The Incredible Honeymoon

by E. Nesbit

  XII

  WESTMINSTER

  A WEDDING-DAY--even a real wedding-day--leaves at best but a vague andincoherent memory. To the bridegroom it is a confused whirlingrecollection of white satin and tears and smiles and flowers andmusic--or perhaps a dingy room with a long table and an uninterestedregistrar at the end of it.

  Edward Basingstoke thought with regret of the flowers and the whitesatin. If he had accepted her submission, had consented to the realmarriage, there should have been white roses by the hundred, and thesoftest lace and silk to set off her beauty. As it was--

  "We shall have to go through some sort of form," he told her, "becauseof the clerks. If my friend were just to tear out a certificate and giveit to us the people in the office. . . . You understand."

  "Quite," she said.

  "It'll be rather like a very dingy pretense at a marriage. You won'tmind that?"

  "Of course not. Why should I?"

  "Then, if you're sure you really want to go through with it . . . shallwe go to my friend's now, and get it over?"

  "He doesn't mind?"

  "Not a bit."

  "He must be a very accommodating friend."

  "He is," said Edward.

  "Where did you leave the luggage?" she asked, suddenly. They werewalking along the Embankment.

  "At Charing Cross."

  "Well, I'm going to get it. And I shall go to the Charing Cross Hotelwith it, and you can meet me in three hours."

  "But that'll only just give us time," he said. "Why not come with menow?"

  "Because," she said, firmly, "I won't play at mock marriages unless Ilike, and I won't play at all unless you let me do as I like first."

  "Won't you tell me why?"

  "I'll tell you when I meet you again."

  "Where?" he asked. And she stopped at the statue of Forster in theEmbankment Gardens, and answered:

  "Here."

  Then she smiled at him so kindly that he asked no more questions, butjust said:

  "In three hours, then," and they walked on together to Charing Cross.

  And after three hours, in which he had time to be at least six differentEdwards, he met, by the statue of the estimable Mr. Forster, a lady allin fine white linen, wearing a white hat with a wreath of white rosesaround it, and long white gloves, and little white shoes. And she had awhite lace scarf and a live white rose at her waist.

  "I thought I'd better dress the part," she said, a little nervously,"for the sake of the clerks, you know."

  "How beautiful you are," he said, becoming yet another kind of Edward atthe sight of her, and looking at her as she stood in the afternoonsunshine. "Why didn't you tell me before how beautiful you were?"

  "I. . . . How silly you are," was all she found to say.

  "I wish, though," he said, as they walked together along the gravel ofthe garden, "that you'd done it for me, and not for those clerks,confound them!"

  "I didn't really do it for them," she said. "Oh no--and not for you,either. I did it for myself. I couldn't even pretend to be married inanything but white. It would be so unlucky."

  All that he remembered well. And what came afterward--the dingy housewith the grimy door-step, and the area where dust and torn paper lay,the bare room, the few words that were a mockery of what a marriageservice should be, the policeman who met them as they went in, thecharwoman who followed them as they went out, the man at the end of thelong, leather-covered table--Edward's old acquaintance, but that seemednegligible--who who wished them joy with, as it were, his tongue in hischeek. And there was signing of names and dabbing of them with a littleoblong of pink blotting-paper crisscrossed with the ghosts of the namesof other brides and bridegrooms--real ones, these--and then they werewalking down the sordid street, she rather pale and looking straightbefore her, and in her white-gloved hand the prize of the expedition,the marriage certificate, to gain which the mock marriage had beenundertaken.

