosty with time. Many of the old people in the neighborhood, who had known Hamp Flatmarsh as a quick, impulsive youth, now looked to see if there were any familiar features about his face. “Yes, he is jist the same,” they all declared, “ixcept that dark Bear in his cheek where he got the Injan arrer,” put in old Sally Flint. “Oh, Hamp, I’m so glad ter see ye back agin!” said Uncle Jonathan Knucklebone, grasping his hand. “It’s been ages an’ ages ago since yer left here a young man. Ye war workm’ fur me then, 1 rcckin ye remember it. We use ter work all day, an’ hunt coons at night.” “Ye bet. I remember it, ole hoss,” said Hamp with that pecnliur Western dialect which sounds so harsh to cultured ears. “Ye left so sudding, Hamp. What made yer do it? I went ter bed expectin’ yer back next momin’ an’ lo an’ behold, yer did’nt come, an’ 1 found out arterward that ye’d pnt out fnr Californy.” “Y’es, went sudden.” * “Struck it rich, I hear?” “Purty good lead.” “Glad ter hear it. I want ter see re, an’ talk with ye over it all after awhile, when I get time.” “I’ll do it, ole hoss.” He had always been a very quiet man, and it was not strange that he should seem so silent ou this evening. “Say, Jonathan, ar’ the boys lookin arter yer horses?” asked Mr. Stump. “Yes, Pete; they’ve got ’bout all they kin do, though, fur thar’s ’bout twenty or thirty teams thar ter look arter, an’ more a-epmm’." The rbads seemed alive with horsemen and people in wagons, all coming to Pete Stump’s. “Tilda, he looks kinder sad, don’t he?” said Jonathan, as he sat by his wife in the big sitting-room, watching the face of the man who had left the neighborhood a pauper so many years ago and returned a millionaire. “ ’Pears t’ me he looks kinder disappointed like,” said Aunt Tilda, gazing at the face for a long time through her glasses. “Disappointed—why should he be disappointed, ole woman; don’t ye know he’s a millionaire now? He’s got all the money he kin possibly want, an’ more’n he’d ever spend. Guess he kin enjoy himself some now.” “But look at him. He sighs, Jonathan, and looks about. Oh, Jonathan, money can’t allers make people happy.” “I guess it’d make me a most pow’ful happy jist now.” At this moment supper was announced, and the older folks wt-re hurried off to the great old-fashioned country dining-room, where the table fairly groaned beneath its load of good things. Country delicacies are always nicer and fresher than can be found anywhere in city hotels. The vegetables grow in their season and have all the juice and flavor nature intended —have not the stale, flat taste of premature hot-house development of the wilted vegetables found in cities. Uncle Jonathan was placed at the head of the table, so he could carve the turkey, his wife on his right, and Hamp Flatmarsh, whom they insisted should eat at the first table, on nis left. Musicians were scraping their violins, getting ready for the “shake down” as soon as supper should be over. The younger people, who were to come in at the second table, were in the great sitting-room chatting and laughing as only youngsters can. “I say, Tilda, hev ye seen anything o’ Betsy this evenin’?” Uncle Jonathan (ißkodt “Who? Wot did ye say?” asked the returned Californian, starting up as if from a reverie. “Betsy Gamp; she was to a been here.” “She was?” “Yes, heerd she war cornin’.” “She’ll be here yit,” put in Aunt Tilda. “D’ye reckon she will? D’ye reckon she will, Aunt Tilda?” There was a depth of pathetic eagerness about the question which greatly intensified the fire in the dark gray eyes. “Oh, yes, she’ll come, I'll be bound.” Then Hamp seemed to. recover his selfpossession, and sank into hi 3 usual reserved manner. If some powerful emotions were raging within that heart, they were bidden by an armor of steel, and were known only to himself. The California millionaire finished his supper, and then went into the sittingroom, where he took his broad-brimmed white hat from the peg on the wall, and drawing it low over his eyes, sat down, apparently oblivious to all his surroundings. A little bustle at the door announced a new arrival, and some one said: “She’s come at last.” The forty-niner looked up from under his broad bum and his eye instantly blazed with a new light. He started to his feet—but checked himself as he remembered where he was, and sat down again. The new arrival was a little woman with large blue eyes and a profusion of golden hair. She was past thirty, and the combined influence of time and care had left some wrinkles on her face, though there was no little beauty remaining. This was Betsy Gamp, the “neighborhood schoolmarm. ” Betsy was hurried out to supper, while the very man in whose honor the entertainment was given sat swearing at his illfortune. She returned and was then presented to him. “Betsy? Course I know her,’’cried Hamp, starting up and seizing one small hand in his. “Why, it seems an age since I sot eyes on her, but I’d know ’er yit ’mong a million. ” Betsy’s pale face turned very red, and her eyes drooped, while Hamp still held her hand. The music now struck up, and the floor was cleared for dancing. “Come, Betsy; it’s been a long time since you au’ me tuk a trot tergether; let’s hev a tramp wi’ the rest.” “Oh, Hamp! I belong td church now,’’she said softly; “besides, I teach the school.” “It’ll be all right” „Do you think it will?” “Know it.” They were in the “first set,” and when it was over Hamp, who seemed suddenly inspired with new life, led his flushed partner to a set in the very farthest comer of the room. “Betsy,” he whispered in his coarse Pacific slope dialect, “it’s been a long time since I sot eyes on ye, but I never forgot ye, nor that Sunday evening when I left ye on the hill.” “Hamp, what made you go so sudden?” she asked.

