So Bessie set off for the market and I set off with the pram, full of pride, responsibility—and anxiety. It was one of those warm, cloudy, heavy days that people who know Guernsey can readily imagine. I chose quiet streets, as may be supposed, and went fearfully over each kerb. With greater difficulty I abstained from calling attention to some exciting animal episodes, including a kitten up a tree. Now I had hardly navigated two or three streets with complete success when Barney took on that glazed look in the eye that even the inexperienced can interpret. I leant forward and gave him a stealthy push in his middle, at which he perked up a bit. But soon the glazed look returned, requiring another push; another return, another push—a kind of danegeld business. Then, with a pathetic look as much as to say, ‘Don’t dig me in de ribs, Auntie,’ his head slumped forward and he was asleep past recall. I had no heart to poke him any more, but walked him quietly about. As I drew near the house at 11.55 I was wondering what excuse I could put up to pacify Bessie. Suddenly the little trump woke, sat up, smiled, and took notice generally. I said nothing beyond the report that he had been very good and had not got excited by things around him, and I was amused to be told at lunch that he had slept soundly after the outing that Auntie had so carefully taken him.
A little overawed by Bessie’s proficiency, I ought to have approached matrimony in a chastened spirit, but I could only keep saying to myself, ‘There’ll be Arthur about the place, and nothing else matters.’
X. Wedding Without Tears
IN the summer of 1897 the whole country seemed given up to gaiety. The ‘Queen’s weather’ of glorious sunshine began to work in the early part of the year and was repeating the glories of 1887. People from all parts were pouring into London, all the public buildings and shops were vying with one another in their decorations, and the coming Jubilee was the main topic of conversation. The lucky owners of windows overlooking the route of the procession were making small fortunes by letting seats.
A seat was quite beyond my means, and I was too old a Londoner to think of jostling among the crowds in the street. But luck, as usual, came my way. My ever-constant friends, M’Jane and Yetta, went to the great expense of hiring two rooms in Cheapside, high up, with windows giving good views of the road. This astonished me, for they were always ostentatious about their radical views, and it seemed inconsistent to pay money merely to watch homage being paid to someone who after all was only a fellow mortal. But at heart they were as conservative as anyone, and almost fanatically loyal to the Queen, whose joys and griefs they had always seemed to share. With great forethought they invited some quite young cousins to see the procession, because these would be able to remember such an historical event when they were old. And for no good reason I was asked to share the fun.
And great fun it was. We all started off in two four-wheelers, M’Jane cumbered with two big baskets. We had to arrive early, for the streets were closed to traffic some hours before the ceremony. But there was no dull moment. Cheapside is historic enough when empty, but the overpowering interest now was to watch the increasing crowds getting wedged together and full of good-tempered excitement. Still more amusing was the way in which every available peep-hole in Cheapside had its spectator: roofs, window-sills, some very perilous-looking ledges, and even chimneys. I guessed that Shakespeare must have seen something of the kind, probably in that very road—always the London route for a triumph.
Meanwhile the true inwardness of M’Jane’s baskets was appearing. Cold chicken, tongue, and ham she had thoughtfully placed in sandwiches, so that at any exciting moment we could eat them with still an eye on the window. Lemonade, fruit, and chocolate were always within reach. For later in the day (when the procession should be over and there was a wait before we could get away) she had brought spirit-lamp and kettle for a big sit-down tea.
M’Jane preferred to busy herself in such matters rather than look at the crowds too much, for they made her dazzled and nervous. What an ordeal it must be for anyone who is the centre of such a crowd, the one on whom all eyes are strained. The Queen was nearly eighty. Since it was considered easier for her to remain in her carriage than to enter the Abbey, as she had done for the former Jubilee, the open space outside the west door of St. Paul’s was chosen as the site for the service of thanksgiving.