  And suddenly the romantic exaltation of the day yielded to deepestdepression, and Edward Basingstoke, earnestly and from the heart, wishedthe day's work undone. It was all very well to talk about mockmarriages, but he knew well enough that his honor was as deeply engagedas though he had been well and truly married in Westminster Abbey byHis Grace of York assisted by His Grace of Canterbury. Freedom was over,independence was over, and all his life lay at the mercy of a girl--thegirl who, a week ago, had no existence for him. The whole adventure,from his first sight of her among dewy grass and trees, had been like afairy-tale, like a romance of old chivalry. He had played his parthandsomely, but with the underlying consciousness that it was a part--apart sympathetic to his inclinations, but a part, none the less. Thewhole thing had been veiled in the mists of poetry, illuminated by theglow of adventure. And now it seemed as though he had thoughtlesslyplucked the flower of romance which, with patience and careful tending,would have turned to the fruit of happiness. He had plucked the flower,and all he had gained was the power to keep a beautiful stranger withhim--on false pretenses. He wished that she, at least, had not so gailyentered on the path of deception. Never a scruple had disturbed her--theidea of deceiving an aunt who loved her had been less to her than--thanwhat? Less, at least, than the pain of losing him forever, he remindedhimself. He tried to be just--to be generous. But at the back of hismind, and not so very far back, either, Iago's words echoed, "She diddeceive her father, and may thee." His part of the deception now seemedto him the blackest deed of his life, and he could not undo it. It wasimpossible to turn to this white shape, moving so quietly beside him,with:

  "Let's burn the certificate. Deceit is dishonorable."

  If she did not think so . . . well, women's code of honor was differentfrom men's. And she _had_ been willing to marry him in earnest, with nodeceptions or reservations. This mock business had been, in the end, hisdoing, not hers. And now they had gone through with it, and here he waswalking beside her, silent, like a resentful accomplice. They had walkedthe street's length, its whole dingy length, in silence. The light oflife had, once more, for Mr. Basingstoke, absolutely gone out. Theyturned the corner, and still he could find nothing to say; nor, itappeared, could she. The hand with the paper hung loosely. The otherhand was busy at her belt--and now the white rose fell on the dustypavement, between a banana-skin and a bit of torn printed paper. Hestooped, automatically, to pick up the rose.

  "Don't," she said. "It's faded."

  It so manifestly wasn't that he looked at her, and on the instant thelight of life began to be again visible to him, very faint and far, likethe pin-point of daylight at the end of a long tunnel, but stillvisible. For he now perceived that for her, too, the light had goneout--blown out, most likely, by the same breath of remorse. Sublimeegoist! He was to have the monopoly of fine sentiments and regretfulindecisions, was he? Not a thought for her, and what she must have beenfeeling. But perhaps what she had felt had not been that at all; yetsomething she had felt, something not happy--something that led to thethrowing away of white roses.

  "I can't let it lie there," he said, holding it in his hand. "I shouldlike to think," he added, madly trying to find some words to break thespell that, he now felt, held them both--"I should like to think itwould never fade."

  She smiled at that--a small and pitiful smile.

  "Cheer up," she said; "lots of people have got _really_ married and thenparted, as they say, at the church door. This is a perfect spot for aparting," she added, a little wildly, waving toward a corn-chandler'sand a tobacconist's; "or, if your chivalry won't let you desert me inthis desolate neighborhood . . . let me tell you something, something toremember; you'll find it wonderfully soothing and helpful. From thismoment henceforth, forever, every place in the world where we are willbe the best place for parting--if we want to part. Isn't that almost asgood as the freedom you're crying your eyes out for?"

  "I'm not," he said, absurdly; but she went on.

  "Do you think I don't understand? Do you think I don't know how you feeltwenty times more bound to me than if we were
really married? Perhapsit's only because everything's so new and nasty. Perhaps you won't feellike that when you get used to things. But if you do--if you don't getover it then--it's all been for nothing, and we might as well haveparted among the pigeons."

  She walked faster and faster.

  "What we have to remember--oh yes, it's for me as well as you--whatwe've got to remember is that we're to be perfectly free. We needn'tstay with each other an instant after we wish not to stay. Doesn't thathelp?"

  "You're a witch," he said, keeping pace with her quickened steps, "butyou don't know everything. And you're tired and--"

  "I know quite enough," she said.

  Never had he felt more helpless. Their aimless walking was leading theminto narrower and poorer streets where her bridal whiteness caught theeye and turned the head of every passer-by. The pavements were chokedwith slow passengers and playing children, small, dirty, pale, with theanxious expression of little old men and women.

  "Do you like deer?" he asked, suddenly.

  "Deer?"

  "Yes--fawns, does, stags, antlers?"

  "Of course I do."

  "Then let's go to Richmond Park. Let's get out of this."

