AFTER THE WEDDING
Caroline was married at the beginning of the year. The Abbey was full of
guests, as for Beatrix's wedding, but there was no occasion to find
other rooms elsewhere; there had not been such a demand for invitations.
Caroline had wanted a very quiet wedding. She was not going to marry
into a more or less exalted position, as Beatrix had done, and was going
to begin, and continue, her married life in a very modest way. But her
father had wanted no difference made between her and Beatrix, and she
had given way.
It must be confessed, however, that her wedding was not the bright
success that Beatrix's had been. It was, at the outset, one of those
social functions which were to be dropped out of Caroline's life
altogether. Maurice was not calculated to shine in them, in any
capacity, least of all as a leading figure. He was as well dressed as he
ever could be--Worthing had seen to that--but he did not look at ease in
his wedding garments, and his almost bucolic air was heightened rather
than diminished by them. Also he looked extraordinarily young; and a man
who depends on the virile force within him, and lacks most of the graces
of youth, does not show to any advantage until the years have passed
over his head. The contrast between him and Caroline, in the full
flower of her young grace and beauty, was so marked as scarcely to
escape the notice of the most sympathetic, and there were many there who
were far from being sympathetic with a marriage which in their view was
nothing short of a misalliance. Nobody expressed this view to Grafton,
but those who held it showed themselves rather too careful not to. Its
atmosphere was all around him, and he felt more uncomfortable and
doubtful than at any time since he had brought himself to consent.
When the bride and bridegroom had driven off he was feeling so depressed
that he determined to escape his duties as host for a time, and slip out
for a walk. There was nearly an hour of winter twilight left, and a
sharp frost. A fast walk would brace him in mind and body.
He went upstairs to change his clothes. He could get down by a staircase
at the other end of the corridor and escape from the house without being
seen, except perhaps by some of the servants.
As he slipped into a tweed suit and put on a pair of thick-soled boots
his unease of mind deepened. His black hour was upon him. Only at the
death of his wife sixteen years before had he felt the heavy weight upon
his mind that he felt now. But for that one big grief he had dwelt in
the sunshine of prosperity, pleasure, the liking of his friends, the
love of his children. The upset of mind he had endured over Beatrix a
year before had been by far the biggest that had troubled him for all
those long years, and that had never brought him the black cloud that
was settling on him now.
The marked difference in atmosphere between Caroline's wedding and
Beatrix's was not the cause of his mood, though it heightened, and
perhaps had induced it. He had tested and examined himself so
searchingly during the past weeks that the plainly-to-be-noticed
disapproval of others could not now affect his own conviction that he
had taken the right course. All of those who had a right to express
their opinions had had their opportunity of expressing them directly to
him, and he had answered them. And he had satisfied himself, by many
signs and tokens, of Maurice's essential fitness for the great trust he
had reposed in him. He already felt an affection for the boy; that was
the reward he had gained from sinking his own prejudices, and making a
strong effort to see him with Caroline's eyes. It was a big reward. It
had removed from him all the discomfort of feeling that she was wasting
her fine gifts upon one who could give her no adequate return for them.
He had come to see that she was fulfilling herself in this marriage, and
that the expression of her true and tender nature would flower
beautifully under it, though its flowering might be hidden from the
world at large.
Nor had he had to make the adjustments of his own attitude that had
troubled him when Beatrix had given her love. Caroline had come to be
more to him than ever before, because he had been able to enter with her
into the deeper places of her heart. That reward he had also gained
from his self-suppression. She trusted him and loved him, and had shown
it as she had always shown it, without once causing him to feel that he
was ever so little shouldered out of his place in her heart.
And yet the sense of irreparable loss was there in this black hour, and
was growing deeper every moment. He hurried on his changing so as to get
away by himself and keep it at bay by fast movement; and, if he could,
to fight it down and regain his accustomed equanimity.
It was the sense of change and passing in his own life that had
descended upon him so heavily as Caroline had driven off from her old
home, with her face set towards her new one. With parents happily
married, where family life is welded by strong affection and community
of taste and pursuit, there comes this sense of breaking up when their
children begin to leave them. They are no longer the centre round which
their children's lives revolve. Mothers feel it most when their boys go
to school, fathers when their daughters marry. But the family life goes
on; though not in its fullest measure. Grafton's had come to an end. He
might have Barbara with him for a time when she had finished her
education. Young George would only occasionally be at home, for years to
come. Miss Waterhouse would be there. That was all that would remain of
the happy years in which he had had them all around him.
