“Well; — yes; it’s all right, I daresay,” said Sir Griffin.
“Well, after all, what is life till a man has met and obtained the partner of his soul? It is a blank, — and the blank becomes every day more and more intolerable to the miserable solitary.”
“I wonder you don’t get married yourself,” said Mrs. Carbuncle, who perceived that Sir Griffin was rather astray for an answer.
“Ah! — if one could always be fortunate when one loved!” said Mr. Emilius, casting his eyes across to Lizzie Eustace. It was evident to them all that he did not wish to conceal his passion.
It was the object of Mrs. Carbuncle that the lovers should not be left alone together, but that they should be made to think that they were passing the evening in affectionate intercourse. Lucinda hardly spoke, hardly had spoken since her disagreeable struggle with Sir Griffin. He said but little, but with Mrs. Carbuncle was better humoured than usual. Every now and then she made little whispered communications to him, telling that they would be sure to be at the church at eleven to the moment, explaining to him what would be the extent of Lucinda’s boxes for the wedding tour, and assuring him that he would find Lucinda’s new maid a treasure in regard to his own shirts and pocket-handkerchiefs. She toiled marvellously at little subjects, always making some allusion to Lucinda, and never hinting that aught short of Elysium was in store for him. The labour was great; the task was terrible; but now it was so nearly over! And to Lizzie she was very courteous, never hinting by a word or a look that there was any new trouble impending on the score of the diamonds. She, too, as she received the greasy compliments of Mr. Emilius with pretty smiles, had her mind full enough of care.
At last Sir Griffin went, again kissing his bride as he left. Lucinda accepted his embrace without a word and almost without a shudder. “Eleven to the moment, Sir Griffin,” said Mrs. Carbuncle, with her best good humour. “All right,” said Sir Griffin as he passed out of the door. Lucinda walked across the room, and kept her eyes fixed on his retreating figure as he descended the stairs. Mr. Emilius had already departed, with many promises of punctuality, and Lizzie now withdrew for the night. “Dear Lizzie, good night,” said Mrs. Carbuncle, kissing her.
“Good night, Lady Eustace,” said Lucinda. “I suppose I shall see you to-morrow?”
“See me! — of course you will see me. I shall come into your room with the girls, after you have had your tea.” The girls mentioned were the four bridesmaids, as to whom there had been some difficulty, as Lucinda had neither sister nor cousins, and had contracted no peculiarly tender friendships. But Mrs. Carbuncle had arranged it, and four properly-equipped young ladies were to be in attendance at ten on the morrow.
Then Lucinda and Mrs. Carbuncle were alone. “Of one thing I feel sure,” said Lucinda in a low voice.
“What is that, dear?”
“I shall never see Sir Griffin Tewett again.”
“You talk in that way on purpose to break me down at the last moment,” said Mrs. Carbuncle.
“Dear Aunt Jane, I would not break you down if I could help it. I have struggled so hard, — simply that you might be freed from me. We have been very foolish, both of us; but I would bear all the punishment, — if I could.”
“You know that this is nonsense now.”
“Very well. I only tell you. I know that I shall never see him again. I will never trust myself alone in his presence. I could not do it. When he touches me my whole body is in agony. To be kissed by him is madness.”
“Lucinda, this is very wicked. You are working yourself up to a paroxysm of folly.”
“Wicked; — yes, I know that I am wicked. There has been enough of wickedness certainly. You don’t suppose that I mean to excuse myself?”
“Of course you will marry Sir Griffin to-morrow.”
“I shall never be married to him. How I shall escape from him, — by dying, or going mad, — or by destroying him, God only knows.” Then she paused, and her aunt looking into her face almost began to fear that she was in earnest. But she would not take it as at all indicating any real result for the morrow. The girl had often said nearly the same thing before, and had still submitted. “Do you know, Aunt Jane, I don’t think I could feel to any man as though I loved him. But for this man, — Oh God, how I do detest him! I cannot do it.”
“You had better go to bed, Lucinda, and let me come to you in the morning.”
“Yes; — come to me in the morning; — early.”
“I will, — at eight.”
“I shall know then, perhaps.”
“My dear, will you come to my room to-night, and sleep with me?”
“Oh, no. I have ever so many things to do. I have papers to burn, and things to put away. But come to me at eight. Good night, Aunt Jane.” Mrs. Carbuncle went up to her room with her, kissed her affectionately, and then left her.
She was now really frightened. What would be said of her if she should press the marriage forward to a completion, and if after that some terrible tragedy should take place between the bride and bridegroom? That Lucinda, in spite of all that had been said, would stand at the altar, and allow the ceremony to be performed, she still believed. Those last words about burning papers and putting things away, seemed to imply that the girl still thought that she would be taken away from her present home on the morrow. But what would come afterwards? The horror which the bride expressed was, as Mrs. Carbuncle well knew, no mock feeling, no pretence at antipathy. She tried to think of it, and to realise what might in truth be the girl’s action and ultimate fate when she should find herself in the power of this man whom she so hated. But had not other girls done the same thing, and lived through it all, and become fat, indifferent, and fond of the world? It is only the first step that signifies.