  The points of her white shoes showed like stars among the filth of thepavement, her clean, clear beauty shining against the drab and dirtyhouses like a lily against a dust-heap. He felt a surge of impotent furythat such a background should be possible. The children, tired and palewith the summer heat that had been so glad and gay and shining to himand to her yesterday on the quiet river, looked like some sort of livingfungus--and their clothes looked like decaying vegetables. If Mr.Basingstoke had been alone he would have solaced himself by going to thenearest baker's and buying buns for every child in sight. But somehow itis very difficult to do that sort of thing unless you are alone or havea companion who trusts you and whom you trust beyond the limit of life'scheaper confidences. He felt that self-exculpatory eagerness to givewhich certain natures experience in the presence of sufferings whichthey do not share. Also he felt--and hated himself for feeling--a fearlest, if he should act naturally, she might think he wanted to "showoff." To show off what, in the name of all that was pretentious andinsincere? Had civilization come to this, that a man was "showing off"who took want as he found it and changed it, without its costing him theleast little loss or self-denial, into a radiant, if momentary,satisfaction? And yet, somehow, he found he could not say, "Let's go andraid the bun-shop for these kiddies."

  "We're to pass our lives together, and I can't say a simple thing likethat," he thought, with curious bitterness--but, indeed, all histhoughts were confused and bitter just then.

  What a travesty of a wedding-day! He would have liked his wedding-feastto be in the big barn of the bride's father, and every neighbor, richand poor, to have drunk their health in home-brewed ale of the best, andthe tables cleared away and a jolly dance to follow, and when the funwas at its merriest he and she would have slipped out and ridden home tohis own house on the white horse--Dobbin, his name--she on the pillionbehind him, her arm soft about his waist, and the good horse so sure offoot that he never stumbled, however often his master turned his faceback to the dear face over his shoulder. Instead of which she hadconsented to a mock marriage in a registry-office--and this.

  "Let's get out of this," he repeated.

  "We are getting out of it," she said, and, abruptly, "Don't people whohave real weddings pay the ringers and the beadle and give a feast tothe villagers--open house, and all that?"

  He thrilled to the magic of that apt capping of his thought.

  "Yes," he said, and, not knowing why, hung on her next words.

  "Couldn't we?" she said, and her eyes wandered to the rose he stillcarried. "Of course it was only pretending, but we might pretend alittle longer. Couldn't we give our wedding-feast here? The guests areall ready," she added, and her voice trembled a little.

  How seldom can man follow his desire. Edward would have liked to fall onhis knees among the cabbage-stalks and the drifting dust and straw andpaper--to kneel before her and kiss her feet. For, in that moment, andfor the first time, he worshiped her.

  The imbecile irrationality of this will not have escaped you. Heworshiped her for the very thought, the very impulse of simpleloving-kindness which he had been ashamed to let her know as his own.

  She kindled to the lighting of his face. "I knew you would," she said."You are a dear." The same irrational admiration shone in her eyes."Sweets? Pounds and pounds of?"

  "Buns," he answered, "buns and rock-cakes. Sweets afterward, if youlike," and enthusiastically led the way to the nearest baker's.

  Now this is difficult to believe and quite impossible to explain, but itis true. No human ear but their own had heard this interchange."Sweets," "buns," and "rock-cakes," those words of power had, in fact,been spoken in the softest whisper, but from the moment of their beingspoken a sort of wireless telegraphy ran down that mean street from endto end, and by the time they reached the baker's they had a raggedfollowing of some fifty children, while from court and alley and narrowside-street came ever more and more children, ragged children, stuffilydressed children, children carrying bags, children carrying parcels,children carrying babies and jugs and jars and bundles. The crowd ofchildren pressed around the baker's door, and noses flattened like thesuckers of the octopus in aquariums marked a long line across the windowa little above the level of the bun-trays. I do not pretend to explainhow this happened. Good news proverbially travels fast. It also travelsby ways past finding out.

  She began to take the buns by twos and threes from the tray in thewindow, and held them out. A forest of lean arms reached up and a shrillchorus of, "Me, teacher! Me!" varied by, "She's 'ad one--me next,teacher! Let the little boy 'ave one, lady; 'e 'ain't 'ad nuffin."

  The woman of the shop rolled forward. She was as perfectly spherical asis possible to the human form.

