Durant met Lucy at the station on the morning of Arthur’s wedding day.
She was under the charge of old Mrs. Davies, the confidential woman who
had nursed Lady Curtis’s children through their sicknesses, and petted
them at all times and seasons since ever they were born. Lucy was very
pale, but her distress was nothing to that of old Davies, who seemed to
think it her duty to cry all the way, and heaved from time to time the
bitterest sighs. “Oh, my dear young gentleman,” she said at intervals,
“Oh, Master Arthur! to think as I should have lived to see such a day!”
This did not improve Lucy’s spirits, who sat very pale in a corner,
sometimes piteously lifting her eyes to Durant for sympathy. The day
chosen for Arthur’s marriage was the 1st of November, as inappropriate a
moment for a wedding as could well be imagined, All Saints’ day, the
anniversary of death, not of bridal, and a gloomy morning, with a soft
persistent drizzle of rain, and skies that looked like lead. “I hope the
sun will shine a little,” said Lucy.
“Oh, Miss Lucy,” said old Davies, “why should the sun shine? They can’t
expect no happiness, flying in the face of their parents like this.”
Durant who was not by a long way so melancholy as he ought to have been,
did what he could to make the party more cheerful. How could he be
otherwise than happy with Lucy seated opposite to him, travelling with
him, with an air of belonging to him, which filled the young man’s veins
as with wine? Sometimes he almost could have believed that it was his
own wedding day, not Arthur’s, and that something more than his most
foolish hopes had been realized. Alas, on the contrary, did not Arthur’s
wedding make his own more hopeless than ever? Would the parents ever
consent to a second unsatisfactory alliance; and what could a poor young
barrister, grandson of a fortunate saddler, with the saddler’s blood in
his veins but none of his money in his pockets, be but a very
unsatisfactory match for Sir John Curtis’s daughter? This thought did
more than friendship to restore him to the state of mind becoming the
occasion, and in harmony with his companions’ mood; but yet by moments
he forgot it, and half believed himself to be carrying Lucy off to
Italy, as Arthur was about to carry his wife away from these dreary
skies. How much happier he would have been than Arthur! as much happier
as Lucy Curtis was more lovely, more beautiful, more desirable than the
young virago Nancy Bates. If Lucy only had been more humbly born, less
well endowed! how could he wish her less fair and sweet?
He had to hold an umbrella over her as he took her to the church in
which the ceremony was to take place, and he liked the rain. Old Davies,
who came stumping and crying after them in a waterproof, thought it the
most miserable day she ever had seen; but the young pair under the
umbrella, though they were very sad (or thought they were) did not so
much dislike the day. Lucy was much afraid lest she should meet the
party, and yet had a yearning to be recognised by accident by her
brother as well as a terror of it. She talked to Durant about this all
the way, raising her pale face and those eyes which had the clearness of
the skies after rain, and confiding all her feelings to him.
“If it was by accident there would be no harm; could there be any harm?
I would not put myself in the way; but if it happened--”
“You could not see him to-day, could you, without also seeing _her_?”
A tear dropped hastily upon his arm, and Lucy turned her head a little
away to hide that her eyes were again full. “That is the worst of all,”
she said, “my only brother! and I shall never again be able to see him
without _her_--that is the worst of all. Oh, Mr. Durant, I don’t mean
anything against marriage, for I suppose people are--often--happy; but
it is not happy for other people, is it? It tears one away from all that
belong to one--”
How hard it was for him to answer her! “This is an exceptional case,” he
said, his voice trembling a little, “but we must not be infidels to the
highest happiness--and love.”
“Oh, love!” cried Lucy, who was thinking of her brother with all the
faculties of her being, although her heart was vaguely warmed and
stilled unawares by the close neighbourhood of this other who was not
her brother. “Love! as if there was but one kind. I did not think _you_
would have spoken so. Do not we love him, Mr. Durant? and yet he casts
us off for some one he scarcely knows.”
“He will come back to you; it cannot be that the separation is for long.
