by George Moore
She studied the past, and it seemed to be quite wonderful how they had met, how they had remained faithful to each other so many years. She felt sure that there must be some fatality in life. But she had not a minute to herself. There was an immense amount of work to be got through, and her father plagued her with business. He would insist upon explaining the settlements to her; she had six thousand pounds, well, five of that was to be settled on herself, and the other thousand was to be put aside to furnish their house with. To this sum Lord Granderville had added fifteen hundred, and Lord Worthing five hundred, as it was considered that money would be the most serviceable wedding present. She knew all this, and she could not understand why her father would insist on dragging her into his study after breakfast to go over a lot of legal documents, and she was delighted when the servant would interrupt them with the announcement that Mrs. — was waiting to see her about a certain trimming.
Then there was the difficulty to be solved of where they should spend their honeymoon. On this question Lady Helen consulted all her friends; some suggested Paris, some Italy, some were in favour of the Isle of Wight. But it was on the married womens opinions Lady Helen placed the most reliance, and she found no better confidant than Lady Archer. Even Sir John’s sporting tastes — and it was said that on his bridal night he had gone upstairs reading the stud book — had not killed her love of sentiment, and she encouraged Lady Helen to come in and out at odd times, and tell her about Lewis. As she listened, sighing, she would tell Lady Helen all about her own honeymoon, and how delicious it would have been but for Sir John’s racing calendar.
And the two friends would draw together and talk with the hundred little intimacies which a tea table inspires. Lady Helen had also consulted Mrs. Bentham.
She spoke in a quiet, half friendlike, half motherlike way, of Lewis, which completely deceived Lady Helen, who now felt sure that Lady Granderville’s hints were only those vague accusations which she made against everybody. Mrs. Bentham had, after many efforts, to a certain extent, conquered her repugnance, and she was determined to become the friend of the lovers. An opportunity soon offered itself. Lady Helen’s maid left her, and Mrs. Bentham proposed to go the round of the agents: Lady Helen, with a profusion of thanks gladly confided the commission to her.
After a great deal of interviewing, Mrs. Bentham picked out of the numbers that applied, half-a-dozen of the most likely ones, and wrote to Lady Helen to come and see them.
When she arrived, the poor girls were all waiting in the dining-room, looking askance at each other, wondering who would be the fortunate one. Lady Helen was out of temper, and she declined four of them without knowing why. The fifth was a short girl, dressed in a poor brown dress, and her boots were terribly worn. She had evidently been out of place a long time. She was about the medium height, with a pretty, plump figure. Her face was disfigured by the small-pox. Even the forehead had not escaped; it was discoloured, and its brick tints contrasted unpleasantly with the light brown hair. The malady had respected nothing but what it could not touch, the clear eyes and the white teeth.
“What is your name?” asked Lady Helen.
“Lloyd, your ladyship; Gwynnie Lloyd.”
The candid look of the eyes, and the musical name, caught Lady Helen’s fancy; her appearance pleased her, her character Mrs. Bentham had previously gone into; there was no reason why she should not be taken, so, after a moment’s hesitation, Lady Helen told her that she might bring her things to Queen Street as soon as she liked.
Her story since she quitted the house where she had sat for Lewis was the simplest. Determined that he should not trace her, that they should not meet for the present, she had left the shop where she was employed and had sought work elsewhere. She had confided her story to no one, and she could not find courage to write to Lewis; she put it off until she was struck down with the most virulent form of small-pox. During her convalescence, which was long, she wrote many letters, but they remained unanswered. Lewis had left no address, and he never called again at the shop in the Waterloo Road.
