DURANT met Lucy at the station on the morning of Arthur’s wedding day. She was under the charge of old Mrs. Davies, the confidential woman who had nursed Lady Curtis’s children through their sicknesses, and petted them at all times and seasons since ever they were born. Lucy was very pale, but her distress was nothing to that of old Davies, who seemed to think it her duty to cry all the way, and heaved from time to time the bitterest sighs. “Oh, my dear young gentleman,” she said at intervals, “Oh, Master Arthur! to think as I should have lived to see such a day!” This did not improve Lucy’s spirits, who sat very pale in a corner, sometimes piteously lifting her eyes to Durant for sympathy. The day chosen for Arthur’s marriage was the 1st of November, as inappropriate a moment for a wedding as could well be imagined, All Saints’ day, the anniversary of death, not of bridal, and a gloomy morning, with a soft persistent drizzle of rain, and skies that looked like lead. “I hope the sun will shine a little,” said Lucy.
“Oh, Miss Lucy,” said old Davies, “why should the sun shine? They can’t expect no happiness, flying in the face of their parents like this.”
Durant who was not by a long way so melancholy as he ought to have been, did what he could to make the party more cheerful. How could he be otherwise than happy with Lucy seated opposite to him, travelling with him, with an air of belonging to him, which filled the young man’s veins as with wine? Sometimes he almost could have believed that it was his own wedding day, not Arthur’s, and that something more than his most foolish hopes had been realized. Alas, on the contrary, did not Arthur’s wedding make his own more hopeless than ever? Would the parents ever consent to a second unsatisfactory alliance; and what could a poor young barrister, grandson of a fortunate saddler, with the saddler’s blood in his veins but none of his money in his pockets, be but a very unsatisfactory match for Sir John Curtis’s daughter? This thought did more than friendship to restore him to the state of mind becoming the occasion, and in harmony with his companions’ mood; but yet by moments he forgot it, and half believed himself to be carrying Lucy off to Italy, as Arthur was about to carry his wife away from these dreary skies. How much happier he would have been than Arthur! as much happier as Lucy Curtis was more lovely, more beautiful, more desirable than the young virago Nancy Bates. If Lucy only had been more humbly born, less well endowed! how could he wish her less fair and sweet?
He had to hold an umbrella over her as he took her to the church in which the ceremony was to take place, and he liked the rain. Old Davies, who came stumping and crying after them in a waterproof, thought it the most miserable day she ever had seen; but the young pair under the umbrella, though they were very sad (or thought they were) did not so much dislike the day. Lucy was much afraid lest she should meet the party, and yet had a yearning to be recognised by accident by her brother as well as a terror of it. She talked to Durant about this all the way, raising her pale face and those eyes which had the clearness of the skies after rain, and confiding all her feelings to him.
“If it was by accident there would be no harm; could there be any harm? I would not put myself in the way; but if it happened—”
“You could not see him to-day, could you, without also seeing her?”
A tear dropped hastily upon his arm, and Lucy turned her head a little away to hide that her eyes were again full. “That is the worst of all,” she said, “my only brother! and I shall never again be able to see him without her—that is the worst of all. Oh, Mr. Durant, I don’t mean anything against marriage, for I suppose people are—often—happy; but it is not happy for other people, is it? It tears one away from all that belong to one—”
How hard it was for him to answer her! “This is an exceptional case,” he said, his voice trembling a little, “but we must not be infidels to the highest happiness—and love.”
“Oh, love!” cried Lucy, who was thinking of her brother with all the faculties of her being, although her heart was vaguely warmed and stilled unawares by the close neighbourhood of this other who was not her brother. “Love! as if there was but one kind. I did not think you would have spoken so. Do not we love him, Mr. Durant? and yet he casts us off for some one he scarcely knows.”