Arthur is not the man--”
“Oh, Mr. Durant, you mean that he will not be happy? I don’t want him to
be unhappy. Oh, God forbid! and why should not he be happy,” said Lucy
with tearful inconsistency, “if he loves her?” What could Durant say? He
could think of nothing but the foolishest, most traitorous,
dishonourable things, dishonourable to the trust put in him, treacherous
to the confidence with which she held his arm. The very tightening of
her hold, when they met other passers by on the narrow pavement, made
him feel himself the basest of men, when he felt those unsayable words
flutter to his lips--yet made them only flutter the more. He was glad to
be able to put his companion into a deep pew in the old fashioned
church, underneath the gallery, where it would be doubly impossible for
anyone to see her. Lucy pulled her cloak closely round her, and drew her
veil over her face. Mrs. Davies was short, and was almost lost in the
depth of the pew--and they were all very glad that the church was still
encumbered with this old-fashioned lumber, and that no restorations as
yet had been commenced. Durant seated himself still further back. It was
a gloomy place--an old church, low-roofed and partly whitewashed. The
East window looked out into a great oak, which, with its yellow leaves,
was the only thing that seemed to give a little light. The dreary lines
of pews seemed to add to the dismal character of the scene, the
half-daylight, the rain drizzling, the old pew-opener going about in
pattens--no carpet laid down for the bridal feet, or any “fuss” made.
Why should any “fuss” be made about Bates the tax-collector’s daughter?
And no one was disposed to do honour to Arthur, but rather the reverse,
as a young man forsaking his caste, and setting the worst of examples to
all other young men.
Now and then somebody would come in with a sound of closing umbrellas,
and swinging of the doors, and come noisily up the aisle and drop into a
pew. Girls, like Sarah Jane, in cheap hats with cheaper feathers, who
sat and whispered, and laughed, and looked about them, and women of Mrs.
Bates’ own type, with big shawls and nondescript bonnets, came to see
the Bates’ triumph with no very friendly sympathy. The dreariest scene!
Durant sat behind and looked at it all with his heart beating. In the
general commotion in which his mind was, he too could have cried as Lucy
was doing over Arthur. How different was all this from the circumstances
that ought to have attended the “happiest day of his life;” would it be
the happiest day of his life;--or perhaps the most miserable? And yet,
if the spectator could have taken the hand of that pale girl in front of
him, and led her up to that dingy altar, how soon would he have
forgotten all the circumstances! The damp-breathing place, the clammy
pews, the squalor of the rain, the absence of all beauty and tokens of
delight, what would they have done but make his happiness show all the
brighter? Would the effect be the same with Arthur too? They had very
soon an opportunity of judging; for Arthur came in suddenly by himself,
looking anything but ecstatic. Fortunately, Durant thought, Lucy did not
see him, her head being bent and covered with her hands. But Durant
himself watched the bridegroom with feelings which he could not have
described, a mixture of pity, and envy, and fellow-feeling, and
contempt. That a man who was the brother of Lucy Curtis should throw
away everything for Nancy Bates! and yet to have it in your power to
throw away everything for love, to give the woman you had chosen, if
she were only Nancy Bates, such a proof of affection, absolute and
unmixed! But Arthur scarcely seemed conscious himself of that fine
position. He was very pale, with an excited look about the eyes which
gave him a worn and exhausted aspect. He was feeling to the bottom of
his soul the squalor, the dinginess, the damp, and the gloom. What a day
it was to be married on! What a place to be married in! What dismal
surroundings? old Bates and Charley, and the uncle from Wapping, and not
one familiar face to look kindly at him, to wish him happiness in a
voice that was dear. He sat down in the front, gazing blankly, like
Durant, at the oaktree that shed a little colour from its autumn leaves.
It reminded him, by some fantastic trick of association, of the trees at
home. Would he ever see that home again? The disjunction from everything
he had cared for, from all he knew, came over him with a forlorn sense
of desolation and solitude--on his wedding-day! Arthur felt he was
doing wrong to his bride, but how could he help it? He, too, covered his
face with his hands. Durant felt that if Lucy saw him she would rush to
him in indifference to all appearances, but she did not know he had
passed her so quietly, all alone.