We watchers became aware that this service was over and that the procession had left the cathedral, from the indefinable stirring among the crowds below, very much as one becomes aware of the approach of a train from the behaviour of the people on the platform. The rumour, ‘They’re coming!’ seemed to spread from nowhere. We could see the extra craning of necks and could hear the distant cheering, getting ever louder. Presently Captain Ames appeared. He had been chosen to lead the procession because of his great height and fine bearing. After him came long lines of soldiers and sailors of every kind, and from all parts of the Empire. No such representative procession had ever been seen in England before. As each fresh contingent appeared cheers poured forth. At last a roar of almost alarming strength told us that the Queen was at hand. I had not seen her since the early seventies, when she drove along Essex Road (for some obscure reason) and I had been held up to get a view. I then saw a little lady in black and had been rather disappointed that she looked like anybody else. And now the quarter of a century didn’t seem to have made much difference to her. It was the same little lady in black, but now she carried a parasol—a merciful protection not only from the blazing June sunshine but also from the sight of so many people perched in perilous spots. Specially engraved on my memory was her personal escort: on one side of her carriage rode her son, our long-beloved Prince of Wales, and on the other side her grandson, the Kaiser—both of them in resplendent uniforms, mostly white. All the brilliance of her surroundings merely emphasized the majesty of the little lady in black.
In all those rejoicing crowds I was the most joyful, for I was to be married early in July. As Arthur and I walked about the streets that evening to enjoy the decorations we regarded them as celebrations of our own crowning mercy. The only one I remember is the device of the old London and North Western Railway, displaying with greatly enlarged capitals, ‘Longest, Noblest, Wisest Reign’.
For our wedding we needed no festivities, for the fact itself was feast enough. Nor did getting married present any dire problem. Our chief wealth was the fewness of our wants. The bits of furniture that we each had acquired for our rooms were almost enough to start with, but we were obliged to find somewhere to put them—somewhere to live. We had plenty of advice in this matter from our friends. One section of them said, ‘Be sure you have a house, not a flat, because you will want a bit of garden.’ The other section urged the advantages of a flat—‘Easy to manage, easy to leave for holiday-time, and no stairs.’ After looking at endless places of both kinds we fixed on a flat in the middle of Ladbroke Grove, said to be ‘six-roomed, with kitchen and bathroom’. When we told the agent who was showing it to us that we could count only five rooms, he pointed to a dark cupboard, suitable for storing trunks, and said, ‘This is the servant’s room.’ I record this to show that such conditions were thought possible for a human being in ’97. Arthur was so indignant with the man for suggesting such a thing that he was for walking out at once. I argued that there was plenty of room without the cupboard, and we decided to take the flat, for it was by far the best we had seen. Arthur scrutinized the terms of the lease in order to find some objection, but the only one he could discover was our being forbidden to keep pigeons. ‘I don’t want to keep pigeons,’ said he, ‘and heaven knows I never shall, but I refuse to be told that I mustn’t.’ So the clause was deleted.
Nothing then remained to be done but to have our various belongings moved to the flat, from Gray’s Inn and the Ladies’ Chambers, and supplement them with a few necessities. This involved a short gap for each of us to be homeless. Arthur took some furnished rooms in the neighbourhood of the Temple, and I spent the week with Mary Wood, who had long been promised that I should b
e married from her home in Camden Road. The idea was that our wedding gathering should consist of Mary and her sister Ursula, and our four brothers—two of Arthur’s and two of mine. Since these last were all married, Arthur got one of his bachelor legal friends to act as best man. Custom appears to forbid this office being held by a married man, the reason for which only Frazer knows. Of course, Arthur’s parson brother, Llewelyn, was to marry us, Tom was to give me away, and the others were just to rally round and cheer us on. I expect most people have such jolly designs for simplicity, and are thwarted by their friends.
