THOUGH it was his wedding-day, and though he was an impassioned lover, it would be impossible to describe the sensation of despair with which Arthur saw his sister and his friend hurry out of the church. His bride had left him on the other side, turning her back upon him. He was left there, with Mrs. Bates and old Davies! There was a tragical-ludicrous air about the group which seemed the very culmination of that squalor of the weather and the surroundings, which not even Nancy’s bridal-wreath, and Sarah Jane’s pink muslin could counteract. Mrs. Bates and Mrs. Davies were fitly matched. They were ready to fly at each other’s throats, metaphorically, as they stood there, confronting each other: Mrs. Bates red with confusion and wrath to think that she should have called this person my lady, and Davies dissolved in tears and speechless with indignation. What had young Arthur to do between them? They seemed like symbolical emblems of his fate. No longer to have to do with the beautiful things of this earth, grace, cultivation, loveliness; but with the meaner conditions, the bare, unattractive prose of existence. Everything that was shabby and rusty and poor had taken the place of all that was lovely and pleasant and of good report. Beauty and youth were evanescent qualities; they would flit away even from his bride; and what had he to look forward to but another Mrs. Bates as his final companion? This horrible idea did not communicate itself in so many words, but it flitted vaguely upon the air, giving Arthur a sudden horror of Mrs. Bates, who had taken the place of his mother, as it seemed. He turned away to follow Nancy, but was stopped by old Davies, who called out a despairing “Oh, Master Arthur!” and put a letter, wet with unnecessary tears, into his hand.
“Is it from my mother, Davies?” he said.
“I don’t know, Sir, if it’s my lady or Miss Lucy. I was to have took it; I wasn’t to have seen you; but now as I have seen you—oh, Master Arthur, Master Arthur, how could you, Sir?” cried Davies, with streaming eyes and uplifted hands.
He turned away with rage in his heart, clenching his hand involuntarily; but at that moment Mrs. Bates interfered, and changed the current of Arthur’s feelings.
“You are a most impertinent person,” said Mrs. Bates. “How dare you speak to my son-in-law so? And in church, too! Though you are only a servant, you ought to know better.”
“Davies!” cried Arthur, rushing back and taking the old woman’s hands, “go after Lucy—quick! She is alone. But first say, ‘God bless you!’ dear old Davies. There never was a time that you did not say ‘God bless you’ before!”
“And I will say it!” cried the old woman. “I will say it, never mind who hears. Oh, Master Arthur, dear, God bless you! But you’ve broke my lady’s heart, and Miss Lucy’s too.”
“Run after her—go, Davies, go! my sister is alone,” cried Arthur, giving her such a grasp of his young hands, and turning her round towards the door with such impetuosity, that poor old Davies all but tripped upon the matting in the aisle.
He thrust the letter into his pocket, and went back to Nancy, who stood at the vestry door, looking round for him, with nothing but disdain in her face, and little but dismay in her heart.
“If he leaves me like this now, what will he do after?” Nancy was saying to herself; and though she loved him dearly, and though it was a great marriage for Nancy Bates, her heart quailed for the moment at the difficulties before her, and she repented of the step she had just taken. She stood up against the vestry-door, defying her bridegroom and all his belongings, as it seemed, with dilated nostrils and curled lips, and insolent gaze. But in her heart, what a darkness of despair was quivering about poor Nancy! What had she done? Plunged into a new world, which was all against her, which was superior to her, in which she had nothing but Arthur, who already, ten minutes after he had pledged her his faith, had deserted her—for them! Oh, how much better to have stayed by the old mother, the shabby father who loved her! Her whole inner being was quivering with this pang of sudden desolation and enlightenment. But with what a look of disdain and defiance she regarded her bridegroom as he came back to her! no softening in her eyes, however much there might be in her heart.
“Forgive me, Nancy,” he said, gently. “You have a right to be vexed; but don’t turn from me, my darling, as if I were unworthy a look.”