Gwynnie cried bitterly, and feared for his safety. On leaving the hospital she went down to see Mrs. Cross, who could tell her nothing but that Mr. Seymour had gone away with his pockets full of money, dressed out in new clothes, “and what not,” and that she had seen no more of him. This was all she could say, and, mournfully, Gwynnie went away to work for her daily bread. As time went on she grew reconciled to her grief; it became part of herself, and her little life slipped into a sort of stagnating gloom. She lived indifferent to all things, -only fulfilling her duties perfectly, and, in a year, was allowed to assist as show-woman in the shop. Her quiet, kind manner made her a general favourite, and one day a lady whom she was in the habit of attending, offered to take her as her maid. The offer was tempting. The bustle of the shop was little to her taste, tranquillity was what she sought; and for four years, until her mistress died, she lived a life of unassuming dependence.
Then after so many years of calm, she found it hard to face the world. Still she thought she would not have much difficulty in finding another situation, and having saved a little money, she resolved to wait.
But month after month went by without her finding what she wanted. Some would not have her for one reason, some for another. At length her little resources were nearly at an end, and she had determined to go back to business when Lady Helen happened to take a fancy to her. Hers was a nature that instinctively loved the common-place, and turned in distrust from all that is strange and exceptional; therefore, the gloomy sacrifice she had made for Lewis had fallen with its full weight on her mind; it had rendered her graver, quieter, than she would otherwise have been; it had a little clouded her perceptions and hopes. She did not definitely expect ever to see him again; but although time had effaced her dreams of one day being his wife, there lay at the bottom of her lonely heart a sort of shadowy belief that in some dim, future time her love must surely be requited. This was noticeable in her whole demeanour, for, as her fellow-servants said, “She always appeared to be dreaming.” The remembrance of the past unfitted her for the life to which she was born; she could feel no interest in herself nor in others. Her gentle ways saved her from being actually disliked. But when she left the servants’ hall a housemaid would often call her a “stuck up little thing.” The footmen took her part, and defended her vigorously, although she had always fled in disgust when they attempted to kiss her behind the doors.
CHAPTER XXIV.
THE BRIDAL DRESS.
“MY DEAR GERTRUDE, I did all I could but I wasn’t listened to,” said Lady Granderville to her sister-in-law, Lady Worthing, as they entered Lady Marion’s bed-room. Lady Marion was arranging her bonnet before the glass, and she thought as she heard her sister’s voice, “Now I wonder how often Harriet will grumble before we get to the church?”
“My dear, haven’t you got any other bonnet than that one? Why, you will be nearly in black,” said Lady Granderville, who wore an elaborate grey silk, with innumerable flounces.
Lady Marion made it a rule never to contradict her sister, so she put on a bonnet with coloured strings.
“Do you like this better?” she said, turning towards her.
At this moment, Lady Mary Lowell, Lady Worthing’s youngest daughter, rushed out of the next room, where her cousin was dressing.
“A pin! a pin!” she cried, looking hurriedly over Lady Marion’s dressing table.
“What kind of pin?”
“A long one, aunt, to fasten the wreath. Ah, here’s one,” and she fled back again in a glare of cream-coloured ribands.
“How nice she looks in her new frock,” said Lady Granderville, speaking of her niece; “she will be a very pretty girl; she is just twelve, is she not?”
“She will be twelve next month. Do you think her better looking than her sister?”
“Which one?”
“The eldest.”
“Oh, I don’t know; it is a different style.”
“Isn’t Helen ready yet?” asked Lady Granderville, in her peevish voice. “I declare we shall be late; it is a quarter to eleven, and it’s half an hour’s drive from here. I never could understand what induced you to come and live here, Marion.”
“Number two grumble,” said Lady Marion to herself, and she went on arranging her bonnet without replying.
“I can quite understand a girl falling in love with Mr. Seymour,” said Lady Worthing sitting down on the sofa; “he is very good-looking,”
“My dear Gertrude, I can’t understand you talking like that; you surely do not think it advisable to give way to a mere sensual passion,” said Lady Granderville, pettishly. “Good-looking! He is so good-looking that he has been the toy of every woman in London.”
“Hush, hush!” said Lady Marion, turning, and looking really angry at her sister; “I wonder, Harriet; how you can talk like that in her hearing, really?”