The friend to thwart our little plan was Yetta. She was all for having the whole affair under her management, and for us to be married from her house in proper style. I told her that Mary was my oldest friend, that her house had been like another home to me, and that I had always promised to be married from it. Yetta at once conceded the claims of old friendship. ‘Yes, quite right,’ said she, ‘I wouldn’t dream of interfering with such a promise, although M’Jane and I will be greatly disappointed.’ I ought to have guessed that this handsome admission was only a retreat to jump the better. Presently she said, ‘You will, of course, start from Miss Wood’s house, and then I suppose you will be going away somewhere?’ I hadn’t thought about this, but supposed that would be the idea. ‘Surely, then,’ said she, ‘you could step in for a few minutes after the ceremony to have our good wishes—just on your way to the station? You see M’Jane is not strong enough to go to the Church.’ To this I readily assented. Next time I saw her she begged me to send round a few of our presents for M’Jane to see. ‘But there aren’t any to look at much—mostly tables and chairs and other sensible things that people knew we should want.’ ‘Well, then, just send a few of the small ones, and make a list of the others, for the people to see.’ ‘People?’ said I, in alarm, my suspicions aroused, ‘what people?’ ‘Only a few. I thought Miss Wood and your brothers might care to come in…and one or two other friends, perhaps,’ she muttered vaguely. I hung back at this, knowing the brother mind. Then she added, ‘Of course, we should have a little light refreshment for them.’ At this I protested fiercely, but she flooded me with reasons, and from sheer exhaustion I gave in. When I told Arthur of my capitulation he laughed and said, ‘It will please them, and will soon be over. Nothing matters to us. We have all the luck.’ In a few days I had a letter from Yetta to say that invitations were being sent out, and would I supply a few addresses. The whole thing had become a ‘reception’.
‘The worst of it is,’ I said to Mary, ‘that I shall have to dress up to all this.’
‘And a good thing, too. And the sooner you set about getting some clothes the better. Let’s go off and get the wedding-dress, and lots of other things. You are such a silly about buying clothes, and you mayn’t get me to help you like this for ever so long.’
My term at Bedford College ended at the beginning of July, and I had a whole week to spend with Mary having nothing at all to do but enjoy myself. So I fell in with her idea of getting some clothes, and we started off to Derry and Toms’. When it came to discussing the actual wedding-dress I felt obliged to confess that Yetta was designing one of her little cousins to be a bridesmaid. ‘In that case,’ said Mary firmly, ‘you must have something a bit bridal-looking.’ ‘As long as it isn’t white satin and a train and a veil, then.’ ‘No, only a cream-coloured soft silky thing, walking length, and a picture hat. It will come in quite useful afterwards for a dance or a garden party.’ The fact was, I was putty in Mary’s hands, and agreed not only to this but to a grey coat and skirt to ‘go away’ in, as well as a lot of other accessories that Mary thought the right thing for married life. Among these was an extremely bright dressing-gown. The dress-maker was a Frenchwoman, very sympathetic and ready with suggestions. She recommended for the hot weather a little outdoor cape, in this way: ‘’e clothe the shoulder and ’e not make warm.’ White gloves, white shoes and stockings—these all seemed to me most extravagant, particularly a white lace handkerchief. When I protested Mary said that I might not be married again for quite a long time.
One of our expeditions during that week was a visit to the church where I was to be married. St. Andrew’s, Holborn, we found quite interesting. Its very position was odd, between three streets—Holborn Viaduct, St. Andrew Street, and Shoe Lane. From an old print in the church we saw that it once stood at the top of ‘Heavy Hill’ (so called because it led from prison to gallows); but since the building of the viaduct one has to step down to the entrance. The pulpit had a special interest for us, not because Wesley and Whitefield preached from it (they seem to have done this from every City pulpit) but because of the courage of the rector Hacket during the Civil War. A puritan ‘Kensitite’ of the time came in one day when Hacket was reading the service and forbade him to go on with it, at the same time pointing a pistol at him and asserting that it was his duty to shoot, because he had been sent by the Earl of Essex. Hacket’s reply was simple: ‘Very good, you go on with your duty, and I’ll go on with mine.’ He then resumed his prayers, and of course the soldier retired. Naturally I was interested in the registers, and was glad to learn that a famous lawyer and a famous poet (Coke and Hazlitt) had been married there. We already knew that Disraeli had been baptized there, found out that this had been when he was thirteen, and wondered whether these years had been considered ‘ripe’ enough for using that special service that we had never heard.