“He will come back to you; it cannot be that the separation is for long. Arthur is not the man—”
“Oh, Mr. Durant, you mean that he will not be happy? I don’t want him to be unhappy. Oh, God forbid! and why should not he be happy,” said Lucy with tearful inconsistency, “if he loves her?” What could Durant say? He could think of nothing but the foolishest, most traitorous, dishonourable things, dishonourable to the trust put in him, treacherous to the confidence with which she held his arm. The very tightening of her hold, when they met other passers by on the narrow pavement, made him feel himself the basest of men, when he felt those unsayable words flutter to his lips—yet made them only flutter the more. He was glad to be able to put his companion into a deep pew in the old fashioned church, underneath the gallery, where it would be doubly impossible for anyone to see her. Lucy pulled her cloak closely round her, and drew her veil over her face. Mrs. Davies was short, and was almost lost in the depth of the pew—and they were all very glad that the church was still encumbered with this old-fashioned lumber, and that no restorations as yet had been commenced. Durant seated himself still further back. It was a gloomy place—an old church, low-roofed and partly whitewashed. The East window looked out into a great oak, which, with its yellow leaves, was the only thing that seemed to give a little light. The dreary lines of pews seemed to add to the dismal character of the scene, the half-daylight, the rain drizzling, the old pew-opener going about in pattens—no carpet laid down for the bridal feet, or any “fuss” made. Why should any “fuss” be made about Bates the tax-collector’s daughter? And no one was disposed to do honour to Arthur, but rather the reverse, as a young man forsaking his caste, and setting the worst of examples to all other young men.
Now and then somebody would come in with a sound of closing umbrellas, and swinging of the doors, and come noisily up the aisle and drop into a pew. Girls, like Sarah Jane, in cheap hats with cheaper feathers, who sat and whispered, and laughed, and looked about them, and women of Mrs. Bates’ own type, with big shawls and nondescript bonnets, came to see the Bates’ triumph with no very friendly sympathy. The dreariest scene! Durant sat behind and looked at it all with his heart beating. In the general commotion in which his mind was, he too could have cried as Lucy was doing over Arthur. How different was all this from the circumstances that ought to have attended the “happiest day of his life;” would it be the happiest day of his life;—or perhaps the most miserable? And yet, if the spectator could have taken the hand of that pale girl in front of him, and led her up to that dingy altar, how soon would he have forgotten all the circumstances! The damp-breathing place, the clammy pews, the squalor of the rain, the absence of all beauty and tokens of delight, what would they have done but make his happiness show all the brighter? Would the effect be the same with Arthur too? They had very soon an opportunity of judging; for Arthur came in suddenly by himself, looking anything but ecstatic. Fortunately, Durant thought, Lucy did not see him, her head being bent and covered with her hands. But Durant himself watched the bridegroom with feelings which he could not have described, a mixture of pity, and envy, and fellow-feeling, and contempt. That a man who was the brother of Lucy Curtis should throw away everything for Nancy Bates! and yet to have it in your power to throw away everything for love, to give the woman you had chosen, if she were only Nancy Bates, such a proof of affection, absolute and unmixed! But Arthur scarcely seemed conscious himself of that fine position. He was very pale, with an excited look about the eyes which gave him a worn and exhausted aspect. He was feeling to the bottom of his soul the squalor, the dinginess, the damp, and the gloom. What a day it was to be married on! What a place to be married in! What dismal surroundings? old Bates and Charley, and the uncle from Wapping, and not one familiar face to look kindly at him, to wish him happiness in a voice that was dear. He sat down in the front, gazing blankly, like Durant, at the oaktree that shed a little colour from its autumn leaves. It reminded him, by some fantastic trick of association, of the trees at home. Would he ever see that home again? The disjunction from everything he had cared for, from all he knew, came over him with a forlorn sense of desolation and solitude—on his wedding-day! Arthur felt he was doing wrong to his bride, but how could he help it? He, too, covered his face with his hands. Durant felt that if Lucy saw him she would rush to him in indifference to all appearances, but she did not know he had passed her so quietly, all alone.