Caroline would be near him, but no longer in his home, to surround him
with all the devotion that had brought him such solace since the death
of her mother. He had not known how much he depended upon her until
Beatrix's marriage. She had been almost everything to him since, and had
kept him from the sense of loss that was weighing on him now, when
Beatrix had left him. But it was the loss of both of them that he was
feeling, and the end and finish of the longest and one of the best
chapters of his life. What was his life to be in the future? It was that
question to which he wanted to find some sort of answer before he faced
again the people who had come to celebrate the opening of a new chapter
for Caroline, but the close of one for him.
When he was ready to leave his room he paused before the portrait of his
young wife hanging over the mantelpiece. He had never wanted her more
than he did now, to tread the downward slope with him.
As he went along the corridor, the door of a room on the other side of
it opened, and Ella Carruthers, who was staying in the house, came out.
She also was dressed in tweeds and walking boots, and as they looked at
one another she laughed and said: "I see we both want the same thing--to
get away for a bit and think about it."
His first feeling was one of annoyance. Caught like that, he could not
suggest that he should go his way and she hers. But he wanted no
companionship in his efforts to face what he had to face.
But when he had said lightly: "We'll go for a sharp walk together, but
don't let anybody else see us," he became conscious that just this
companionship would be good for him.
She had been so much with his daughters that she was almost like one of
his own family. She was only three or four years older than Caroline.
During the disturbance of mind he had undergone at the time of Beatrix's
engagement to Lassigny she had given him more help than anybody--more
help even than Caroline, because she had a wider knowledge and
experience; and she had shown wisdom with Beatrix too, who had listened
to her when she would have listened to nobody else. If anybody could do
so, she would help him over his dark hour.
So they set out together through the park, making for unfrequented roads
and lanes, and walking fast.
Neither of them spoke for some time. Then Ella said: "I'm afraid it
hasn't been much of a success; but I think you were right all the same."
"Right in what?" he asked. "In having a _pukka_ wedding?"
"I didn't mean that, but I think you were right there, too. It showed,
anyhow, that _you_ weren't ashamed of it."
This was pretty plain speaking. But he had encouraged that from her. And
she had already discussed Maurice with him.
"It was rather tiresome to have them all turning up their noses at him,"
he said. "It reflected on Caroline, and I felt it because of that. For
myself I don't mind much. I took my own line long ago, and I've no
reason to regret it. If you've done what you think is right, you're not
much affected by the opinion of other people, especially when they don't
judge by your standards. Do you think my poor little Caroline noticed
it?"
"Noticed the sort of atmosphere of disapproval, do you mean?"
"She can hardly have helped noticing it. Did she mind?"
"I expect she would rather not have had him subjected to that test. It's
the worst he'll ever have to go through, poor boy. But she would look
upon it in the same way as you do--only more so. She would know that
they couldn't judge him as she does. I expect it would make her feel all
the more tender towards him. What he is is for her alone."
"Then I don't think we need worry. And it's all over for her now. All
over for me, too. Ella, I'm feeling it damnably. I came out to get
myself straight. As you've come with me you must allow me to be purely
egoistic. I want to go back rather happier than I came out. You helped
me before; I believe you can help me now."
"I'll try," she said. "I expect I know something about it."
"I don't think you can know much, my dear. It will be a good many years
yet before you have to face the fact that you're getting old."
She laughed lightly. "If that's what's the matter with you," she said,
"I can sweep the trouble away altogether. You've always seemed to me
about as young as any of us, and you'll go on being young till you die.
It isn't a question of years. I thought it was the reaction of the last
few months."
"Well, I suppose it is. But what do you mean by that?"
"I think you've behaved most awfully well," she said. "I've admired you
very much for it, and I'm glad I can say so."
"Oh, you mean about accepting Maurice. But that's all over long ago. It
was a bit difficult at first, but it hasn't been difficult lately. No,
it isn't that, except that the late performance hasn't cheered me up
exactly. I think I should feel just the same if Caroline had married
somebody that all the world would have accepted as suited to her. It has
brought my life as I've lived it to an end. That's what's the matter
with me, Ella. I've got to rearrange it for myself, and it's rather a
bleak prospect."
"Tell me about it," she said. "I don't quite see."
"Well, I suppose most men of my sort, who have work that suits them, and
enough money to get all the pleasures they want, are more or less
content with that when they get to my age, even if their children mean a
good deal to them. But I'm not. Family life has been the best thing I've
had, and I don't know what I shall do without it."
"You haven't lost them all, have you? And when you come down here you'll
have Caroline almost as much as before."
"Ah, but it won't be the same. That came simply rushing over me as she
drove away. She's been the dearest daughter to me. She's centred herself
on me. I suppose she's made me selfish. She's given me all that she
could of what her mother would have given me. I've never valued her half
enough. I think I loved B better than her when they were both children.
Not much better, but perhaps enough to make her feel the difference.
