by George Moore
“Let’s sit here,” said Day, getting into a pew about half-way up the aisle.
“He’s with Ripple,” whispered Lord Senton, sitting down.
“Where?”
“Why, near the reading desk.”
“Ah, so he is; I wondered who he would have for his best man; just fancy, Ripple!” and Day smothered his laughter.
“A great deal too good for the fellow; how I do hate him! ‘Pon my word, Day, she was a girl I could have loved.”
“Oh, you have said that about so many!”
“She was not like the others, I assure you,” replied Senton, pulling his little white moustache.
The body of the church had been retained for the bridal party, and the élite of Vanity Fair was there, all friends of the Grandervilles and Worthings.
Lewis had very few friends to invite. He had been for the last month trying to work up his acquaintances into the position of friends, and he made the best show he could with them. They consisted principally of young men who came to smoke cigars in his studio, and a few artists. Mr. Hilton, the academician, was there, with his wife and family. Next to them were the Misses Davidson, in new dresses, and they talked together disparaging the marriage.
“It is a terrible come-down for Lady Helen,” said the elder.
“Terrible indeed,” replied the younger, “but I never thought her so beautiful; and as for the stories of the dukes and princes she refused—”
“All that occurred abroad,” returned the elder.
At this moment Mrs. Campbell Ward, magnificently dressed in Scandinavian sky-blue satin, decorated with sulphur-hued lace, passed up the church, attended by her husband.
Mr. Swannell, as the member for his county, had, of course, been invited, and having secured a seat for his wife, he proceeded to finish his explanation of the Government’s views in respect to Afghanistan, which he was confiding to a friend.
Mrs. Collins came noiselessly up the aisle, looking round for someone to whom she could confide a little budget of information she had for some time been patiently collecting. Seeing Mrs. French, she sat down beside her, and the two old women discussed the wedding.
In the back benches there were quite half-a-dozen dissolute-looking girls, who had all nodded to Lewis as he passed up the church, much to his annoyance. In answer to a question put by Ripple, he said that they were his models, but that he did not anticipate a scene. Yet every chance rustle of a skirt caused him to start violently. On all sides he saw people whose absence would have been to him delightful. There were ladies whom he had not seen for years, and to avoid their eyes was almost impossible, they seemed to be all round him. At last he caught sight of one he feared more than all the rest, Mrs. Liston; she was sitting in the first row of pews in the aisle, so that there was no possibility of getting to the vestry without passing her.
“Let’s sit here, Ripple,” he said, looking frightened.
“No, no,” replied the best man, “you had better come into the vestry.”
“I can’t yet, I will in a minute,” he replied, sinking into a seat. “But what time is it?”
“Just the half hour.”
“Then I must brave it.”
Mrs. Liston was in an extreme state of excitement; her pinched up, somewhat vacant-looking face twitched violently, and she scarcely took her eyes off Lewis for a moment. Her husband sat by her; his grave, handsome countenance calm and collected. He stroked his soft red beard as he mused over some analogy between the Government of Socrates and Lord Beaconsfield.
As Lewis tried to pass Mrs. Liston, she stopped him resolutely.
“Surely,” she whispered, getting up from her seat, “it is not true that you are going to be married? You will never do this thing?”
Lewis stuttered and stammered; it was on his lips to tell her that she was mistaken, that he had no intention of doing any such thing; but the lie appeared to him too ridiculous, and he faltered and tried to excuse himself.
“Come, I want to speak to you privately; don’t refuse me; I tell you I must,” she whispered, reckless of appearances.
Luckily, at this moment Mr. Liston woke up from his Athenian reverie, and addressed some common-place remarks to Lewis.
His wife fretted and fumed at the delay, and Lewis made a vow, if he once got out of this scrape, never to make love to another woman.
“Look! look!” whispered Mrs. French to Mrs. Collins, “I declare there’s going to be a scene; I wish I hadn’t brought my daughter;” and Mrs. French looked at the last of the flock, a wee, dried up, little thing, who was watching Lewis’s difficulty with the keenest interest.