At any rate, the thing must go on now; — must go on, whatever might be the result to Lucinda or to Mrs. Carbuncle herself. Yes; it must go on. There was, no doubt, very much of bitterness in the world for such as them, — for persons doomed by the necessities of their position to a continual struggle. It always had been so, and always would be so. But each bitter cup must be drained in the hope that the next might be sweeter. Of course the marriage must go on; though, doubtless, this cup was very bitter.
More than once in the night Mrs. Carbuncle crept up to the door of her niece’s room, endeavouring to ascertain what might be going on within. At two o’clock, while she was on the landing-place, the candle was extinguished, and she could hear that Lucinda put herself to bed. At any rate, so far, things were safe. An indistinct, incompleted idea of some possible tragedy had flitted across the mind of the poor woman, causing her to shake and tremble, forbidding her, weary as she was, to lie down; — but now she told herself at last that this was an idle phantasy, and she went to bed. Of course Lucinda must go through with it. It had been her own doing, and Sir Griffin was not worse than other men. As she said this to herself, Mrs. Carbuncle hardened her heart by remembering that her own married life had not been peculiarly happy.
Exactly at eight on the following morning she knocked at her niece’s door, and was at once bidden to enter. “Come in, Aunt Jane.” The words cheered her wonderfully. At any rate, there had been no tragedy as yet, and as she turned the handle of the door, she felt that, as a matter of course, the marriage would go on just like any other marriage. She found Lucinda up and dressed, — but so dressed as certainly to show no preparation for a wedding-toilet. She had on an ordinary stuff morning frock, and her hair was close tucked up and pinned, as it might have been had she already prepared herself for a journey. But what astonished Mrs. Carbuncle more than the dress was the girl’s manner. She was sitting at a table with a book before her, which was afterwards found to be the Bible, and she never turned her head as her aunt entered the room. “What, up already,” said Mrs. Carbuncle, — “and dressed?”
“Yes; I am up, — and dressed. I have been up ever so long. How was I to lie in bed on such a morning as this? Aunt Jane, I wish you to know as soon as
possible that no earthly consideration will induce me to leave this room to-day.”
“What nonsense, Lucinda!”
“Very well; — all the same you might as well believe me. I want you to send to Mr. Emilius, and to those girls, — and to the man. And you had better get Lord George to let the other people know. I’m quite in earnest.”
And she was in earnest, — quite in earnest, though there was a flightiness about her manner which induced Mrs. Carbuncle for awhile to think that she was less so than she had been on the previous evening. The unfortunate woman remained with her niece for an hour and a half, imploring, threatening, scolding, and weeping. When the maids came to the door, first one maid and then another, they were refused entrance. It might still be possible, Mrs. Carbuncle thought, that she would prevail. But nothing now could shake Lucinda or induce her even to discuss the subject. She sat there looking steadfastly at the book, — hardly answering, never defending herself, but protesting that nothing should induce her to leave the room on that day. “Do you want to destroy me?” Mrs. Carbuncle said at last.
“You have destroyed me,” said Lucinda.
At half-past nine Lizzie Eustace came to the room, and Mrs. Carbuncle, in her trouble, thought it better to take other counsel. Lizzie, therefore, was admitted. “Is anything wrong?” asked Lizzie.
“Everything is wrong,” said the aunt. “She says that — she won’t be married.”
“Oh, Lucinda!”
“Pray speak to her, Lady Eustace. You see it is getting so late, and she ought to be nearly dressed now. Of course she must allow herself to be dressed.”
“I am dressed,” said Lucinda.
“But, dear Lucinda, — everybody will be waiting for you,” said Lizzie.
“Let them wait, — till they’re tired. If Aunt Jane doesn’t choose to send, it is not my fault. I sha’n’t go out of this room to-day unless I am carried out. Do you want to hear that I have murdered the man?”
They brought her tea, and endeavoured to induce her to eat and drink. She would take the tea, she said, if they would promise to send to put the people off. Mrs. Carbuncle so far gave way as to undertake to do so, if she would name the next day or the day following for the wedding. But on hearing this she arose almost in a majesty of wrath. Neither on this day, or on the next, or on any following day, would she yield herself to the wretch whom they had endeavoured to force upon her. “She must do it, you know,” said Mrs. Carbuncle, turning to Lizzie. “You’ll see if I must,” said Lucinda, sitting square at the table, with her eyes firmly fixed upon the book.
