Lawrence called up the stairs to tell them that Aunt Anne’s car was waiting, with Mrs. Cockburn, who was to accompany her, inside. Aunt Anne answered that she was just coming, and returned to Elizabeth’s room, pulling on her gloves.
“Ready, darling? Come down and show your father how lovely you are.” She picked up Elizabeth’s coat of white fur, and then put it down again, and held out her arms. Elizabeth went to her, in a rush. The tears were trembling on the end of her lashes.
“Oh, Auntie—oh, Auntie!”
Lawrence called again, impatiently. They went down to him, and when he saw Elizabeth he said, Well, well, well! a sure sign that he was impressed. Aunt Anne was fussy, and said, Take care you don’t crush her dress. She said you must not forget your gloves, and then she was gone in a whirl of mauve silk, into the waiting car.
Elizabeth sat down on a straight hard chair in the drawing-room. It was as though she were in a dentist’s waiting-room. Something inside her was thumping, thumping. The drawing-room was unreal, Lawrence too, and herself. Ten to twelve ... on any other day she would just be coming into the house after a morning’s shopping. To-day she sat attendant upon an unknown fate, in the drawing-room, clasping in her hands a great sheaf of pale lilies.
And now that the moment was so close when she would step out of the old life into the new, an intangible dread took possession of her, numbing her faculties towards every feeling but the one fear that she was walking blindfold on the brink of a precipice, and that one careless step might send her over the edge, to smash upon the rocks she knew to lurk in the abyss.
“Couldn’t have had a better day,” Lawrence said, standing, watch in hand, at the window.
“No. Isn’t it perfect?” she answered.
“Car ought to be here any minute now. What about putting your coat on?” He held it ready, and managed to gather up her veil in one hand.
She felt more than ever that she was in the dentist’s waiting-room, and that soon, very soon, the door would open and a sepulchral voice say, Miss Arden, please!
“Here it is!” Lawrence exclaimed. “Is my button-hole all right, Elizabeth?”
“Yes, quite,” she said. “Ought—ought we to start?”
“Yes, we’re a bit late. Doesn’t matter, of course, but if you’re ready—?”
“Quite,” she said, gathering up her train.
The bridesmaids were in the church porch, laughing and talking. One of them cried, Here she is! and suddenly Elizabeth realised that she was the chief figure to-day, and that they were all waiting for her. Somewhere within the church people were turning to see whether she were coming; she would have to walk up the aisle, between the rows of smiling faces, until she reached the place where Stephen stood, with the capable John.
She laid her little cold hand on her father’s arm; someone spread out her train behind her; Lawrence whispered fondly in her ear. They went out of the golden sunshine into the cool grey church.
She saw nothing, could distinguish no one in the blurred mass of people, until she felt her hand taken in a strong clasp and knew that Stephen was there. He said something; she did not know what it was, but she smiled and fixed her eyes on the black and white thing before her that was the clergyman.
Dearly beloved, we are gathered together . . .
What a lot he was saying in that queer, droning voice . . . what was it all about? Marriage, and something to do with children. How strong the lilies smelt!
Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honour . . .
He was speaking now to Stephen. It was beautiful.
In sickness and in health.
A lump rose in her throat. How straight Stephen stood; how deep and grave and unfaltering sounded his voice. Now it was her turn; she heard her own voice speak, quite clearly. She was not so nervous after all.
I, Stephen, take thee, Elizabeth . . .
She loved Stephen’s voice; it was manly and stern and protective. She took his hand, and began to speak after the clergyman, looking at him, and wondering what made his cheeks so plump and red.
Someone moved beyond Stephen; it was Caryll, of course, with the ring, ready to the instant. She put up her hand and saw the gold circlet slip over her knuckle. She was married; the rest of the ceremony was nothing.
In the vestry there was noise and many kisses. Elizabeth saw Mrs. Ramsay, all in grey with floating draperies and soft plumes; Cynthia, severely swathed in blue; Aunt Anne, dabbing at her eyes; Anthony, hot and beaming, and Lawrence, shaking hands with the clergyman.
She signed her name, conscious of Stephen beside her; then turned to speak to Mrs. Ramsay.