He tried to speak, but his throat seemed to clog up despite himself. He crossed and uncrossed his legs, kicked his heavy mining boots on the floor, and drew his broad-brimmed hat lower down over his eyes. At last he said: “Betsy, I guess I war a dot-rotted fool. Fact is, I was mad. Did ye mean it?” “What?” she asked. “ What yer said ’boat Newt Bowman. ” “I don’t remember now what I did say.” “Don’t yer know I axed about goin’ with ye ter camp-meetin' on ther next Wednesday, an’ you said maybe ye’d go with Newt Bowman.” “Oh, Hamp, I only said that to tease you.” “War that all?" “It was.” “Well, it a most broke me up. an’ I swore I’d leave an’ never come back, an’ I did go to Californy. It’s been a long time, Betsy ” Then a silence fell npon both, and they appeared to not see the crowded room and gay young dancers. The music was drowned with thought, and they had gone back ever so many years to that sunny afternoon when they were young and parted on the hillside. It had been a long and bitter struggle, and neither had conquered. He was now rich and could have chosen a wife, despite his lack of culture, from among the handsomest women in the country, but somehow this patient little woman seemed to possess a spell over him which no other being did. He was first to break the silence. “Betsv,” he said, “what become o’ Newt?”* “He married Kitty Winters long ago. Their oldest girl was married last week.” “Then ve didn’t mean it?” “What:” “Ye didn’t like Newt ” “He was a good friend.” “Oh, dad blast it, yer know what I mean —yer din’t love him?” “No.” “I was a fool, then; but maybe it’s not too late to mend vit. Betsy, are you willin’?” “What do you mean?” she asked, trembling a little, while her face was radiant with a flame of glory. “Yer be my wife. Now’, let me know, an’ settle it once furever. I axed ye that question nigh on to twenty years ago. I want the answer to-night, or I’ll leave, never to come back.” Betsy knew the danger of attempting to put him off', and said: “Yes, Hamp, I love yon, have loved you all these long years, and will never marry another.” “Ye loved me then did ye?” “Yes.” “Why didn’t ye say so w r hen I axed ye?” “Oh, it was so pleasant to coquet a little, you know, and see you get mad.” “Well, gal, don’t rile me again, fur it takes nigh on to twenty years fur me to cool off.” “I will not answer you so any more, Hamp,” she said, trembling with joy. “I am older now, and all such girlish folly is past.” “Will ye be my wife?” he again asked. “Yes.” “To-night?” “Oh, it’s too soon.” “No; it’s now or never. Some un’ said Uncle Jonathan Knucklebone was a Squire, and he’ll tie the knot fur us right now. What yer say? I kin call my hoss and leave in ten seckinds.” Betsy’s face turned deathly pale. She knew it would not do to trifle with her lover, whom until within the last few minutes she had thought lost, and after a brief struggle ehe said: “Yes.” “Then wait till this set’s over, an’ it’ll be done. It won’t take more'n two or three minits. ” Squire Knucklebone was at this moment swinging about, in the giddy maze of a quadrille, pretty Polly Perkins, as gay as a boy of eighteen. To Hamp, who could not brook delay, it seemed as if the quadrille was never to end.

“First four for’d back agin, alia man left, balance all, all promenade, swing verpardner, all sas-shay;” while to the lively tune of the squeaky old fiddle came the tramping of f et. Uncle Jonathan’s white head and slightly bent form could be seen among the others, whirling and flitting about. When the “set” was over, and he led his youthful partner in the dance to her seat, the old Squire was almost out of breath. “Hold on thar, Square,” said Hamp Flatmarsh, leading the blushing Betsy forward. “Afore ye sot down thar’s a leetle job 1 want yer to de, while we’re all in the notion. Nigh onto twenty y’ars ago this gal an’ me hed about come ter the conclusion we’d trot in double harness; but by a leetle misunderstandin’ the lead proved a blind, an’ I vamosed to prospect elsewhar. We’ve got it all fixed up now, an’ es ye’ll jest say a few words to make us partners fur life I’ll be much obleeged ter ye, and gin ye and Aunt Tilda a present o’ a thousand dollars apiece.” A shout went up from everybody, and it was several moments before Uncle Jonathan could sufficiently recover his composure to command the peace. Order was at last restored, and then the Squire, panting :rom his late exertions, said: “Jine yer right hands.” They did so, and in a few moments the ceremony was completed. “Now, if I hed’nt a ben sich a dodrotted fool this'd a been done twenty y’ars ago,” said Hamp. “Thet’s so. Uncle Jonathan, but ten millions won’t buy back them twenty y’ars o’ pleasure an’ happiness I might a had wi’ the best woman on airth.” Betsy, who had been standing like one stupefied ever since her marriage, at this threw her arms around her husband's neck and burst into tears of joy. “Thar, then; thar, then, gal; don’t take on any more, ur I’m sich a dod-blasted fool I’ll slop over, too. I wouldn’t giv ye fur all the mines in the Bockies; but lei’s not stop the dance.” The dance went on, and when the guests began to go home early in the morning they all took leave of the bride and groom. Aunt Tilda was the happiest of all, and as she kissed the pretty bride she said: “I’ve witnessed somethin’ t’night that I begin ter fear I’d never see.” “What?” the blushing bride asked. “Betsy Gamp’s weddm’.” It is remarkable how rnnch more religious a person can be in a well-fitting dress and a love of a bonnet than in a lot of dowdy old duds.— Exchange. Truth loses half of its virtue when told with an effort.— Arkansan Traveler,