Then came up the servant to say that the four bridesmaids were all assembled in the drawing-room. When she heard this, even Mrs. Carbuncle gave way, and threw herself upon the bed and wept. “Oh, Lady Eustace, what are we to do? Lucinda, you have destroyed me. You have destroyed me altogether, after all that I have done for you.”
“And what has been done to me, do you think?” said Lucinda.
Something must be settled. All the servants in the house by this time knew that there would be no wedding, and no doubt some tidings as to the misadventure of the day had already reached the four ladies in the drawing-room. “What am I to do?” said Mrs. Carbuncle, starting up from the bed.
“I really think you had better send to Mr. Emilius,” said Lizzie; — “and to Lord George.”
“What am I to say? Who is there to go? Oh, — I wish that somebody would kill me this minute! Lady Eustace, would you mind going down and telling those ladies to go away?”
“And had I not better send Richard to the church?”
“Oh yes; — send anybody everywhere. I don’t know what to do. Oh, Lucinda, this is the unkindest and the wickedest, and the most horrible thing that anybody ever did! I shall never, never be able to hold up my head again.” Mrs. Carbuncle was completely prostrate, but Lucinda sat square at the table, firm as a rock, saying nothing, making no excuse for herself, with her eyes fixed upon the Bible.
Lady Eustace carried her message to the astonished and indignant bridesmaids, and succeeded in sending them back to their respective homes. Richard, glorious in new livery, forgetting that his flowers were still on his breast, — ready dressed to attend the bride’s carriage, — went with his sad message, first to the church and then to the banqueting-hall in Albemarle Street.
“Not any wedding?” said the head-waiter at the hotel. “I knew they was folks as would have a screw loose somewheres. There’s lots to stand for the bill, anyways,” he added, as he remembered all the tribute.
CHAPTER LXX
Alas!
No attempt was made to send other messages from Hertford Street than those which were taken to the church and to the hotel. Sir Griffin and Lord George went together to the church in a brougham, and, on the way, the best man rather ridiculed the change in life which he supposed that his friend was about to make. “I don’t in the least know how you mean to get along,” said Lord George.
“Much as other men do, I suppose.”
“But you’re always sparring, already.”
“It’s that old woman that you’re so fond of,” said Sir Griffin. “I don’t mean to have any ill-humour from my wife, I can tell you. I know who will have the worst of it if there is.”
“Upon my word, I think you’ll have your hands full,” said Lord George. They got out at a sort of private door attached to the chapel, and were there received by the clerk, who wore a very long face. The news had already come, and had been communicated to Mr. Emilius, who was in the vestry. “Are the ladies here yet?” asked Lord George. The woebegone clerk told them that the ladies were not yet there, and suggested that they should see Mr. Emilius. Into the presence of Mr. Emilius they were led, and then they heard the truth.
“Sir Griffin,” said Mr. Emilius, holding the baronet by the hand, “I’m sorry to have to tell you that there’s something wrong in Hertford Street.”
“What’s wrong?” asked Sir Griffin.
“You don’t mean to say that Miss Roanoke is not to be here?” demanded Lord George. “By George, I thought as much. I did indeed.”
“I can only tell you what I know, Lord George. Mrs. Carbuncle’s servant was here ten minutes since, Sir Griffin, — before I came down, and he told the clerk that — that — “
“What the d–––– did he tell him?” asked Sir Griffin.
“He said that Miss Roanoke had changed her mind, and didn’t mean to be married at all. That’s all that I can learn from what he says. Perhaps you will think it best to go up to Hertford Street?”
“I’ll be –––– if I do,” said Sir Griffin.
“I am not in the least surprised,” repeated Lord George. “Tewett, my boy, we might as well go home to lunch, and the sooner you’re out of town the better.”
“I knew that I should be taken in at last by that accursed woman,” said Sir Griffin.
“It wasn’t Mrs. Carbuncle, if you mean that. She’d have given her left hand to have had it completed. I rather think you’ve had an escape, Griff; and if I were you, I’d make the best of it.” Sir Griffin spoke not another word, but left the church with his friend in the brougham that had brought them, and so he disappears from our story. Mr. Emilius looked after him with wistful eyes, regretful for his fee. Had the baronet been less coarse and violent in his language he would have asked for it; but he feared that he might be cursed in his own church, before his clerk, and abstained. Late in the afternoon Lord George, when he had administered comfort to the disappointed bridegroom in the shape of a hot lunch, Curaçoa, and cigars, walked up to Hertford Street, calling at the hotel in Albemarle Street on the way. The waiter told him all that he knew. Some thirty or forty guests had come to the wedding-banquet, and had all been sent away with tidings that the marriage had been — postponed. “You might have told ‘em a trifle more than that,” said Lord George. “Postponed was pleasantest, my lord,” said the waiter. “Anyways, that was said, and we supposes, my lord, as the things ain’t wanted now.” Lord Geo
rge replied that, as far as he knew, the things were not wanted, and then continued his way up to Hertford Street.
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