And then the few spectators began to whisper and stir, and turn their heads to the door; and a carriage was heard to stop. Lucy raised her head and put back her veil a little. She gazed breathless at the bride, who came up the aisle on her father’s arm. Nancy was dressed in simple white muslin, the resources of the family having been concentrated on the “silk” in which she was to take her departure from home. But she had a veil like the most fashionable of brides, and a crown of orange-blossoms, such as would have put most brides to shame. Lucy gazed at her, more and more forgetting that she herself ought not to be seen, and her heart swelled with a mixture of attraction and repulsion. That dress and that moment equalizes conditions. A woman cannot be more than a bride if she should be a queen. Nancy had a right to be considered as the type of all youth and womanhood, as much as if she had been the most exalted of women. Arthur was but a poor type of the other side, but for her there was no drawback, except the rain, and she had not been conscious of the rain. With her head a little drooped, but her pretty figure erect, she walked up the aisle, leaning on her shabby old father’s arm, like a lily, notwithstanding the meanness of the prop. She was happy; she was serious; full of awe, which gave delicacy to her looks and movements, uncertain yet serene upon the threshold of her life. Durant, who had no prejudice, became an instant convert to her as she passed him, virginal, abstracted, a vision of whiteness and serious tender mystery. And Lucy, who was moved against her will, could do nothing but gaze, forgetting herself, till old Davies sighed so loud and shook her head so persistently that her young mistress took fright. It was not a wedding that occupied much time. There was no music, no nuptial hymn or wedding march for Nancy Bates, and the two spectators who were most interested had scarcely recovered from their thrill of excitement when the stir about the altar told that it was all over, and the party going to the vestry to sign the register. This was the signal for the other people present to open their pew-doors, and pull up their shawls, and lift their damp umbrellas; and Sarah Jane, who was full of excitement and satisfaction, proud of her white bonnet and her new frock, came tripping down the aisle to speak to some of those companions of her own, whose dingy dresses made such a wonderful contrast to her own bright and gay garb. “Didn’t she behave beautiful? hasn’t it gone off well?” said Sarah Jane, triumphing over everyone who was not in pink muslin. And while she stood giving information of the future movements of the bridal pair, describing fully where “Arthur” was about to take Nancy, Durant bent forward to endeavour to induce Lucy to leave. He had forgotten all about Sarah Jane, but she had not forgotten him. She gave a little scream of surprise, and looked eagerly at the half-veiled young lady. Then she rushed off, forgetting even her pink muslin, and calling audibly on Arthur as she approached the door of the vestry, which the rest of the party had entered.
“Arthur! Arthur!” she called, rushing in among them, “there’s one of your people there——”
“Hold your tongue,” said her mother in alarm. “Sarah Jane! recollect you’re in church.”
“I’m speaking to Arthur, mamma; there’s one of your people there, as sure as—as sure as anything, and Mr. Durant with her. He did not see me,” cried Sarah Jane, with an angry blush, “but I know him; and there’s a young lady and an old lady.”
“And quite natural too, and I’m very glad of it,” said Mrs. Bates. “Fancy my staying away if it was Charley’s wedding! I’ll go and ask my lady to come and have a bit of dinner.”
“It must be a mistake,” said Arthur, paler than ever; “it cannot be my mother.”
He put out his hand to stop Mrs. Bates; then he stood aghast, gazing after her. He could not leave his newly-made bride, and how could he meet his mother’s eyes?
“Oh, go—go,” said Nancy; “you needn’t mind me.” Then she herself melted, touched by the situation. “Yes, go, Arthur. I will wait for you,” she said, with something that looked almost like dignity.
He dared not take her with him. He went with mingled eagerness and reluctance, wondering, affected, ready to bless his mother, or to cast off all duty to her for ever.
He found Mrs. Bates haranguing old Davies, his mother’s maid, calling her “my lady,” and begging that she would do them the honour to come to the wedding breakfast.
“I don’t pretend to call it breakfast, it’s more like what your ladyship would call a lunch; but the young folks must have something substantial before they start on their journey—and we’ll take it so friendly, and such an honour. It is just what we were wanting, and not daring to hope for, my lady,” said Mrs. Bates, beaming. “Arthur, you can tell her ladyship—”
“Why, Davies, you!” cried Arthur, sharply, stung by sudden rage. “What are you doing here?”
“Davies! Ain’t she my lady after all?” cried Mrs. Bates.