“Has anyone told you that you look an angel?” Mrs. Ramsay said. “Because you do. Stephen had to go and fetch his boots, poor darling. Wasn’t it trying? Stephen, I congratulate you. I believe I’ve said the right thing. I must tell Anthony.” She drifted away, presumably to do so, and Elizabeth discovered that she was shaking hands with Cynthia.
“Congratulations,” Cynthia said. “I knew you’d make a lovely bride.”
Stephen was kissing Aunt Anne. How nice of him to think of that!
“Well, Mrs. Ramsay?” said Lawrence jocularly.
She smiled up at him; Stephen spoke at her elbow.
“That sounds wonderful, sir. Almost too good to be true.”
They went back again into the church; the wedding-march sounded in her ears, triumphant; she thought that she heard bells, pealing. Her head went up, her cheeks were burning, and her hand lay on Stephen’s arm.
In the car they sat side by side, not speaking at first, for Stephen’s head was bent over her fingers. Then at last he looked up, and spoke huskily, almost as though he were awed.
“Little white bride,” he said, and again she smiled, wistfully, thinking, This is not myself, it is a dream.
In the reception-room at the hotel they stood side by side, shaking hands with their guests, laughing, talking, and being congratulated. Everyone said what a pretty wedding it was, and did they see the man with the camera outside the church?
“Famous Novelist Weds,” Sarah said teasingly.
“Anthony wouldn’t let me bring Thomas,” Mrs. Ramsay complained. “Such a shame. Elizabeth, who is that dear man who kissed you in the vestry?”
“This needs looking into,” Stephen remarked solemnly. “Divulge his name, Elizabeth.”
“Only Mr. Hengist,” she answered, laughing.
“Introduce him,” commanded Mrs. Ramsay. “Oh, I suppose you’re too busy! Will nobody introduce me to Mr. Hengist?”
Mr. Hengist himself came forward, and presently they heard Mrs. Ramsay tell him that Thomas had eaten the bow someone tied about his neck.
The breakfast was a great success; champagne revived Elizabeth from the weariness that was stealing over her, but Stephen had to help her to cut the cake.
Healths were drunk; Stephen made a speech, and John Cary murmured to Elizabeth, Quite a witty effort, what? He then caused salmon mayonnaise to be put before her, and she ate some of it, rather to her own surprise.
Lawrence and Mrs. Ramsay, at the far end of the table appeared to be engaged in close and earnest conversation, about food; Miss Arden was inclined to be lachrymose. Beside her Anthony sought to cheer and amuse.
The vigilant best man was looking at his wrist-watch; he touched Elizabeth’s arm and told her that it was time she went away to change. She caught Miss Arden’s eye, and they rose.
Mrs. Ramsay whispered to Mr. Hengist,
“Poor darling, Miss Arden will cry! Not poor darling Miss Arden. Poor darling Elizabeth. Do you think I can go with them, and help? Then the aunt won’t cry.”
“Yes, do!” Mr. Hengist said. “She might easily upset Elizabeth.”
So Mrs. Ramsay came floating towards Elizabeth, and asked with a winning smile if she might come too. John Caryll marched Stephen away, and a maid-servant conducted Elizabeth to her room where her travelling garments were laid out in readiness for her.
Miss Arden had
no chance to weep because Mrs. Ramsay talked so hard and so madly. She made Elizabeth laugh, and it seemed that she had left her sunshade in the church and didn’t know what had become of her handkerchief.
Lawrence came presently to say goodbye to Elizabeth. He was genuinely affected, and kissed her twice.
She went out into the passage, dove-grey now, with a saucy little hat on her head. Mr. Hengist was there, to wish her the best, the very best, of luck. He went with them out of the hall, and Elizabeth felt that she never liked him so much.
Stephen was waiting, hat in hand, John at his elbow. John had the railway tickets, and was coming to Victoria to put them into their train. He looked so conscientious and so dogged that Elizabeth wondered whether he would consent to leave them at the station, or whether he would insist on accompanying them on their honeymoon.
Stephen stepped forward, his eyes on Elizabeth’s face. Lawrence met him, and took his hand.
“I give her to you,” he said. “Take care of her.”
“I will,” Stephen said, just as he had said it in the church.