“It is you who think me unworthy a look!” she cried, “you and your fine-lady sister, and all your grand friends. Oh, I am sure you would much rather go to them. If they had only come yesterday instead of to-day!”
“Hush, hush!” he said, taking her unwilling hand. She was everything he had in the world now, and any stirrings of anger that might rise in his mind were speedily suppressed by the emergency. People have more dominion even over their feelings than they think. He got rid of the resentment which springs so quickly when the nerves are overstrung and the mind excited, by simple force of the position; for if he allowed himself to quarrel with Nancy, what remained to him? The situation was impossible. He drew her hand within his arm. “Is everybody ready?” he said. “We have not much time to lose. Come!” he added, lower. “Darling, we are going to leave all the trouble behind, both on your side and my side.”
“There is no trouble on my side!”
“Well, then, on mine; we are leaving it all behind. Is not everything happiness, everything delight beyond this church door?”
She could not continue the controversy: for Arthur’s face had regained the lover-look which Nancy had felt the absence of all that strange morning. She had to walk by his side, with her arm in his, and his soft words and glowing looks, and the way in which he held her hand upon his arm, gradually stole at once the misery and the defiance out of her heart. She began to forget the untoward details, and to feel only the thrill of this mysterious thing which had happened. That she was no longer Nancy Bates but Mrs. Arthur Curtis, to be my Lady Curtis sometime—no longer a poor girl, the tax-collector’s daughter, but a lady! All in a moment, this mystic change had been made. And she was changed; she felt it, with a sudden revulsion of sentiment. The laugh of Sarah Jane behind her filled her with a half impatient shame. She was annoyed to hear her mother telling over the just concluded incident. She herself had a right to be angry, but what had they to do with Miss Curtis’ visit? Lucy’s visit! that was what her brother’s wife had a right to call her; but “the Bateses” had no right to interfere at all. Had Arthur said this, she would have blazed into high resentment and declared her family to be as good, if not better, than his; but in the seclusion of her private soul, a seclusion not yet in any way impaired by the fact that she was married, this was how she was thinking. It gave her a sense of importance that Lucy had come. She had taken no notice of Arthur’s family, but they had been compelled to take notice of her. And in time to come when she might have many battles to fight with them, it would be well to have this fact in hand. Accordingly, when the party arrived at home, it was Nancy who silenced her mother, whose indignation against Arthur for allowing her to address old Nurse Davies as my lady was great.
“Mamma, you will just stop that,” said Nancy. “You went out of the room in a hurry before Arthur knew. Was it his fault?”
Mrs. Bates was thunderstruck. She had thought of a great many things that might happen, sooner than that Nancy should take up the cudgels for her new family.
“Bless us all!” she said, “is it a reason that no one should dare to speak, because you are Mrs. Arthur Curtis?”
But it was not a moment to quarrel. And when after the meal which Mrs. Bates had thought Lady Curtis would call a luncheon, the mother and sisters left the table with the bride, in a body, to change her dress, according to the well-understood formula of marriages, there was nothing but affection and tears, as is becoming at such a moment. There were no strangers present at the meal. It had been the strong desire of Sarah Jane that Mr. Raisins should be invited, he who it was understood was likely to cause another “wedding in the family” before long. But this had not been permitted, partly on account of Arthur, partly because there was no room.
“We must have your Uncle Sam, and how are we to squeeze in another?” Mrs. Bates had asked; and all Sarah Jane’s indignant protestations about the impossibility of a wedding “without one young man,” were silenced by the physical impossibility. The limited number of the party thus took away much of the supposed festive character from the repast. But for the wedding cake on the table, it might have been a very ordinary domestic dinner; and even Sarah Jane’s pink muslin was of little use to her, and had no effect to speak of upon her spirits. To be sure there were a few people coming to tea, whatever consolation might be got from that. The little parlour was hot and stuffy with eight people seated round the table; and no effort that Arthur could make could keep from his mind a sense of the grotesque incongruity of the scene. People who were passing peered in at the window to see the wedding party, and get a glimpse of the bride. Arthur had found the parlour an earthly paradise at almost every other hour; but he had not been in the habit of coming at this hour. He had never even seen the family at their early dinner; and to have his health drank by Uncle Sam from Wapping was a new experience to him.