“She can’t hear,” replied Lady Granderville, somewhat humbly. “You know, my dear,” she continued, addressing her sister-in-law, “I have always approved of the French system. These flirtatious on the staircases, and private conversations, are to my mind perfectly abominable.”
“What you say is very true, my dear,” returned Lady Worthing, “but although I agree with you that young ladies carry their flirtations much too far, still I think they should have a voice in the matter; for you know that in France—”
“Oh, aunt, the servant says that they have only brought two bouquets of blue flowers instead of three; so either I, Mary, or Lucy, will have to do with a white one,” exclaimed Lady Alice Lowell, entering suddenly, with one tress of hair waiting to be pinned up.
“I can’t possibly wear a white bouquet; I must have some Forget-me-nots in mine,” cried Lady Mary, pushing open the door of Lady Helen’s bed-room, and revealing the bride waiting to receive the body of her dress.
The sisters argued angrily for some moments; presently the lady’s-maid came up to say that another bouquet had arrived, that the extra white one was a mistake.
Then the two girls retired to their rooms, and Lady Worthing and Lady Granderville resumed their conversation. “You know, my dear,” said the latter, “I was entirely opposed to this marriage, but I was overruled. It is all very well to say that he makes a thousand a year by painting, and will make more; but, I ask, supposing he lost his health to-morrow?”
“I quite agree with you,” said Lady Worthing, “the first of all things is health; I would not marry one of my girls to a man with bad health, no, not for worlds!”
“Yes, yes, my dear; but you see it is doubly important in this case, for my daughter has married a working-man.”
“Help! help!” cried Lady Mary, in a high, shrill voice from the next room.
“Good heavens! what has happened now?” exclaimed Lady Granderville; and the three women rushed simultaneously to the rescue.
When they saw what it was, they drew a long breath. It was not Helen, it was the new maid who had fainted. She was lying back on Lady Mary’s shoulder, and Lady Helen on the other side, her veil hanging down, was trying to support her.
“For goodness sake, take care, Helen!” cried Lady Worthing, “you are walking on your veil.”
“Oh, how very tiresome this is; servants are certainly the greatest worry in life,” exclaimed Lady Granderville.
“I told you not to take one who looked delicate. The girl has fainted, and there’s an end of it,” said Lady Marion, helping her niece to place the girl in a chair; “open the window and give me your salts.”
The reason for Gwynnie’s fainting was not physical weakness, as Lady Granderville supposed, but the sudden knowledge that she was dressing her mistress to marry her old friend and lover. Lady Helen and Lady Mary Lowell had been chattering about Lewis, the name had been frequently mentioned; but it only gave Gwynnie an interest in the marriage that she otherwise would not have felt: the name of our first love always remains dear to us. In talking of Lewis, Lady Mary had declared that handsome as he undoubtedly was he nevertheless did not make a good photograph. This the bride was not disposed to admit, and she had asked her cousin to get down an album, and she would see a new one which was quite perfect. Lewis had scarcely altered at all; there was no mistaking the picture, and the emotion had been too much for Gwynnie.
“My dear, we shall certainly be late; she is all right now; let me pin up your veil for you,” cried Lady Granderville.
“I am so sorry, your ladyship; I don’t know—” said Gwynnie, trying to rise; “I am quite recovered now.”
“No, no, stay where you are,” said Lady Helen, stooping so that her mother might place the crown of orange flowers on her hair and pin up the soft folds of the veil.
“Mind you must not think of coming to church—”
“Oh, your ladyship, I assure you I am quite well,” replied the maid, getting up and helping to arrange the veil. “I don’t know what came over me.”
“Now I am ready,” said Lady Helen, taking up the great white bouquet off the chintz sofa. Then Gwynnie opened the door wide, so that the bride should not catch her veil, and they went down to the drawing-room, where the bridal party were waiting.