Fortunately Mrs. Bentham happened to be coming up the aisle, and not knowing what was going on, stopped to speak with Mrs. Liston.
Lewis profited by the occasion to slip away, and immediately after the organ snored out a song of welcome to the bride, who was coming up the church between the three rows of benches.
The wedding party consisted” of about twenty; they were joined by Lady Alice and her daughters, who were also bridesmaids. They passed round where Mrs. Liston and Mrs. Bentham were sitting. The former was sobbing hysterically, much to her husband’s consternation, who could not imagine what was the matter. Mrs. Bentham was quite calm, and she endeavoured to reason with her friend, who was attracting some attention.
“They say that every woman in London is in love with him,” whispered Mrs. French, who was burning with curiosity.
“So I have heard,” replied Mrs. Collins; “we were talking about it last night. You know my son Henry? Well, he tells me that they said at his club that the church would be filled with the women he had jilted.”
“So it appears, but I never should have thought that Mrs. Liston—”
“Nor I,” whispered Mrs. French, as she told her daughters to move a little higher up. “I beg your pardon, but you know at that age girls are so curious.”
“Indeed they are; but do you know how this marriage was arranged?”
“No, I haven’t heard.”
“I never would have thought that the Grandervilles, who were so proud, would have consented.”
“My dear, they were obliged.”
“You don’t mean it?”
“I assure you it is a fact; Lady Helen would hear of nobody else. Her father and mother did all they could, but when she took to visiting his studio alone, they had to give way.”
“You don’t mean it; I should never have thought it! And Lady Helen Trevor! Ah, my dear, girls are not what they used to be. I for one don’t understand these new-fashioned ways; a great deal too much latitude is allowed young ladies now-a-days.”
“I quite agree with you, my dear. But have you heard the last report about Mr. Seymour?”
“No, I can’t say I have.”
“Well, you know that no one ever heard of him until Mrs. Bentham took him up.”
“Between you and me, I never could understand their friendship.”
“You mean that you do understand it,” whispered Mrs. French significantly; “but what were you going to tell me?”
“Ah, I had lost myself; well, they say that she has spent thousands of pounds buying his pictures, that she employed a dealer to buy them in secret, and that if it were not for that, he would not make two hundred a year with his painting.”
“It does astonish me; I never admired his portraits.”
“Nor I, very much; but he paints satin very well, I will say that for him. But look, my dear, there is Mrs. Bentham herself sitting beside Mrs. Liston; well I never! You know she had a great deal to do with making up the marriage.”
“Impossible!”
At this moment the bridal party left the vestry. The bride, on her father’s arm, and Lewis, with Lady Granderville.
The vicar, a large, portly man in a cloudy white surplice, led the way, and opened the gate of the altar rails, passed inside and arranged the whole party in line before him. The organ ceased playing, he began to read the service, and got as far
as, “Therefore if any man can show any just cause why they may not lawfully be joined together, let him now speak—”
Here the vicar raised his monotonous voice, trying to silence a commotion proceeding from the far end of the church, which had necessitated the interference of the pew-opener.
A dispute had arisen among some common looking girls; but beyond the fact that they were clamouring noisily about something, and were likely to come to blows, it was impossible to distinguish between them. Everybody looked round, and Mr. Swannell whispered to his wife:
“I hear the church is filled with women he has deceived in one way or another; I hope that nothing will happen.”
Mrs. Swannell tried to look shocked at the idea, and hastened to tell it to Mrs. French, who begged of her to speak low for fear her daughter should hear.
Mr. Day seemed highly diverted at the pew-opener’s difficulty, and, under the pretext of assisting him, he went to find out what the row was about. Once Lewis half turned his head to see; he was very pale, and with his whole heart wished that the parson would read the service a little quicker. He thought it would not matter what happened if he were once married, and he wondered, trembling with fear, who the girls were at the end of the church; he tried to think which among his female acquaintances would be capable of stopping his marriage by making a scene, and he was so confused that he could not answer the questions.