And then the few spectators began to whisper and stir, and turn their
heads to the door; and a carriage was heard to stop. Lucy raised her
head and put back her veil a little. She gazed breathless at the bride,
who came up the aisle on her father’s arm. Nancy was dressed in simple
white muslin, the resources of the family having been concentrated on
the “silk” in which she was to take her departure from home. But she had
a veil like the most fashionable of brides, and a crown of
orange-blossoms, such as would have put most brides to shame. Lucy gazed
at her, more and more forgetting that she herself ought not to be seen,
and her heart swelled with a mixture of attraction and repulsion. That
dress and that moment equalizes conditions. A woman cannot be more than
a bride if she should be a queen. Nancy had a right to be considered as
the type of all youth and womanhood, as much as if she had been the most
exalted of women. Arthur was but a poor type of the other side, but for
her there was no drawback, except the rain, and she had not been
conscious of the rain. With her head a little drooped, but her pretty
figure erect, she walked up the aisle, leaning on her shabby old
father’s arm, like a lily, notwithstanding the meanness of the prop. She
was happy; she was serious; full of awe, which gave delicacy to her
looks and movements, uncertain yet serene upon the threshold of her
life. Durant, who had no prejudice, became an instant convert to her as
she passed him, virginal, abstracted, a vision of whiteness and serious
tender mystery. And Lucy, who was moved against her will, could do
nothing but gaze, forgetting herself, till old Davies sighed so loud and
shook her head so persistently that her young mistress took fright. It
was not a wedding that occupied much time. There was no music, no
nuptial hymn or wedding march for Nancy Bates, and the two spectators
who were most interested had scarcely recovered from their thrill of
excitement when the stir about the altar told that it was all over, and
the party going to the vestry to sign the register. This was the signal
for the other people present to open their pew-doors, and pull up their
shawls, and lift their damp umbrellas; and Sarah Jane, who was full of
excitement and satisfaction, proud of her white bonnet and her new
frock, came tripping down the aisle to speak to some of those companions
of her own, whose dingy dresses made such a wonderful contrast to her
own bright and gay garb. “Didn’t she behave beautiful? hasn’t it gone
off well?” said Sarah Jane, triumphing over everyone who was not in
pink muslin. And while she stood giving information of the future
movements of the bridal pair, describing fully where “Arthur” was about
to take Nancy, Durant bent forward to endeavour to induce Lucy to leave.
He had forgotten all about Sarah Jane, but she had not forgotten him.
She gave a little scream of surprise, and looked eagerly at the
half-veiled young lady. Then she rushed off, forgetting even her pink
muslin, and calling audibly on Arthur as she approached the door of the
vestry, which the rest of the party had entered.
“Arthur! Arthur!” she called, rushing in among them, “there’s one of
your people there----”
“Hold your tongue,” said her mother in alarm. “Sarah Jane! recollect
you’re in church.”
“I’m speaking to Arthur, mamma; there’s one of your people there, as
sure as--as sure as anything, and Mr. Durant with her. He did not see
me,” cried Sarah Jane, with an angry blush, “but I know him; and there’s
a young lady and an old lady.”
“And quite natural too, and I’m very glad of it,” said Mrs. Bates.
“Fancy my staying away if it was Charley’s wedding! I’ll go and ask my
lady to come and have a bit of dinner.”
“It must be a mistake,” said Arthur, paler than ever; “it cannot be my
mother.”
He put out his hand to stop Mrs. Bates; then he stood aghast, gazing
after her. He could not leave his newly-made bride, and how could he
meet his mother’s eyes?
“Oh, go--go,” said Nancy; “you needn’t mind me.” Then she herself
melted, touched by the situation. “Yes, go, Arthur. I will wait for
you,” she said, with something that looked almost like dignity.
He dared not take her with him. He went with mingled eagerness and
reluctance, wondering, affected, ready to bless his mother, or to cast
off all duty to her for ever.
He found Mrs. Bates haranguing old Davies, his mother’s maid, calling
her “my lady,” and begging that she would do them the honour to come to
the wedding breakfast.
“I don’t pretend to call it breakfast, it’s more like what your ladyship
would call a lunch; but the young folks must have something substantial
before they start on their journey--and we’ll take it so friendly, and
such an honour. It is just what we were wanting, and not daring to hope
for, my lady,” said Mrs. Bates, beaming. “Arthur, you can tell her
ladyship--”
“Why, Davies, you!” cried Arthur, sharply, stung by sudden rage. “What
are you doing here?”
“Davies! Ain’t she my lady after all?” cried Mrs. Bates.