That's rather a bad memory just now. I may have done it in ways that I
haven't meant to, that may have hurt her."
"I'm sure you needn't trouble yourself about that, dear Mr. Grafton,"
she said, with some earnestness. "She is devoted to you, in a way she
couldn't be if you hadn't been just as much to her as she has to you. It
has been lovely to see you together. And what you've been able to do
lately has cemented it all as nothing else could have done. I know she's
felt it deeply, because she's told me so. She's full of gratitude and
love for you. And I think you've earned it all. Oh, _please_ don't
trouble yourself in that way. I'm sure you needn't."
"Well, perhaps I needn't. There can't have been much wrong, or she
wouldn't have been able to give me what she has. I don't think it's
that, either, that is descending on me now. Things are right between me
and all my children. I've only lost what every man must lose when he
gets to my age; only, like Mrs. Gummidge, I feel it more. They have been
my chosen companions. They've kept me young between them. It isn't only
that I love them. I've liked doing things with them better than with
anybody else. I get on with other men as well as most people. Perhaps
before the children grew up I enjoyed myself going about and amusing
myself with my friends as much as any man could. But for the last few
years, and especially since we came to live here, I've liked being with
them better than anybody--I never knew how much better until just now.
When I've been up in London I've been looking forward all the week to
getting down here again. I tell you, it's a bleak prospect to go back to
the sort of life I found pleasant enough ten years ago. I think I've
outgrown it. It's just passing the time. There's nothing left to make it
worth while."
She was silent for a time, and then said: "You know, your case and mine
aren't so very different. Until you all came to live here, and took me
in so happily, I was really only passing the time. It has made a lot of
difference to me getting all the companionship and affection I have had
here. I feel the break up of your family, too. It has been a delightful
bit of life, and I feel it hasn't lasted half long enough. Still, it
isn't really all over, though it has altered. Caroline will be here, and
Barbara by and bye. Beatrix and Bunting, too, sometimes; and I count for
a little, don't I, Mr. Grafton? You've let me think myself almost one of
your family."
"Oh, my dear child, you've made yourself part of it as nobody else has.
I couldn't talk like this to anybody but you--not even to the Dragon,
who has an indulgent eye for my weaknesses. It is weak, I suppose, to
grouse as I'm doing. The children are happy, and I've helped to make
them so. It's only myself I'm thinking of, and I shan't inflict my
troubles on anybody after this. You've caught me just at the time."
"I'm very glad I have," she said. "Perhaps I can do something for you in
return for all you've done for me. One of the last things Caroline said
to me, upstairs, was, 'Take care of my darling old Daddy, while I'm
away.' So you see _she_ was thinking of you, left alone, up to the last;
and she treats me as one of the family. I know I can't take her place,
or B's; but I can do something if you'll let me. You've been awfully
good to me. You've always given me help when I've wanted it, and it
hasn't been altogether easy to behave myself as a responsible person,
when I'm still young enough to prefer to be looked after."
He smiled at her kindly. "All women want looking after," he said. "But
you've shown yourself remarkably capable."
She smiled in return, rather ruefully. "I try to be," she said. "But I
don't always feel it. It has been a great comfort to know I could apply
to you in my difficulties. You'll let me make some return now, won't
you? Caroline entrusted me to you, you know."
"The dear child! Well, my dear, you've done me good already. I thought
you would. Yes, you've made yourself one of us, Ella. It won't be so
desolating to come down here, if you're about. I shall be bringing
people down, but they won't make up to me for the loss of my girls. You
will; so I shall hope to see you over here as much as ever."
They reached the house again, and went in by the same way. Barbara met
them in the upstairs corridor. "Dad, I've been looking for you
everywhere," she said. "Where ever have you both been?"
"For a little walk to clear our brains," he said. "Now we're ready to
take up our duties again. What do you want, darling?"
It seemed that she wanted nothing in particular. She talked to him for
half a minute outside his room, and then went downstairs to join the
rest.
That evening Ella found herself in a corner of the Long Gallery with
Lady Grafton, with whom she had made friends.
"You're looking very beautiful to-night," said her ladyship, with an
appraising and approving eye on her, "and most surprisingly young. How
old are you, exactly? I should have said about nineteen."
"Thank you very much," said Ella. "I'm twenty-five. Sometimes I feel
immeasurably older, but my happiest state is when I can think of myself
as still a girl."
"Well, you look like one to-night; as I said, about nineteen. I can't
think why you haven't married again. You must often have thought of it."
She blushed, quite like a girl. She was tall and slim and upright, and
had some of the lithe grace of a beautiful Greek boy. She was beautiful
in feature and colouring too, though it was not the kind of beauty that
is always radiantly apparent, as Beatrix's was. But to-night she was at
her best, and deserved the encomiums passed upon her by Lady Grafton,
who was nothing if not critical.