“I hope as you’ll both be happy, Mr. Curtis, and that you’ll have every satisfaction in Nancy,” said Mr. Sam Bates, solemnly drinking a glass of the brown and filmy port which they all pledged the bride and bridegroom in. He looked at her as if she had been an article just sold, with a calculation of all the uses she might be put to, as he hoped she would give satisfaction. “I have heard a deal of my niece Nancy, and I know she’s had a many advantages,” he said. “I hope she’ll act up to them, Mr. Curtis, and give you every satisfaction in the married state.”
This was the toast of the day, and they all hoped that Arthur would have got up and made a speech; and when he only said, “I am much obliged to you, Mr. Bates,” they were all a trifle disappointed, especially on account of Uncle Sam, who they felt required some practical proof that Nancy’s husband was, in reality, the very fine gentleman and member of the upper classes which they had represented him to be—not perceiving that Sam’s speech of itself proved his perception of the fact. And it was very strange that all these details, which would have amused Arthur greatly, with a kindly amusement without any gall in it, when he first began to come to the house, and which, even up to a very recent period, he would have regarded with amiable toleration, should have become unendurable to him now, at the very moment when he had become legally a member of the household party, and had more reason than ever before to judge them charitably, and look upon their doings and sayings with indulgent eyes; but so it was. How this should be, it is hard to explain, but it was quite natural to feel; and it is scarcely possible to exaggerate the impatience that was in his mind to get away, and to carry Nancy away. She was his now—“there was no longer any occasion for him,” he said, unconsciously to himself, “to put up with this.” He was enfranchised. Soon there would be land and sea, miles and leagues of it, of English soil, and foreign ground between them; and it would be his own fault if he exposed himself to another dinner in that parlour. When Nancy went away to change her dress, attended by her mother and sisters, Mr. Bates got out the rum, and called to “the girl” for hot water.
“You’ll take a drop before you start for luck,” he said; and though Arthur would not take any, Sam Bates was very willing to do so. The smell of it sickened the young man, for the first time fastidious and critical. He got up and went to the window to look for the carriage which was coming to take his bride and himself away. They were going to Dover direct, to cross in a day or two. How he counted the moments till he could get out into the fresh air, however damp and gloomy, never, with his will, to come back here any more.
But another shock awaited poor Arthur when Nancy came downstairs attired in the “silk” which was the crown of her little trousseau. It was light and thin, and rustled much, and was of a kind of salmon colour, between pink and brown, largely trimmed with flounces and fringes and bits of lace—every kind of florid ornamentation. The women were so proud of the effect, that Nancy was brought downstairs with the little brown jacket on her arm, which she was to wear over this resplendent garb, which, it seemed to Arthur’s eyes, might have been worn at a flower-show on a brilliant day of summer; for he was not sufficiently trained in details to be aware how the cheap elaboration of Nancy’s gown would have showed among the costlier productions of fashion.
“My! what a swell!” cried Charley Bates, while the two elders looked up complaisant from their rum and water. It was indeed a proud moment for the family.
“The thought I’ve had over this dress!” said the proud mother, with a pull here, and a pinch there to the cracking folds, “for you see there were so many things to think of; the present moment isn’t everything; and if she takes care of it, it will be quite good for next summer, and always a handsome dress for an occasion. And then if they meet friends, and are asked out of an evening, there she is! what could be better? You may say she’s a swell—but lasting was in my mind.”
“It’s a splendid costoom,” said Uncle Sam. “I hope there’s a something in the pocket for luck. And very pretty you look in it, Nancy, and I wish you health to wear it, my dear, and plenty more when that’s done.”