“Oh, my darling, I hope you’ll be happy!” Miss Arden said, on a half-sob.
“I can’t cry, because I’ve lost my hanky,” sighed Mrs. Ramsay. “I’m not at all sure that I ought to either. Does the bridegroom’s mother cry, or not? I forgot to ask Anthony.”
“’Bout time we pushed off, what?” John drawled. “Look out for the confetti.”
Hurried kisses followed. Elizabeth took Stephen’s hand and ran. As they emerged into the sunshine confetti showered above them. They got into the car, waved, called messages, and were gone.
Stephen began to brush the confetti from Elizabeth’s coat.
“That scoundrel Anthony’s tied a boot on the back of the car,” he said.
“Ah, I was afraid it had been forgotten!” John remarked, showing his relief. “Not at all a bad show, was it?”
“Don’t speak about it as though it were a musical comedy,” protested Stephen.
“I think it was rather like one,” Elizabeth reflected.
The drive through the streets to Victoria was soon over. At the station Stephen and Elizabeth found that, John having shouldered all responsibility, there was nothing to be done but to walk on to the platform and into the carriage which, by some unknown means, John had managed to reserve for them. There were five minutes to spare; they sat opposite each other, and John stood leaning in at the window, saying,
“Might let me have a line from Paris to say you arrived safely. Luggage is in the rear. Better put the tickets in your pocket-book, Stephen. Wish I’d brought the odd slipper. Might have hung it on the door.”
“Oh, thank goodness you didn’t bring it!” Elizabeth cried.
A paper-boy passed; John bought the Morning Post, the Sketch, the Bystander, the Sportsman, and Eve, and handed them to Elizabeth.
“In case you get bored with Stephen, Mrs. Ramsay.”
“Thank you very much, but I don’t think I shall,” she smiled.
“You never know,” he said. “Well, you’re off. Best of luck, an’ all that, what? Don’t forget to send me a post card.”
The train began to move. Stephen leaned out of the window.
“Righto. Thanks again, old chap, for all you’ve done. Couldn’t have got through without you!”
The train slid out of the station; Stephen drew his head in, and stood for a moment looking down at Elizabeth. Then he sat down beside her, and caught her against his heart.
“At last!” he said, and kissed her, not gently at all, but hard and fiercely, on her mouth. “Mine! Mine!”
Chapter Twelve
Afterwards, when she was able to look back upon her honeymoon as from a great distance, calmly, Elizabeth realised that it was the fact of living for the first time in a foreign country, in an inevitably bizarre atmosphere, which to some extent mitigated the shock that marriage gave her. In England, amongst English people and accustomed surroundings she could not have borne it, but in Paris nothing was real, not even herself. The fairy-like beauty of the place helped her; in England beauty would not have struck her, because she knew English scenery so well that it had become cheap in her eyes. In Paris everything was strange, even the noises which she heard in the streets. That, and the foreign tongue, the different race and the swiftly moving kaleidoscope of events ever since her wedding, all helped to strengthen the fancy that the honeymoon was a dream, sometimes pleasant, sometimes evil. It was a new word, a new Stephen, and—yes, a new Elizabeth. She knew that Stephen’s patience and his understanding were qualities not many men possessed: instinct told her that. She was immensely grateful to him for his consideration and his forbearance, but the depths of her nature were unstirred by his passion. She felt only distaste, which must, she knew, be hidden.
She would not permit herself to think of Miss Arden, because her thoughts would have been laden with bitterness. It was inconceivable that she could criticise or condemn her aunt’s actions. She had a feeling that Aunt Anne had betrayed her—no not quite that:—let her down. She must not think, then, of Aunt Anne, who had allowed her to take this irrevocable step with her eyes blindfolded.
Yet there was much in the new life that was more delightful than anything she had ever known. There was always someone at hand whose only task in life seemed to be to care for her and give her everything she might want. Her smallest wish was gratified at once; her frown made Stephen anxious, her smile made him happy. The sense of power this gave her was wonderful; it was wonderful too to be everything in one man’s eyes.