  "Treat, sir?" she said, in a thick, rich, husky voice (like cake, asEdward said later). They owned her guess correct.

  "How much'll you go to?"

  "A bun apiece," said Edward.

  "For the whole street? Why, there's hundreds!"

  "The more the merrier," said Mr. Basingstoke.

  "Do 'e mean it?" the woman asked, turning to the bun-giver.

  "Yes, oh yes." The girl turned from the door to lean over the smoothdeal counter. "It's our wedding-day," she whispered, "and we didn't giveany wedding-breakfast, so we thought we'd give one now."

  Edward had turned to the door and was making a speech.

  "You shall all have a bun," he said, "to eat the lady's health in. Butit's one at a time. Now you just hold on a minute and don't beimpatient."

  "Bless your good 'art, my dear," the globular lady was wheezing intothe ear of the mock bride. "Married to-day, was you? I'm sure you lookit, both of you--every inch you do. But we 'aven't got the stuff in theplace for 'arf that lot."

  "How soon could you get it?"

  "I could send a couple of the men out. Do it in ten minutes--or less, ifPrickets around the corner's not sold out."

  "How much will it cost--something for each of them--cake if notbuns--sweets if not cake--?"

  The round woman made a swift mental calculation and announced theresult.

  She who looked so much like a bride turned to him who seemed herbridegroom. "Give me some money, please, will you?"

  Money changed hands, and changed again.

  "Now, lookee 'ere," said the round one, "you let me manage this 'ere foryou. If you don't you'll be giving three times over to the pushing ones,and the quiet ones won't get nothing but kicked shins and elbows in thepit of stomachs. I know every man jack of them 'cept the hinfans inarms, and even them I knows the ones as is carrying of them. Wait till Isend the chaps off for the rest of the stuff."

  The crowd outside surged excitedly, and the frail arms still waved tothe tune of, "Me next, teacher!" All along the street the faces of thehouses changed features as slatternly women and shirt-sleeved
men leanedout of the windows to watch and wonder. When the baker's wife rolledback into the shop she found the girl silent, with lips that trembled.

  "There, don't you upset yourself, my pretty," said the round one."You'll like to give it to 'em with your own hands, I lay. Take andbegin on what's before you--let 'em come in one door and out of theother, and I'll see as they don't come twice."

  "You do it," said the girl, and she spoke to Edward over her shoulder."I didn't think it would be like this. Tell them we've got to go, butMrs. Peacock will give them each a bun."

  "How clever of her to have noticed the name," he thought; but he said,"Are you sure you don't want to have the pleasure of seeing theirpleasure?"

  "No--no," she said. "Let's get away. I can't bear it. Mrs. Peacock willsee to it for us--won't you?"

  "That I will, lovey, and keep the change for you against you call again.You can trust me."

  "We don't want any change," she said. "Spend it all on buns, or cake, oranything you like. It _is_ good of you. Oh, good-by, and thank you--somuch. I didn't think it would be like this," she said, and gave Mrs.Peacock both hands, while Edward explained to the crowd outside.

  A wail of disappointment went up, but stayed itself as Mrs. Peacockrushed to the door.

  "It's all true," she said, in that thick, rich, caky voice; "every goodlittle boy and gell's to have a bun. Now then," she added, in a perfectblaze of tactlessness, "three cheers for the bride and bridegroom, andmany happy returns."

  The two had to stand side by side and hear those shrill, thin cheers,strengthened by the voices of fathers and mothers at the windows. He hadto wave his hat to the crowd and to be waved at in return from everywindow in the street--even those too far away for their occupants tohave any certain idea why they cheered and waved. She had to bow andkiss her hand to the children and to bow and smile to thewindow-dwellers.

  Next moment she was out of the shop and running like a deer along aside-street, he following. They took hands and ran; and by luck theirstreet brought them to a road where trams were, and escape. They rode onthe top of the tram, and she held his hand all the way to Charing Cross.I cannot explain this. Neither of them spoke a word. Further, it wasalmost without a word that they got themselves to Richmond. It was nottill they had been for many minutes in the deep quiet of the bracken andgreen leafage that she spoke, with a little laugh that had more thanlaughter in it.

  "We might almost as well," she said, "have been married in church."