However, the village wedding at which I suddenly found myself aspectator was, for a village, a singularly quiet one. There was nobell-ringing, and there were no bridesmaids. The bride drove up quietlywith her father, and there was a subdued note even in the murmur ofrecognition which ran along the villagers as they stood in groups nearthe church porch. There was an absence of the usual hilarity whichstruck me. One might almost have said that there was a quite ominoussilence.
Seating myself in a corner of the transept where I could see all and belittle seen, I with the rest awaited the coming of the overduebridegroom. Meanwhile the usual buzzing and bobbing of heads went onamongst the usual little group near the foot of the altar. Now andthen one caught a glisten of tears through a widow's veil, and thelittle bride, dressed quietly in grey, talked with the usual nervousgaiety to her girl friends, and made the usual whispered confidencesabout her trousseau. The father, in occasional conversation with oneand another, appeared to be avoiding the subject with the usualself-conscious solemnity, and occasionally he looked, somewhatanxiously, I thought, towards the church door. The bridegroom did notkeep us waiting long,--I noticed that he had a rather delicate sadface,--and presently the service began.
I don't know myself what getting married must feel like, but it cannotbe much more exciting than watching other people getting married.Probably the spectators are more conscious of the impressive meaning ofit all than the brave young people themselves. I say brave, for I amalways struck by the courage of the two who thus gaily leap into thegulf of the unknown together, thus join hands over the inevitable, andput their signatures to the irrevocable. Indeed, I always getsomething like a palpitation of the heart just before the priest uttersthose final fateful words, "I declare you man and--wife." Half a secondbefore you were still free, half a second after you are bound for theterm of your natural life. Half a second before you had only to dashthe book from the priest's hands, and put your hand over his mouth, andthough thus giddily swinging on the brink of the precipice, you aresaved. Half a second after
Not all the king's horses and all the king's men Can make you a bachelor ever again.
It is the knife-edge moment 'twixt time and eternity.
And, curiously enough, while my thoughts were thus running on towardsthe rapids of that swirling moment, the very thing happened which I hadoften imagined might happen to myself. Suddenly, with a sob, thebridegroom covered his face with his hands, and crying, "I cannot! Icannot!" hurriedly left the church, tears streaming down his cheeks, tothe complete dismay of the sad little group at the altar, and theconsternation of all present.
"Poor young man! I thought he would never go through with it," said anold woman half to herself, who was sitting near me. I involuntarilylooked my desire of explanation.
"Well, you see," she said, "he had been married before. His first wifedied four years ago, and he loved her beyond all heaven and earth."
That evening, I afterwards heard, the young bridegroom's body was foundby some boys as they went to bathe in the river. As I recalled oncemore that sad yearning face, and heard again that terrible "I cannot!I cannot!" I thought of Heine's son of Asra, who loved the Sultan'sdaughter.
"What is thy name, slave?" asked the princess, "and what thy race andbirthplace?"
"My name," the young slave answered, "is Mahomet. I come from Yemen.My race is that of Asra, and when we love, we die."
And likewise a voice kept saying in my heart, "If ever you find yourGolden Bride, be sure she will die."
CHAPTER XIV
THE MYSTERIOUS PETTICOAT
The sad thoughts with which this incident naturally left me were atlength and suddenly dispersed, as sad thoughts not infrequently are, bya petticoat. When I say petticoat, I use the word in its literalsense, not colloquially as a metaphor for its usual wearer, meaningthereby a dainty feminine undergarment seen only by men on rainy days,and one might add washing-days. It was indeed to the fortunate accidentof its being washing-day at the pretty cottage near which in the courseof my morning wanderings I had set me down to rest, that I owed thesight of the petticoat in question.
But first allow me to describe a little more fully my surroundings atthe moment. Not indeed that I can hope to put into words the charm ofthose embowered cottages, like nests in the armpits of great trees,tucked snugly in the hollows of those narrow, winding, almostsubterranean lanes which burrow their way beneath the warm-heartedSurrey woodlands.
