WESTMINSTER

A WEDDING-DAY--even a real wedding-day--leaves at best but a vague and

incoherent memory. To the bridegroom it is a confused whirling

recollection of white satin and tears and smiles and flowers and

music--or perhaps a dingy room with a long table and an uninterested

registrar at the end of it.

Edward Basingstoke thought with regret of the flowers and the white

satin. If he had accepted her submission, had consented to the real

marriage, there should have been white roses by the hundred, and the

softest lace and silk to set off her beauty. As it was--

"We shall have to go through some sort of form," he told her, "because

of the clerks. If my friend were just to tear out a certificate and give

it 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't

mind that?"

"Of course not. Why should I?"

"Then, if you're sure you really want to go through with it . . . shall

we 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 were

walking along the Embankment.

"At Charing Cross."

"Well, I'm going to get it. And I shall go to the Charing Cross Hotel

with it, and you can meet me in three hours."

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

now?"

"Because," she said, firmly, "I won't play at mock marriages unless I

like, 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 the

Embankment Gardens, and answered:

"Here."

Then she smiled at him so kindly that he asked no more questions, but

just 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 different

Edwards, he met, by the statue of the estimable Mr. Forster, a lady all

in fine white linen, wearing a white hat with a wreath of white roses

around it, and long white gloves, and little white shoes. And she had a

white 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 at

the sight of her, and looking at her as she stood in the afternoon

sunshine. "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 of

the 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 in

anything but white. It would be so unlucky."

All that he remembered well. And what came afterward--the dingy house

with 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 marriage

service should be, the policeman who met them as they went in, the

charwoman who followed them as they went out, the man at the end of the

long, leather-covered table--Edward's old acquaintance, but that seemed

negligible--who who wished them joy with, as it were, his tongue in his

cheek. And there was signing of names and dabbing of them with a little

oblong of pink blotting-paper crisscrossed with the ghosts of the names

of other brides and bridegrooms--real ones, these--and then they were

walking down the sordid street, she rather pale and looking straight

before her, and in her white-gloved hand the prize of the expedition,

the marriage certificate, to gain which the mock marriage had been

undertaken.

And suddenly the romantic exaltation of the day yielded to deepest

depression, and Edward Basingstoke, earnestly and from the heart, wished

the day's work undone. It was all very well to talk about mock

marriages, but he knew well enough that his honor was as deeply engaged

as though he had been well and truly married in Westminster Abbey by

His 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--the

girl 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 a

fairy-tale, like a romance of old chivalry. He had played his part

handsomely, but with the underlying consciousness that it was a part--a

part sympathetic to his inclinations, but a part, none the less. The

whole thing had been veiled in the mists of poetry, illuminated by the

glow of adventure. And now it seemed as though he had thoughtlessly

plucked 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 with

him--on false pretenses. He wished that she, at least, had not so gaily

entered on the path of deception. Never a scruple had disturbed her--the

idea of deceiving an aunt who loved her had been less to her than--than

what? Less, at least, than the pain of losing him forever, he reminded

himself. He tried to be just--to be generous. But at the back of his

mind, and not so very far back, either, Iago's words echoed, "She did

deceive her father, and may thee." His part of the deception now seemed

to him the blackest deed of his life, and he could not undo it. It was

impossible 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 different

from men's. And she _had_ been willing to marry him in earnest, with no

deceptions or reservations. This mock business had been, in the end, his

doing, not hers. And now they had gone through with it, and here he was

walking beside her, silent, like a resentful accomplice. They had walked

the street's length, its whole dingy length, in silence. The light of

life had, once more, for Mr. Basingstoke, absolutely gone out. They

turned the corner, and still he could find nothing to say; nor, it

appeared, could she. The hand with the paper hung loosely. The other

hand was busy at her belt--and now the white rose fell on the dusty

pavement, between a banana-skin and a bit of torn printed paper. He

stooped, 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 the

light of life began to be again visible to him, very faint and far, like

the pin-point of daylight at the end of a long tunnel, but still

visible. For he now perceived that for her, too, the light had gone

out--blown out, most likely, by the same breath of remorse. Sublime

egoist! He was to have the monopoly of fine sentiments and regretful

indecisions, was he? Not a thought for her, and what she must have been

feeling. But perhaps what she had felt had not been that at all; yet

something she had felt, something not happy--something that led to the

throwing away of white roses.

"I can't let it lie there," he said, holding it in his hand. "I should

like to think," he added, madly trying to find some words to break the

spell that, he now felt, held them both--"I should like to think it

would never fade."

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

"Cheer up," she said; "lots of people have got _really_ married and then

parted, as they say, at the church door. This is a perfect spot for a

parting," she added, a little wildly, waving toward a corn-chandler's

and a tobacconist's; "or, if your chivalry won't let you desert me in

this desolate neighborhood . . . let me tell you something, something to

remember; you'll find it wonderfully soothing and helpful. From this

moment henceforth, forever, every place in the world where we are will

be the best place for parting--if we want to part. Isn't that almost as

good 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 feel

twenty times more bound to me than if we were really married? Perhaps

it's only because everything's so new and nasty. Perhaps you won't feel

like that when you get used to things. But if you do--if you don't get

over it then--it's all been for nothing, and we might as well have

parted among the pigeons."

She walked faster and faster.

"What we have to remember--oh yes, it's for me as well as you--what

we've got to remember is that we're to be perfectly free. We needn't

stay with each other an instant after we wish not to stay. Doesn't that

help?"