Lady Granderville tried to catch her husband’s eyes; and, failing to do so, she whispered to Lady Marion:
“Did you hear Mrs. Liston sobbing! Did you notice all the women that are in church?”
“Hush, hush!” said Lady Marion, who had seen everything, and was every minute expecting something awful to occur.
Lady Helen alone seemed unconscious of what was going on; and she said, quite distinctly, holding Lewis’s hand:
“In sickness and in health, to love, cherish and to obey, till death us do part; according to God’s holy ordinance, and thereto I give thee my troth.”
The service then proceeded briskly amid the most profound silence. The pew-opener had, by assuring the young ladies that he had a policeman at hand, succeeded in subduing their clamour; and to ensure silence to the end, he had sat down beside them.
The parson now asked Lewis for the ring, but someone had stirred in the benches near, and, without replying, he looked round quite bewildered.
“The ring, the ring,” repeated the parson.
Remembering himself, he fumbled in his pockets; a look of consternation passed over his woe-begone face, and he thought for the moment he had forgotten it At last, however, he found it, and having laid it on the book, he said, after the minister, the words:
“With this ring I thee wed, with my body I thee worship, and with all my worldly goods I thee endow,” &c.
Having put it on Lady Helen’s finger, they both knelt down, and the parson went on with the service.
Once the ring was on her finger, Lewis began to feel more at ease. “After all,” he said, “no matter what happens now, they can’t break off the marriage.”
He looked at Lady Helen with admiration, and congratulated himself on his success. “She is,” he thought, “one of the handsomest women, and belongs to one of the first families in England, and I hope they will do something for me.” Then the minister put their hands together, and said, in a clear voice that echoed through the church:
“Those whom God hath joined together let no man put asunder.”
This phrase impressed Lewis so much with the indissolubility of the marriage contract, that he ventured to look slightly round, but, meeting Mrs. Bentham’s eyes, which were fixed on him, he turned away, and thought of how bravely she had behaved: under the influence of the thought he grew quite sentimental.
The organ then began playing, and the minister, going to the Lord’s Table, sang with the congregation the hymn beginning, “Blessed are they that fear the Lord and walk in His ways.” In the excitement of the singing the general feeling of uneasiness that had prevailed during the ceremony vanished, and everybody seemed to forget that anything unusual had occurred. The bridesmaids began to consider how they looked, Lord Granderville examined the picture of the Last Supper, wondering if his son-in-law could do a better one, and the service went on without interruption to the end. Then the bridal party passed into the vestry, followed by a few friends from the body of the church.
The clerk was there with the books; he held the pen with one hand, and with the other indicated the place where they were to sign. The vicar was still in his surplice, but had put off the solemn look which he wore in church, and was now smiling blandly and shaking hands with those of the company whom he knew.
Lady Jane Archer could not restrain her tears, and as for an old lady in purple, Lewis thought that she would never let his wife sign, several times she had interrupted her; at last, however, it was done, and Lord Worthing and Sir Thomas Towler, P.R.A., added their names as the witnesses.
Then Lewis gave his arm to his wife, whom nobody now could take from him; Lord Granderville gave his arm to the first bridesmaid, Mr. Ripple to Lady Granderville, who was beginning to brighten up, and the whole party passed down the church.
There was a murmur of admiration, and more than one woman envied Lady Helen, and more than one man wished himself in Seymour’s place.
Lewis had now recovered his courage, and he looked around him, although still a little timidly. Gwynnie Lloyd, who was sitting on one of the back benches, caught his eyes; her face seemed familiar to him, he wondered for a moment if he had ever seen her. Gwynnie’s heart sank within her; she would not have cared had he recognised her. “He does not know me, and it was I who saved him!” she thought, as she got up and struggled with the crowd to get out of the church.