Lucy had been almost crouching in a corner of the pew; but when she saw her brother’s troubled and worn face, she could not restrain herself.
“Oh, Arthur, how could you think mamma would come?” she said. “How could she come after the letter you sent her? But we could not let it be without one near you that loved you; and I am here,” said Lucy, coming forward, putting back her veil, the tears rushing to her eyes.
Arthur was overcome by the sight of her, by the voice, by the incident altogether. He was so much excited and overcome that he could have cried too. He took his sister’s outstretched hands, and kissed her cheek.
“Lucy, I will never forget this. Come and speak to Nancy, and then they can take you away.”
Here Durant came forward, with a feeling that he would be condemned on all sides.
“I don’t think Lady Curtis meant that your sister should see anyone,” he said.
“Lucy, I suppose you are old enough to choose for yourself—is he the keeper of your conscience?” cried Arthur.
Lucy looked at her guardian, with a faint, deprecatory smile quivering on her lip.
“I must,” she said; “I must! How can I help it?”
She seemed to ask his permission; and what was he that he should give or withhold permission? He stood aside, and with reluctant hands opened the pew-door.
Just then Nancy, tired of waiting, and drawn by potent curiosity, came forward alone. She had thrown back her bridal veil. It was natural that there should be a certain defiant expression on her face. She strolled towards them with an appearance of carelessness, a cavalier air. Nancy’s heart was beating loudly enough. She was afraid of the ladies whom she might be about to face, but that only made her put on a bolder and more saucy aspect. She was half-wounded that he should have left her for a moment, half-anxious for the result, and really eager and wistful, wishing to please if she could, had anyone been able to see into her heart. But an image of more complete defiance and saucy freedom than this girl, with her veil put up in a crumpled mass, approaching with a bold swing of her person and a loud-sounding step, could not have been found. All her virginal grace, her tender bridehood and womanhood, seemed to have suddenly flown.
Lucy looked up at her and quailed; her lip quivered more and more; she looked at Durant with an appeal, she looked at Arthur with a pitiful glance. Finally, she stepped forward, and said, softly,
“I must not stay. I wish you may be very, very happy, you and my brother. Oh, Arthur, you know I wish you happy!” Then she made a pause, for Nancy gave no response. “I am sorry,” she went on, faltering, “that it has all been so unhappy—that we have not known you—that Arthur has been so unkind; but it is not our fault.”
“Oh, it does not matter,” said Nancy. She was touched by the look of the girl who stood before her, but to give in was impossible. “It doesn’t matter a bit. I don’t suppose we should have got on, had we known each other. It is better it should be as it is.”
And with this she turned and walked slowly back towards the vestry, turning her back upon them. Lucy stood still for a moment in dismay. Then she said, breathless,
“Good-bye, Arthur, good-bye! Davies will give you a letter, but don’t open it now. Good-bye, and God bless you. Take me away, Mr. Durant, take me away! Come, come,” she said, hastening him as they got to the door. “I shall be crying again if we don’t go, I am so silly. I don’t care for the rain, only come, come away!”
Then they were out of doors again, in the wet street, at a distance even from old Davies, who came hobbling after them, the rain blowing in their faces, everything over. Lucy clung to his arm and hurried him on, choking the sobs that would come into her throat.
“How can I forgive myself?” he cried. “I have allowed you to be insulted—I, who would not let the wind blow on you if I had my will.”
She remembered this after, and his agitated look, but did not see them then.
“Oh, it is not that,” she said. “It does not matter, as she told me. But oh, Arthur! he does not belong to us any longer, he cares nothing about us!” cried Lucy, with the shock of discovery which no previous preparation in the mind can lessen.
She had said, as she came, that her brother was severed from his family; but now she saw it with her eyes, and felt the sharpness of the fact, so different from anticipation. Durant was full of a hundred compunctions, as if he had been the cause. He would have said philosophically enough to his own sister that it was the course of nature; but it seemed horrible, unnatural, that such a thing should happen to Lucy. The little suppressed sobs that came from her at intervals as they went back to the train, seemed to rend his own heart.