When Lady Helen entered the room, there was a cry of admiration; Lord Granderville kissed his daughter, she looked quite lovely in white silk. The skirt was encircled with a garland which passed round and was lost in a rain of white blossoms which covered the train, and, in all this whiteness, her yellow hair and red mouth, set in the white face, came out charmingly.
The big drawing-room was literally filled with bridesmaids. They were mostly cousins.
There were Lady Mary, Lady Alice, and Lady Annie Lowell, Lord Worthing’s daughters, three little girls of twelve, sixteen and eighteen, the Honourable Misses Sedgwick, and three school friends of Lady Helen’s. They were dressed in clear dresses of Indian muslin, garnished with white lace, touched off with knots of pale blue riband, which echoed the tint of bouquets they carried in their hands.
The wedding presents were of all kinds. One table was piled with jewellery, another with china; there were books, fans, ornaments in gold, silver and ivory; but over all a splendid tiara of diamonds, the gift of Lord Worthing, sparkled in a stream of sunlight which fell obliquely through the windows.
The bridesmaids crowded to see Lady Helen, and Lady Marion drew Lord Worthing aside.
“Has Sir Thomas Towler promised to be there?”
“Yes, yes, my dear, he has; we shall see him probably in church; anyhow, he is sure to be here for the breakfast.”
“It will be a great advantage for Lewis to know the President of the Academy,” murmured Lady Marion.
“Of course, my dear, of course it will.”
At this moment the servant came up, and announced that it was a quarter past eleven, and that the coachman said that he would be scarcely able to get there in time.
Precipitately Lord Granderville gave his arm to Lady Helen, and in a murmur of voices the whole party went downstairs, and passing between a row of street idlers who had collected to see the show, they got into the carriages.
As they drove away the crowd slowly dispersed, cracking jokes at the splendeur of the footman’s white legs and red breeches.
Then Gwynnie Lloyd, in her little brown dress, came down the steps, and the red plushed footman put her into a cab, and the four-wheeler drove after the brougham and victorias.
CHAPTER XXV.
IN CHURCH.
ABOUT TWENTY MINUTES past eleven, a small brougham coming from Piccadily drove up to St. George’s. Lord Senton and Mr. Day got out. There was a movement among the crowd as the two young men walked up the crimson carpet which stretched between the smoke-blackened pillars down to the pavement. The idlers were in doubt as to which was the bridegroom.
Lord Senton looked annoyed. Having been more than usually unfortunate in his love affairs, he had thought of signalising himself by marrying somebody very lovely; and, after some hesitation, he had f
ixed upon Lady Helen as the most suitable person. Mr. Day viewed the scheme with positive horror, for he knew that the obloquy of its non-success would fall upon him. However, the sudden announcement of Lady Helen’s marriage made an end to his lordship’s projects, and the duty of consoling him devolved on Mr. Day. But this was no easy matter, his lordship’s self-love had been severely offended, and he fancied that everybody thought that Lady Helen had jilted him. Knowing the uselessness of argument, Day advised him to give her a handsome present, and accept the invitation which he had received for the wedding breakfast.
“Are you sure, old fellow, I was right in sending that bracelet?” he said, as they entered the church; “won’t she think it queer?”
“Not in the least, old man,” replied Day, who had answered the question fifty times that morning.
It was a dignified and aristocratic looking church. Under the large stained glass windows which filled the end of the chancel, was a brown picture representing the Last Supper, four pilasters, likewise brown, and covered with gold ornaments, enframed this mediocre work of art.
Two deep galleries extended from the organ loft to the altar rails, they were lit with large white windows, through which the white sun streamed, to die away in the stained glass twilight of the chancel. On the right was the pulpit, on the left the reading desk, both rich with crimson velvet and oak carving. The roof and the four columns, which supported the galleries, were painted in light grey. The brown coloured pews were in keeping with the rest, for they seemed to be haunted with the echoes of rustling silk and mundane prayers.