"You're a witch," he said, keeping pace with her quickened steps, "but

you 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 them

into narrower and poorer streets where her bridal whiteness caught the

eye and turned the head of every passer-by. The pavements were choked

with slow passengers and playing children, small, dirty, pale, with the

anxious 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 the

pavement, her clean, clear beauty shining against the drab and dirty

houses like a lily against a dust-heap. He felt a surge of impotent fury

that such a background should be possible. The children, tired and pale

with the summer heat that had been so glad and gay and shining to him

and to her yesterday on the quiet river, looked like some sort of living

fungus--and their clothes looked like decaying vegetables. If Mr.

Basingstoke had been alone he would have solaced himself by going to the

nearest baker's and buying buns for every child in sight. But somehow it

is very difficult to do that sort of thing unless you are alone or have

a companion who trusts you and whom you trust beyond the limit of life's

cheaper confidences. He felt that self-exculpatory eagerness to give

which certain natures experience in the presence of sufferings which

they do not share. Also he felt--and hated himself for feeling--a fear

lest, if he should act naturally, she might think he wanted to "show

off." To show off what, in the name of all that was pretentious and

insincere? 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 the

least little loss or self-denial, into a radiant, if momentary,

satisfaction? And yet, somehow, he found he could not say, "Let's go and

raid the bun-shop for these kiddies."

"We're to pass our lives together, and I can't say a simple thing like

that," he thought, with curious bitterness--but, indeed, all his

thoughts were confused and bitter just then.

What a travesty of a wedding-day! He would have liked his wedding-feast

to be in the big barn of the bride's father, and every neighbor, rich

and poor, to have drunk their health in home-brewed ale of the best, and

the tables cleared away and a jolly dance to follow, and when the fun

was at its merriest he and she would have slipped out and ridden home to

his own house on the white horse--Dobbin, his name--she on the pillion

behind him, her arm soft about his waist, and the good horse so sure of

foot that he never stumbled, however often his master turned his face

back to the dear face over his shoulder. Instead of which she had

consented 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 who

have real weddings pay the ringers and the beadle and give a feast to

the 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 still

carried. "Of course it was only pretending, but we might pretend a

little longer. Couldn't we give our wedding-feast here? The guests are

all ready," she added, and her voice trembled a little.

How seldom can man follow his desire. Edward would have liked to fall on

his knees among the cabbage-stalks and the drifting dust and straw and

paper--to kneel before her and kiss her feet. For, in that moment, and

for the first time, he worshiped her.

The imbecile irrationality of this will not have escaped you. He

worshiped her for the very thought, the very impulse of simple

loving-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 you

like," and enthusiastically led the way to the nearest baker's.

Now this is difficult to believe and quite impossible to explain, but it

is 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 being

spoken a sort of wireless telegraphy ran down that mean street from end

to end, and by the time they reached the baker's they had a ragged

following of some fifty children, while from court and alley and narrow

side-street came ever more and more children, ragged children, stuffily

dressed children, children carrying bags, children carrying parcels,

children carrying babies and jugs and jars and bundles. The crowd of

children pressed around the baker's door, and noses flattened like the

suckers of the octopus in aquariums marked a long line across the window

a little above the level of the bun-trays. I do not pretend to explain

how this happened. Good news proverbially travels fast. It also travels

by ways past finding out.

She began to take the buns by twos and threes from the tray in the

window, and held them out. A forest of lean arms reached up and a shrill

chorus 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 as

is possible to the human form.

"Treat, sir?" she said, in a thick, rich, husky voice (like cake, as

Edward 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 smooth

deal counter. "It's our wedding-day," she whispered, "and we didn't give

any 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. But

it's one at a time. Now you just hold on a minute and don't be

impatient."

"Bless your good 'art, my dear," the globular lady was wheezing into

the ear of the mock bride. "Married to-day, was you? I'm sure you look

it, both of you--every inch you do. But we 'aven't got the stuff in the

place 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, if

Prickets around the corner's not sold out."

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

buns--sweets if not cake--?"

The round woman made a swift mental calculation and announced the

result.

She who looked so much like a bride turned to him who seemed her

bridegroom. "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 for

you. 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 the

pit of stomachs. I know every man jack of them 'cept the hinfans in

arms, and even them I knows the ones as is carrying of them. Wait till I

send the chaps off for the rest of the stuff."

The crowd outside surged excitedly, and the frail arms still waved to

the tune of, "Me next, teacher!" All along the street the faces of the

houses changed features as slatternly women and shirt-sleeved men leaned

out of the windows to watch and wonder. When the baker's wife rolled

back 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 and

begin on what's before you--let 'em come in one door and out of the

other, 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, but

Mrs. 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 their

pleasure?"

"No--no," she said. "Let's get away. I can't bear it. Mrs. Peacock will

see 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, or

anything you like. It _is_ good of you. Oh, good-by, and thank you--so

much. 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. Peacock

rushed to the door.

"It's all true," she said, in that thick, rich, caky voice; "every good

little boy and gell's to have a bun. Now then," she added, in a perfect

blaze of tactlessness, "three cheers for the bride and bridegroom, and

many 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 had

to wave his hat to the crowd and to be waved at in return from every

window in the street--even those too far away for their occupants to

have any certain idea why they cheered and waved. She had to bow and

kiss her hand to the children and to bow and smile to the

window-dwellers.

Next moment she was out of the shop and running like a deer along a

side-street, he following. They took hands and ran; and by luck their

street brought them to a road where trams were, and escape. They rode on

the 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 was

almost without a word that they got themselves to Richmond. It was not

till they had been for many minutes in the deep quiet of the bracken and

green leafage that she spoke, with a little laugh that had more than

laughter in it.

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