Nothing can be straighter and smoother than a Surrey road--when it ison the king's business; then it is a high-road and behaves accordingly:but a Surrey bye-road is the most whimsical companion in the world. Itis like a sheep-dog, always running backwards and forwards, poking intothe most out-of-the-way corners, now climbing at a run some steephummock of the down, and now leisurely going miles about to escape anant-hill; and all the time (here, by the way, ends the sheep-dog) it isstopping to gossip with rillets vagabond as itself, or loitering tobedeck itself with flowers. It seems as innocent of a destination as aboy on an errand; but, after taking at least six times as long as anyother road in the kingdom for its amount of work, you usually find itdip down of a sudden into some lovely natural cul-de-sac, ameadow-bottom surrounded by trees, with a stream spreading itself infantastic silver shallows through its midst, and a cottage half hiddenat the end. Had the lane been going to some great house, it would havemade more haste, we may be sure.
The lane I had been following had finally dropped me down at somethingof a run upon just such a scene. The cottage, built substantially ofgrey stone, stood upon the side of the slope, and a broad strip ofgarden, half cultivated and half wild, began near the house withcabbages, and ended in a jungle of giant bulrushes as it touched thestream. Golden patches of ragwort blazed here and there among a tangledmass of no doubt worthier herbage,--such even in nature is the power ofgold,--and there were the usual birds.
However, my business is with the week's washing, which in variousshades of white, with occasional patches of scarlet, flutteredfantastically across a space of the garden, thereby giving unmistakablewitness to human inhabitants, male and female.
As I lounged upon the green bank, I lazily watched these parodies ofhumanity as they were tossed hither and thither with humourousindignity by the breeze, remarking to myself on the quaintshamelessness with which we thus expose to the public view garmentswhich at other times we are at such bashful pains to conceal. And thusphilosophising, like a much greater philosopher, upon clothes, I foundmyself involuntarily deducing the cottage family from the familywashing. I soon decided that there must be at least one woman say ofthe age of fifty, one young woman, one little child, sex doubtful, andone man probably young. Further than this it was impossible toconjecture. Thus I made the rough guess that a young man and his wife,a child, and a mother-in-law were among the inhabitants of this idylliccottage.
But the clothes-line presented charming evidence of still anotheroccupant; and here, though so far easy to read, came in something of apuzzle. Who in this humble out-of-the-way cottage could afford to wearthat exquisite cambric petticoat edged with a fine and very expensivelace? And surely it was on no country legs that those delicatelyclocked and open-worked silk stockings walked invisible through theworld.
Nor was the lace any ordinary expensive English lace, such as any goodshop can supply. Indeed, I recognised it as being of a Parisian designas yet little known in England; while on the tops of the stockings Ilaughingly suspected a border designed by a certain eccentric artist,who devotes his strange gifts to decorating with fascinating miniaturesthe under-world of woman. I have seen corsets thus made beautiful byhim valued at five hundred pounds, and he never paints a pair ofgarters for less than a hundred. His name is not yet a famous one, as,for obvious reasons, his works are not exhibited at public galleries,though they are occasionally to be seen at private views.
I am far from despising an honest red-flannel country petticoat. Thereis no warmer kinder-looking garment in the world. It su
ggests countrylaps and country breasts, with sturdy country babes greedy for the warmwhite milk, and it seems dyed in country blushes. Yet, for all that,one could not be insensible to the exotic race and distinction of thatfrivolous town petticoat, daintily disporting itself there among itscountry cousins, like a queen among milkmaids.
What numberless suggestions of romance it awoke! What strange perfumesseemed to waft across from it, perfumes laden with associations of aworld so different from the green world where it now was, a charmingworld of gay intrigue and wanton pleasure. No wonder the wind chose itso often for its partner as it danced through the garden, scorning tonotice the heavy homespun things about it. It was not every day thatthat washing-day wind met so fine a lady, and it was charming to seehow gently he played about her stockings. "Ah, wind," I said,"evidently you are a gallant born; but tell us the name of the lady.It is somewhere on that pretty petticoat, I'll be bound."