“She must not look for many like this,” said Mrs. Bates; “not just at present, till Sir John comes round. Parents may stretch a point, but I would never have a young woman be hard upon her husband. Turn round, dear, and show the basques. I never saw a dress that did Miss Snips more credit. But Arthur don’t give his opinion. A shawl! Oh, if that isn’t like a man! Cover her up in a shawl on her wedding-day!”
“But what if she catches cold on her wedding-day?” said poor Arthur.
He put his hand caressingly on the pinkness of the shoulder, and looked at his bride with all the show of admiration which he could put on to hide his secret horror. He was worn out with excitement and emotion, which, no doubt, was the reason why this final accident gave him such a shiver of horror.
Nancy, who had grown suspicious as he grew fastidious, took fire instantly. She flung away from his caressing touch.
“I’d better go upstairs again, and put on my old merino!” she cried, with a flush of passion, wheeling round with indignant impetuosity, and a fury of disappointment in her heart. They all caught and held her, while she struggled to get free.
“She was always like that,” cried her mother. “She never could bear a word about her things. Nancy, dear, it ain’t that he doesn’t like it. It’s all his anxiety for you.”
“My dear Nancy, the carriage is here,” cried Arthur, half frantic. “We shall lose the train. The dress is beautiful, but the day is cold and wet—”
“Don’t you see, dear, he don’t want you to spoil your lovely dress—”
“And be as hoarse as an old crow all the honeymoon,” said the amiable Matilda. “That’s what Arthur is thinking of, and right too! And here’s my new shawl, that I brought down on purpose. Look at the coachman, off of his box, looking in.”
This reduced them all to calm. The coachman sat serenely overhead, contemplating the scene in the parlour with much satisfaction. His attention, however, was chiefly centred in the steaming rum-and-water, which, though it disgusted Arthur, looked very comfortable to the damp cabman in the drizzle, who was elderly, and had no particular interest in the bride. “Lord, how some folks does enjoy themselves!” he was saying in his secret soul. And, fortunately, there was no more time to think of the dress. Matilda wrapped her sister in her big shawl, and they all pressed round with kisses and farewells, of which Arthur had his share. He did not like them to kiss him, but how could he help it? He was on his good behaviour, ready to accept and forgive everything so long as he could get away.
And when they at last drove from the door, what a relief it was! The Bates’ all stood in a circle outside, waving good-byes and yet more kisses, not heeding either the rain or the draggled spectators who stood by. Nor were the other missiles wanting which are common on such occasions. An old white shoe, one of those which Sarah Jane had danced to pieces on the night of the Volunteers’ ball, thrown violently after them, glanced in at the window, and fell on the opposite seat as they set out. Never was there a more squalid spell discharged at the shy and doubtful happiness for which Arthur Curtis had paid so great a price. He took it between his finger and thumb, and pitched it out of the window. Perhaps that, too, was an injudicious step to take.
“I think you might have gone a little further off before you showed my folks how you despise them, Arthur,” cried Nancy, with flaming cheeks.
Poor Arthur! there was not much laughter in his mood. But he made an effort to be light-hearted and gay.
“It was too dirty for anything,” he said, laughing; and then he drew her within his arm, and said, “At last, Nancy! only you and I!”
“Yes; you have got rid of them all at last,” said Nancy, making an effort to resist.
But, after all, they were in love with each other, and had been married that morning. The incipient hostility dropped, and he forgave her dress, and she forgave his criticism. Her manners were as imperfect as her gown; but now she was free from all influences that were perverse, and she was his Nancy—his bride, the girl he loved, the object of his choice. He had paid dearly for the prize he was carrying away. It was not the time, certainly, to look out for flaws in that prize now.
Thus they set off on their honeymoon, poor inexperienced young souls! He persuaded her, with no great difficulty, to stay in London first for a few days—hoping to be able to correct the dress—for how could he take her to France, where dress means something, to travel in November in a salmon-coloured silk gown? This may seem a poor sort of thing to occupy a bridegroom’s thoughts. But then the vehemence of a reformer and missionary was added in Arthur’s case to the new sense of responsibility that was upon him. He must make her perfect—if he could.