“Thank Heaven,” whispered Mrs. French to Lady Jane Archer, who was just behind her, “it passed off without a hitch.”
But Lady Jane had been so carried away by the sentiment of what she considered to be the most perfect love match since the days of Romeo and Juliet, that she had perceived nothing, and asked what was meant by there being no hitch.
This embarrassed Mrs. French, who murmured something and pressed on. Sir John lingered, trying to get a word with a man he knew had a large commission to back — for the Derby. Mr. Day made his way in the same direction in the hopes of hearing something he could turn to his advantage, but Lord Senton detained him to point out a little girl in a common black dress and bonnet who was crying bitterly.
“Who do you think she is?” asked Lord Senton.
“Oh,” said Day, giggling, “we shall have some fun;” evidently a happy thought had struck him. “I think she is one of his models. Let’s wait, and we’ll speak to her.”
“You’ll lose her if you don’t make haste,” cried Senton.
“No, no, I sha’n’t,” replied Day, who knew what he was about; “tell your coachman to wait.”
The carriages had now all gone off, and as he passed, Lord Senton made a sign to his man to stay where he was. — I “Are you sure she’s a model?” he whispered, but Day was walking too fast to answer.
“I beg your pardon,” he said, as he caught the girl up, “but if I am not mistaken, you sit for Mr. Seymour.”
The little girl stopped, and replied peevishly, “I used to, but I sha’n’t any more.”
The two men exchanged glances; this was becoming interesting.
“And how is that?” asked Day, in his blandest tones. “Mr. Seymour doesn’t intend to give up painting.”
“No,” replied the girl, looking at him with a vacant stare; “but she is so well made, one can see that through all her frippery.”
“Who’s well made?” said Day, pretending not to understand.
“Why, the one he has married, to be sure,” returned the girl; “but I must make haste. I have a sitting at half-past one. Are you an artist? if so, will you write to me when you want me?” and after some fumbling, she discovered a card in the bottom of her pocket whic
h she handed to Day, and then hurried away. Day was so surprised that he did not call her back till she was half up the court; but she motioned with her hand that she had no time to waste talking.
“So we shall see Lady Helen as Venus next year; that’s a consolation for you, Senton.”
“Ton my word, Day, I won’t stand it; you are too deuced coarse. I won’t stand by and hear a lady spoken of in that way.”
“Well, I said nothing,” replied Day, still laughing. “It was the girl who said so, not I. But you had better make haste; you’ll be too late for the feed. I am not invited, ta, ta.”
The friends shook hands; Lord Senton got into his brougham, somewhat wrath at what he thought was d — coarse. Day walked down the street, twiddling the girl’s card.
CHAPTER XXVI.
THE HONEYMOON.
THE BREAKFAST WAS a solemn and wearisome affair; everyone had noticed that the congregation had been a curiously composed one, and it was irritating to have to murmur perpetually that the bride and bridegroom were the handsomest couple in London, when there were so many other interesting criticisms to be made.
Lords Granderville and Worthing made two speeches, as dignified and grave as themselves. Lewis spoke charmingly, at least so the ladies said: he referred to Greek art, female beauty, and to the influence of women in modern life; he congratulated the sex on the way they had elevated love, from the coarse passion it used to be, to the delicate emotion it is in the present century. No one understood exactly what he meant, but it rendered them reflective, particularly Lord Senton; and the elder Miss Davidson profited by the occasion to renew an old flirtation. Lewis and Lady Helen looked at each other embarrassed, and longed to be alone. She grew weary of the perpetual murmur of amiable words which followed her round the drawing-room, and sick of the white monotony of her dress, and was delighted when the time came for her to go upstairs and exchange it for a travelling costume.
Then came the farewells; the carriage was at the door, the trunks were on the cab, and Gwynnie was waiting in the hall. Another kiss Lady Helen had to give to Lady Marion, another to her father, another to her mother; some friends stopped her; at last she got into the carriage.