Lucy had been almost crouching in a corner of the pew; but when she saw
her brother’s troubled and worn face, she could not restrain herself.
“Oh, Arthur, how could you think mamma would come?” she said. “How could
she come after the letter you sent her? But we could not let it be
without one near you that loved you; and I am here,” said Lucy, coming
forward, putting back her veil, the tears rushing to her eyes.
Arthur was overcome by the sight of her, by the voice, by the incident
altogether. He was so much excited and overcome that he could have cried
too. He took his sister’s outstretched hands, and kissed her cheek.
“Lucy, I will never forget this. Come and speak to Nancy, and then they
can take you away.”
Here Durant came forward, with a feeling that he would be condemned on
all sides.
“I don’t think Lady Curtis meant that your sister should see anyone,” he
said.
“Lucy, I suppose you are old enough to choose for yourself--is he the
keeper of your conscience?” cried Arthur.
Lucy looked at her guardian, with a faint, deprecatory smile quivering
on her lip.
“I must,” she said; “I must! How can I help it?”
She seemed to ask his permission; and what was he that he should give or
withhold permission? He stood aside, and with reluctant hands opened the
pew-door.
Just then Nancy, tired of waiting, and drawn by potent curiosity, came
forward alone. She had thrown back her bridal veil. It was natural that
there should be a certain defiant expression on her face. She strolled
towards them with an appearance of carelessness, a cavalier air. Nancy’s
heart was beating loudly enough. She was afraid of the ladies whom she
might be about to face, but that only made her put on a bolder and more
saucy aspect. She was half-wounded that he should have left her for a
moment, half-anxious for the result, and really eager and wistful,
wishing to please if she could, had anyone been able to see into her
heart. But an image of more complete defiance and saucy freedom than
this girl, with her veil put up in a crumpled mass, approaching with a
bold swing of her person and a loud-sounding step, could not have been
found. All her virginal grace, her tender bridehood and womanhood,
seemed to have suddenly flown.
Lucy looked up at her and quailed; her lip quivered more and more; she
looked at Durant with an appeal, she looked at Arthur with a pitiful
glance. Finally, she stepped forward, and said, softly,
“I must not stay. I wish you may be very, very happy, you and my
brother. Oh, Arthur, you know I wish you happy!” Then she made a pause,
for Nancy gave no response. “I am sorry,” she went on, faltering, “that
it has all been so unhappy--that we have not known you--that Arthur has
been so unkind; but it is not our fault.”
“Oh, it does not matter,” said Nancy. She was touched by the look of the
girl who stood before her, but to give in was impossible. “It doesn’t
matter a bit. I don’t suppose we should have got on, had we known each
other. It is better it should be as it is.”
And with this she turned and walked slowly back towards the vestry,
turning her back upon them. Lucy stood still for a moment in dismay.
Then she said, breathless,
“Good-bye, Arthur, good-bye! Davies will give you a letter, but don’t
open it now. Good-bye, and God bless you. Take me away, Mr. Durant, take
me away! Come, come,” she said, hastening him as they got to the door.
“I shall be crying again if we don’t go, I am so silly. I don’t care for
the rain, only come, come away!”
Then they were out of doors again, in the wet street, at a distance even
from old Davies, who came hobbling after them, the rain blowing in their
faces, everything over. Lucy clung to his arm and hurried him on,
choking the sobs that would come into her throat.
“How can I forgive myself?” he cried. “I have allowed you to be
insulted--I, who would not let the wind blow on you if I had my will.”
She remembered this after, and his agitated look, but did not see them
then.
“Oh, it is not that,” she said. “It does not matter, as she told me. But
oh, Arthur! he does not belong to us any longer, he cares nothing about
us!” cried Lucy, with the shock of discovery which no previous
preparation in the mind can lessen.
She had said, as she came, that her brother was severed from his family;
but now she saw it with her eyes, and felt the sharpness of the fact, so
different from anticipation. Durant was full of a hundred compunctions,
as if he had been the cause. He would have said philosophically enough
to his own sister that it was the course of nature; but it seemed
horrible, unnatural, that such a thing should happen to Lucy. The little
suppressed sobs that came from her at intervals as they went back to the
train, seemed to rend his own heart.