The ornate decoration of their bedroom in the hotel at Paris, its gilt and brocade furniture and general opulence, and its total dissimilarity from any other bedroom she had known, made it easier for her to see, without embarrassment, Stephen’s shirt flung over a chair, and his pajamas on the bed.
He was untidy; that distressed her. His clothing—she was astonished to see how much there was of it—overflowed from the adjoining dressing-room into her bedroom. She wondered whether any ordinary bride would have liked to see it there, cheek by jowl with her own chiffons. She hated it. She hated his unshaven face in the morning, and his ruffled hair; his presence in the room filled her with an emotion near to repulsion; she hid it behind a valiant smile, but he knew that it was there, and it worried him. Then he told himself that this intensely shy attitude was in keeping with his ideal of her; she would grow out of it; he tried to think that he would not have liked it had it been otherwise. But it hurt him when he kissed her awake one morning, and felt her wince. He was careful never to do that again. He came into her room when she was dressing to go to the Opera; the instinctive clutching of her kimono about her gave him pain. He laughed at her, and took her in his arms; she sighed, like a child that is overwrought, and let him kiss her. Her helplessness made him more gentle still; she was so fragile, so easily frightened.
She did not know Stephen. She realised that now, and thought that the love that survived seeing a man unwashed and unshaven before breakfast must be great indeed. It was queer that she had never, before her marriage, speculated on her possible feelings towards these little, ugly intimacies of their life together. How foolishly innocent she had been! How unfair it was that girls should be tossed into marriage unprepared, and with the rose-veil of innocence still wrapped about them. It meant a rude awakening, a shock, a tearing asunder of that romantic veil. You were jerked into a new life of which you knew nothing, and you were expected to fit into it at once, as though it were not wholly alien to your nature. She was glad that the honeymoon was to be a long one. She would have time to adapt herself, outwardly at least, before she was faced with the ordeal of meeting her people again, and her friends. She dreaded lest they should perceive her true feelings; dreaded her aunt’s tentative questions, or Sarah’s, not tentative at all, but grossly frank.
They went from Paris to Florence. Again she was exhilarated by the change of surroundings, of beauty, and of quaintness. Stephen talked of the Renais
sance; she was awed by the knowledge he displayed: she liked to go out with him and hear him talk. He said that she was an inveterate sight-seer because she roamed daily through first this picture gallery and then that. She answered breathlessly, I’ve so longed to see all this!
“You’re happy?” he asked her. The anxiety throbbed in his voice.
“Oh, Stephen!”
“Yes, but that doesn’t tell me anything,” he pointed out.
“Of course I’m happy!”
“Cheers! Let’s go on to Rome!”
“We shall have to buy another small trunk, then,” she answered practically. “All those things we bought ...!”
Her sense of duty was strong, and made him laugh. If there were a hole in his sock it must be mended at once; she would do nothing else until that was finished.
“Never mind that!” he said impatiently. “I want to drive you out to Fiesole.”
“I must do this first,” she answered. “And there’s a button off your pajamas.”
“Damn my pajamas. I didn’t marry you for that.”
“But, Stephen—”
“Do it some other time and come out now.”
“I can’t, Stephen. There are heaps of odd jobs I must see to. Why must we go to Fiesole to-day? Won’t tomorrow do as well?”
He sulked; that was another side of him she had never suspected to be there. It astonished her and made her unhappy. She could not understand why it was so imperative to go to Fiesole to-day. There seemed to be no reason; to-morrow would have done as well, or better, and yet Stephen sulked. She wondered when he would make it up; in the end it was she who coaxed him round. Then he was repentant, and would have done anything she wished to show that he was sorry.
She liked to plan ahead; he preferred to act on the impulse of the moment. “Looking forward” was the nicest part of an event to Elizabeth; to him it was the most irksome. She, of long training, was always punctual to meals; he, unless she urged him, never. If it were a matter of catching a train she would be ready half an hour too soon, and would wear a worried frown and a restless air until they were safely in the train, and their luggage too. He, ten minutes before it was time to drive to the station, would stroll out and buy a pair of gloves. It drove her to distraction; it meant that they would be late and would have to run to catch the train. If Stephen left his walking-stick behind, Elizabeth fussed to retrieve it. Stephen only laughed, and said, I’ll buy another.
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