Is she some little danseuse with the whim to be romantically rustic fora week? or is she somebody else's pretty wife run away with somebodyelse's man? or is she some naughty little grisette with an extravagantlover? or is she just the usual lady landscape artist, with a more thanusual taste in lingerie?
At all events, it was fairly obvious that, for one reason or another,the wearer of the petticoat and stockings which have now occupied usfor perhaps a sufficient number of pages, was a visitor at the cottage.
The next thing was to get a look at her. So, remembering how fond I wasof milk from the cow, I pushed open the gate and advanced to thecottage door.
CHAPTER XV
STILL OCCUPIED WITH THE PETTICOAT
The door was opened by a comely young woman, with ruddy cheeks and abright kind eye that promised conversation. But "H'm," said I tomyself, as she went to fetch my milk, "evidently not yours, my dear."
"A nice drying day for your washing," I said, as I slowly sipped mymilk, with a half-inclination of my head towards the clothes-line.
"Very fine, indeed, sir," she returned, with something of a blush, anda shy deprecating look that seemed to beg me not to notice thepeculiarly quaint antics which the wind, evidently a humourist, choseat that moment to execute with the female garments upon the line.However, I was for once cased in triple brass and inexorable.
"And who," I ventured, smiling, "may be the owner of those fine things?"
"Not those," I continued, pointing to an odd garment which the wind waswantonly puffing out in the quaintest way, "but that pretty petticoatand those silk stockings?"
The poor girl had gone scarlet, scarlet as the petticoat which I wassure WAS hers, with probably a fellow at the moment keeping warm herbuxom figure.
"You are very bold, sir," she stammered through her blushes, but Icould see that she was not ill-pleased that the finery should attractattention.
"But won't you tell me?" I urged; "I have a reason for asking."
And here I had better warn the reader that, as the result of a whimthat presently seized me, I must be content to appear mad in his eyesfor the next few pages, till I get an opportunity of explanation.
"Well, what if they should be mine?" at length I persuaded her intosaying.
I made the obvious gallant reply, but, "All the same," I added, "youknow they are not yours. They belong to some lady visitor, who, I'llbe bound, isn't half so pretty; now, don't they?"
"Well, they just don't then. They're mine, as I tell you."
"H'm," I continued, a little nonplussed, "but do you really mean thereis no lady staying with you?"
"Certainly," she replied, evidently enjoying my bewilderment.
"Well, then, some lady must have stayed here once," I retorted, with asudden inspiration, "and left them behind--"
"You might be a detective after stolen goods," she interrupted.
"I tell you the things are mine; and what I should like to know does agentleman want bothering himself about a lady's petticoat! No wonderyou blush," for, in fact, as was easy to foresee, the situation wasbecoming a little ridiculous for me.
"Now, look here," I said with an affectation of gravity, "if you'lltell me how you came by those things, I'll make it worth your while.They were given to you by a lady who stayed here not so long ago, now,weren't they?"
"Well, then, they were."
"The lady stayed here with a gentleman?"
"Yes, she did."
"H'm! I thought so," I said. "Yes! that lady, it pains me to say, wasmy wife!"
This unblushing statement was not, I could see, without its effect uponthe present owner of the petticoat.
"But she said they were brother and sister," she replied.
"Of course she did," I returned, with a fine assumption of scorn,--"ofcourse she did. They always do."
"Dear young woman," I continued, when I was able to control my emotion,"you are happily remote from the sin and wickedness of the town, and Iam sorry to speak of such things in so peaceful a spot--but as astrange chance has led me here, I must speak, must tell you that allwives are not so virtuous and faithful as you, I am sure, are. Thereare wives who forsake their husbands and--and go off with a handsomerman, as the poet says; and mine, mine, alas! was one of them. It isnow some months ago that my wife left me in this way, and since then Ihave spent every day in searching for her; but never till this momenthave I come upon the least trace of her. Strange, is it not? thathere, in this peaceful out-of-the-way garden, I should come upon hervery petticoat, her very stockings--"
By this my grief had become such that the kind girl put her hand on myarm. "Don't take on so," she said kindly, and then remembering hertreasured property, and probably fearing a counterclaim on my part toits possession, "But how can you be sure she was here? There are lotsof petticoats like that--"
"What was she like?" I asked through my agitation.