"Nobody has wanted me," she said.
"Oh, come, my dear! Don't tell me that you've been about as much as you
have, and with all you have to offer, without attracting the foolish
race of men."
"Anyhow, nobody has wanted me whom I have wanted. My first experience
wasn't a very happy one. I suppose you know that, and there's no harm in
saying so."
"Not a bit. But you're through with it, and it hasn't left much mark.
None that I can see, except that you're wiser. You wouldn't marry again
without knowing what you were letting yourself in for. Men are easy
enough to judge if you look at them with your eyes open. Of course when
you're once in love with them you don't. But you can marry first and
fall in love afterwards. It saves lots of bothers and gives you
something interesting to do at the beginning of married life, which is
apt to be rather dull."
Ella laughed. "I shouldn't care to run that risk," she said. "One's
freedom is worth something, after all. I shouldn't want to marry anybody
unless I loved him."
"No. You're very young still. You've a right to look for that sort of
thing. But there's love and love. Unless you find yourself bowled over
by a passion, which may happen to anybody unless they're on the
lookout--at least, I'm told so; it hasn't happened to me yet--I should
pick out a man you like and can trust to look after you, and make you
happy. It's much more comfortable in the long run, and if you manage him
properly you'll have all the love that's good for you, and the sort that
lasts."
"Supposing he doesn't pick me!"
"Oh, my dear, you could make any man pick you. You'd only have to pay
him a little attention, and flatter his vanity. They're all the same,
when they arrive at years of indiscretion. That sounds rather clever. I
suppose you wouldn't want quite a young man. I should think you wouldn't
have much difficulty there either, though they want more careful
handling; they're so full of whims and crotchets. But I shouldn't
recommend quite a young man. Five and thirty to two or three and forty
is the best age. I wish George was ten years or so younger. Then you
might marry him, and we should keep you in the family. He's the dearest
old affectionate bat-eyed creature, really, though I never let him know
that I think so."
"Why do you call him bat-eyed? I don't propose to accept your
invitation, but I love him all the same; and I don't think he's
bat-eyed."
"Oh, my dear--the fuss he's made about his girls! I've had it all out
with him. He thinks he's been actuated solely by the most unselfish
desire for their happiness, when all the time he's just been hating it
because he can't keep them forever circling round himself."
"I think you're very unfair. He does love them awfully, and of course he
hates losing them. But the way he's behaved about Caroline shows that he
hasn't been thinking of what he wants himself. I feel very sorry for him
now. He has to begin all over again, and he isn't a bit like an old man,
who can sit down and wait for the end. He's as young in his mind and in
his tastes as if he were twenty years younger."
"Yes, he's more of a baby than most men of his age, and that's saying a
good deal. He's kept himself fit too. Oh, I don't deny that it has been
a good thing for him to have his children to play with. No doubt it has
kept him out of a lot of mischief. And I'm rather sorry for him losing
them, too, though I don't tell him so. He's too apt to be sorry for
himself; and after all, he's got to put up with it, like everybody
else."
"How unfeeling you are! I'm not going to hear my dear Mr. Grafton
criticised in that way without protesting. If he had really been
selfish, as most men are, he would just have gone on amusing himself and
hardly have missed the girls at all. It's no discredit to him that he
has been so happy in his home that he can't bear it to be broken up."
"I suppose he was grousing and grumbling about that when you went out
for a walk this afternoon."
Ella wondered how she knew that they had been out for a walk, but did
not ask her. "He wasn't," she said indignantly. "You say you like him,
and you're always trying to make him out a poor weak creature with no
backbone at all. I think he's a very wise man, and a good one too. I
love him for loving his family as much as he does."
"Oh, well, my dear, if you love him, I don't want anything better. I
told him the other day he ought to marry again, now the time has come
for him to lose his girls. He made his first wife happy enough, and he'd
make you. He's no longer young, but he isn't old either, and won't be
for a long time to come. He's a husband you could be proud of, and he'd
never let you down."
"Thanks for the offer. I'll wait till he makes it himself, and then I'll
think about it. But please don't make mischief, or try to manage. As a
matter of fact, I think the idea would rather shock him, and it isn't
one that appeals to me, or I shouldn't talk about it as I'm doing now.
He has been awfully sweet to me, and treated me very much like the rest.
It has been just what I've wanted, for I was lonely till they came here.
I'm going to keep it up, and help him to get over _his_ bad time--dear
Mr. Grafton! If you go spreading _those_ ideas about you'll make it
difficult for me. So please don't."
"I should be a precious fool if I did," said Lady Grafton
enigmatically.