What with one thing and another the days of that week passed happily away, and I forget our other expeditions.
Meanwhile Yetta had not been idle. Her organization had been extending. ‘As our house is so much nearer the church than Miss Wood’s, it would be far better if you and she were to come to lunch here, and then she can dress you here, and change you again here into your travelling-dress. So please have your wedding-dress sent here.’ We laughed. ‘Yetta’s suggestions,’ said I, ‘are like those of the boarder in Rudder Grange—the worst of them is, they are always right.’ ‘All we shall have to do, then,’ said Mary, ‘is to spend a leisurely morning here, step into a hansom and go off in time for their lunch. At all events you will still be married from here.’
I have had many a jolly drive in a hansom, but that was certainly the jolliest. It was a perfect summer day, and the familiar old streets, that I had often paced along to school with varied feelings, took on that morning an unsubstantial, fairy look.
The lunch was a solemn business, an ordinary midday meal unrelieved by any alcoholic note. Although there were several young cousins around the board, obviously expectant of some fun, I sensed that any levity on my part before the ceremony was misplaced. I was glad when it was over and Mary took me up to a bedroom to ‘robe’ me, and we could fool about a little in the process. But we felt more solemn when we saw the carriage that Yetta had ordered to take us to the church, and the bow of white ribbon that the driver displayed on his whip. I amused Mary on the way by telling her of Arthur’s habit of running everything up to the last moment. ‘We shall no doubt see him pelting along Holborn, trying to overtake us.’
As I went down the steps to the church I was overjoyed to see my two brothers, Tom and Dym, grinning a welcome at me. ‘Arthur’s here all right,’ said Dym, ‘getting jolly nervous that you won’t turn up in time.’ Yetta, of course, had gone before me, and as Tom led me up the nave he told me how they had all been amused by her telling him and everyone else exactly what they had to do. ‘A bit stiff, you know, when it came to informing Llewelyn.’ I suppose no woman forgets her last walk in her maiden name, and no woman can have a happier memory of it than I have: on the arm of an ideal brother I was walking to an ideal husband, and as I went was vaguely aware of quite a little congregation of old pupils and students and friends, as well as several of Arthur’s barrister friends. Among them I specially noticed, and managed to greet with a smile, Mrs. Keyes, in a brightly coloured new bonnet.
Arthur and his best man, Tom and I, with my little bridesmaid behind, were all present and correct
—but no Llewelyn. Yetta grew very restive and was actually making a movement to haul him out of the vestry when he bustled forth and began. There had been a great deal of argument in the press as to whether a woman ought to promise to obey her husband, and some brides had omitted the word. So I said my ‘obey’ firmly, feeling the pleasure of having no longer to order other people’s lives, but to be ordered myself. I still seem to feel the grip with which Arthur ‘took’ me, and the fierce way in which he pressed the ring home. Llewelyn felt it his duty to give us a short address, but as we had had ten years to consider the matter we hardly needed an exhortation as to our duty; the mere idea of Llewelyn in his canonicals solemnly preaching to us struck me as so absurd that I had to fix my attention on the great east window to keep from laughing.
I had always wondered why people were so long in the vestry after a wedding ‘just signing their names’. Now I discovered that there were other little ceremonies apart from the registration business. The atmosphere was completely different from the solemnity by the altar. Even Llewelyn unbent. It seems that the best man is entitled to be the first to kiss the bride. But Arthur was too quick for him. Indeed we had fun enough, crowded in that small vestry, but we had no joke to compare with the one at Dym’s wedding: his mother-in-law was let loose with the register and signed her name on the dotted line for the ‘officiating priest’.
A London Home in the Nineties Page 15
