Chapter XII

The wedding was an entire success. It was at once a symbol and a transfiguration of what may be called County-Life. The obedient tenants of the two estates formed a beribboned crowd that occupied the entire space between the two lych-gates and the church-porch; and the carriages and the motors in the road outside were four deep.

Within, the church was an almost perfect harmony of earth and heaven. Earth, so to speak, was composed of all the important people for twenty miles round as well as of a considerable little mob from London who travelled down in a special train; and Heaven was represented by Mr. Bennett in a shiningly clean surplice cut according to the real Old English pattern, white stole and Oxford hood, a choir that sang Lead, Kindly Light, and an organ that appeared to consist chiefly of Vox Humana — or as young Mr. Blakenham humorously called it, Nux Vomica.

The centre of attention was, as might be expected, the bride and bridegroom. The bride looked entirely charming, coming in on her father's arm — (he also wore white spats, and, with his black crutched stick, made a very distinguished figure); and still more charming as she kneeled with Percy at the chancel step. The sun shone in punctually as they kneeled there, and clad them in radiant colours projected through the persons of Saint Simon and Saint Jude who, in an attitude of benediction, presided in the window by the pulpit. It shone also on the new brass tablet in the porch, that contained the list of all the Rectors of Marston from the very beginning.

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The Rector delivered a characteristic and appropriate little address (a copy of which was handed in the vestry afterwards to the reporter of the County Gazette, from which journal, indeed, many of these details are drawn). His eyes were moist with honest pride and sincere emotion as he contemplated that member of his flock — now in full wedding-glory — who had caused him so much anxiety in the past; and he made to that past the most delicate little reference in the world.

" One must always remember," he said, " that the path of life is set about with rocks and hidden shoals; now it is the impetuous ardour of youth that beckons the traveller away, now it is some pointed shaft from without that finds entrance between the joints of his harness. Now it may be some passing fancy, now some intellectual fallacy, that beats upon the citadel of the young Churchman. But, no matter, brethren 99 and so forth. The metaphors were mixed, but the meaning unmistakable; and to convey thought, after all, is the highest function of all language.

In short there was not a shadow on the scene, except that little patch of gloom to which reference has already been made. And even that was largely dispelled by the private communication made by Lord Marridon to the Major and to Colonel Maitland, in the vestry, between the blasts of the Wedding March, to the effect that after all at present there was really no reason to believe as yet the horrible rumour that Jim had actually married the girl. There was not a Christian who heard that reassuring little message on that day, who did not breathe the more easily for it. Of course it was very shocking, but anything was better than that Miss Farham should make an honest man of him.

But for that, then — and Jim's absence — all was perfect.

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The bells played the melody of a hymn as a preiace to the joy-peal — a melody, it is true, which required a B flat bell and did not get it; yet (as in the matter of the Rector's metaphors) the sentiment was unmistakable.

The crowds were indubitably loyal: and took full advantage of the Rector's indulgent concession, for once, to the use of confetti in the precincts of the churchyard; and the procession, out to the brougham that was to conduct the bridal pair up to the house, was a very hearty matter indeed.

So too, as the hours went by, until the final departure of the newly-wedded couple at four o'clock, there was not a hitch to trouble the hostess' mind. Underhill, though looking harassed, had recaptured his head, it seemed, to such effect that he was explicitly congratulated by his mistress next morning. The band played loudly; the ices did not melt before their time; no one appeared hot or cross: the Major moved about with a subdued air that appeared completely well-bred and easy; Lord Marridon was gracious; Mrs. Brandreth-Smith actually held a kind of little court all of her own in the morning-room, with a successful sort of insolence that was its own justification; and at four o'clock precisely her son stood, in a beautiful grey suit, hat in hand, at the foot of the magnificent staircase, with personages ranged about him at the proper distances, to await the descent of his bride.

Certainly he was a little excited; but no more than was suitable. His complexion was still that of a boy, but his eyes were those of a man, and he bore himself at once resolutely and modestly. His Life was going to begin, it is necessary to remember.

For he had gone through a considerable crisis; and had emerged from it, victorious, precisely in that way which probably every person present on that occasion

Digitized by Google would heartily have applauded. He had had his emotions — what boy does not have them? He had had his dreams of austerity and Quixotism and honest human passion, and had trodden them determinedly down. He had even fancied that Faith could be so great as to draw a man from his father's house into a far country, not knowing whither he went; and he had had the moral courage to remain at home. He had learned that prudence was the higher form of valour, if not actually its better part; and he had been self -controlled enough, therefore, to write a letter for the breaking of a girl's heart, instead of being weak enough to face her and tell her the truth with his own lips.

Heaven therefore was rewarding him. Here he stood — a prodigal who had done his repenting comfortably at home — the heir of two houses and fifteen thousand a year, a reasonable, prudent, sensible young man, and the son-in-law of a peer.

And here came Mabel, delicious, triangular-faced, and bright-eyed, down the great staircase to join him.... She looked simply sweet.

But in London streets that day of August glory was turned to the breath of an oven. The pavements gave back that same heat — that makes country lawns and the shadow of cedars so delightful — flattened, dulled and oppressive. Long since, in the less frequented thoroughfares, the morning freshness of the water-carts was gone up in vapour, and the dust lay heavy and stifling. Along the sunny side of every road, blinds were drawn, awnings were let down, and the laurels in the little iron-railed gardens shimmered as with leaves of painted steel; along the shadowed side every window was flung wide to let

Digitized by Google the baking heat escape, which, from long before noon, had soaked down relentlessly and ceaselessly from the grey heat-haze overhead.

It was along one of these streets in Chelsea that (just at the time that in far-away Marston, Percy stood, cool and smiling and modestly triumphant, waiting for the coming of his bride downstairs) there trudged, keeping in the shade so far as was possible, a hot and dusty figure in a ready-made suit, hat in hand for the sake of coolness. The other hand carried a small shiny black bag.

He looked a little older, even, than he had looked two or three months before; because even two or three months of ceaseless journeying in local trains — (third-class to save the difference) — of carrying small tins of cocoa in a black bag, of ingratiating oneself with grocers and provision-dealers in arrogant little country towns and suburban districts — even three months of this life take the elasticity out of a man. His hair had retired a shade or two further back on his high temples; the lines at the corners of his mouth and eyes were a trifle deeper.

He did not look unhappy; but, undoubtedly, he looked resolute; for he was picturing the home to which every step brought him nearer. He would be there in a quarter of an hour now.... Marion, if she had awakened from her afternoon nap, or if she were not too much engrossed in proof -correcting, might perhaps be getting tea ready. Or she might not. One could never tell. At any rate, there would be Marion; and the hot little room, and the disused gas-chandeliers, and the dusty carpet and curtains, and the untidy table, and the smell of cabbage.

All this he was picturing to himself. Yet that was not all: for he was imagining, too, what would be the most tactful way of introducing the piece of news he brought

Digitized by Google with him. It was true that he carried in his pocket-book a written testimonial, bearing witness to his stainless probity, his perseverance, and his willingness. But he carried also in his memory the sentences to which he had listened that morning from the lips of the junior partner of Messrs. Martenson and Cabell.

" I'm afraid it's no good, Mr. Main. I haven't a word to say against your punctuality, or your zeal, or anything else of that kind. But, you know, it's a gift that's wanted, for the success of a traveller; and if a man hasn't got the gift — why he must just try something else. I'm very sorry, Mr. Main; indeed I am. But it's kinder to tell you straight out....

" Then — at the end of the month, Mr. Main...