"Middle height, slim and fair, with red goldy hair and big blue eyes;about thirty, I should say."
"The very same," I groaned, "there is no mistake; and now," Icontinued, "I want you to sell me that petticoat and those stockings,"and I took a couple of sovereigns from my purse. "I want to have themto confront her with, when I do find her. Perhaps it will touch herheart to think of the strange way in which I came by them; and you canbuy just as pretty ones again with the money," I added, as I noticedthe disappointment on her face at the prospect of thus losing herfinery.
"Well, it's a funny business, to be sure," she said, as still halfreluctantly she unpegged the coveted garments from the line; "but ifwhat you say 's true, I suppose you must have them."
The wanton wind had been so busily kissing them all the morning thatthey were quite dry, so I was able to find room for them in my knapsackwithout danger to the other contents; and, with a hasty good-day totheir recent possessor, I set off at full speed to find a secure nookwhere I could throw myself down on the grass, and let loose the absurdlaughter that was dangerously bottled up within me; but even before Ido that it behoves me if possible to vindicate my sanity to the reader.
CHAPTER XVI
CLEARS UP MY MYSTERIOUS BEHAVIOUR OF THE LAST CHAPTER
What a sane man should be doing carrying about with him a woman'spetticoat and silk stockings, may well be a puzzle to the mostintelligent reader.
Whim, sir, whim! and few human actions admit of more satisfactorysolution. Like Shylock, I'll say "It is my humour." But no! I'll bemore explanatory. This madcap quest of mine, was it not understoodbetween us from the beginning to be a fantastic whim, a poeticalwild-goose chase, conceived entirely as an excuse for being some timein each other's company? To be whimsical, therefore, in pursuit of awhim, fanciful in the chase of a fancy, is surely but to maintain thespirit of the game. Now, for the purpose, therefore, of a romance thatmakes no pretence to reasonableness, I had very good reasons for buyingthat petticoat, which (the reasons, not the petticoat) I will now laybefore you.
I have been conscious all the way along through this pilgrimage of itsinevitable vagueness of direction, of my need of something definite,some
place, some name, anything at all, however slight, which I mightassociate, if only for a time, with the object of my quest, a definitesomething to seek, a definite goal for my feet.
Now, when I saw that mysterious petticoat, and realised that its wearerwould probably be pretty and young and generally charming, and thatprobably her name was somewhere on the waistband, the spirit of whimrejoiced within me. "Why not," it said, "buy the petticoat, find outthe name of its owner, and, instead of seeking a vague Golden Girl,make up your mind doggedly to find and marry her, or, failing that,carry the petticoat with you, as a sort of Cinderella's slipper, try iton any girl you happen to fancy, and marry her it exactly fits?"
Now, I confess, that seemed to me quite a pretty idea, and I hope thereader will think so too. If not, I'm afraid I can offer him no betterexplanation; and in fact I am all impatience to open my knapsack, andinform myself of the name of her to the discovery of whom my wanderingsare henceforth to be devoted.
CHAPTER XVII
THE NAME UPON THE PETTICOAT
So imagine me seated in a grassy corner, with my knapsack open on theground and my petticoat and silk stockings spread out in front ofme,--an odd picture, to be sure, for any passer by to come upon. Isuppose I could have passed for a pedlar, but undoubtedly it would havebeen very embarrassing. However, as it happened, I remainedundisturbed, and was able to examine my purchases at leisure. I hadnever seen a petticoat so near before,--at all events I had never givenone such close attention. What delicious dainty things they are! Howessentially womanly--as I hope no one would call a pair of trousersessentially manly.
The Quest of the Golden Girl: A Romance Page 4
