THE MARRIAGE.
The marriage was nearly all that a marriage should be when a Lady
Anna is led to the hymeneal altar. As the ceremony was transferred
from Bloomsbury, London, to Yoxham, in Yorkshire, a licence had been
procured, and the banns of which Daniel Thwaite thought so much, had
been called in vain. Of course there are differences in aristocratic
marriages. All earls' daughters are not married at St. George's,
Hanover Square, nor is it absolutely necessary that a bishop should
tie the knot, or that the dresses should be described in a newspaper.
This was essentially a quiet marriage,--but it was quiet with a
splendid quietude, and the obscurity of it was graceful and decorous.
As soon as the thing was settled,--when it was a matter past doubt
that all the Lovels were to sanction the marriage,--the two aunts
went to work heartily. Another Lovel girl, hardly more than seen
before by any of the family, was gathered to the Lovel home as a
third bridesmaid, and for the fourth,--who should officiate, but the
eldest daughter of Lady Fitzwarren? The Fitzwarrens were not rich,
did not go to town annually, and the occasions for social brilliancy
in the country are few and far between! Lady Fitzwarren did not like
to refuse her old friend, Mrs. Lovel; and then Lady Anna was Lady
Anna,--or at any rate would be so, as far as the newspapers of the
day were concerned. Miss Fitzwarren allowed herself to be attired
in white and blue, and to officiate in the procession,--having,
however, assured her most intimate friend, Miss De Moleyns, that
no consideration on earth should induce her to allow herself to be
kissed by the tailor.
In the week previous to the arrival of Daniel Thwaite, Lady Anna
again ingratiated herself with the ladies at the rectory. During the
days of her persecution she had been silent and apparently hard;--but
now she was again gentle, yielding, and soft. "I do like her manner,
all the same," said Minnie. "Yes, my dear. It's a pity that it should
be as it is to be, because she is very nice." Minnie loved her
friend, but thought it to be a thing of horror that her friend should
marry a tailor. It was almost as bad as the story of the Princess who
had to marry a bear;--worse indeed, for Minnie did not at all believe
that the tailor would ever turn out to be a gentleman, whereas she
had been sure from the first that the bear would turn into a prince.
Daniel came to Yoxham, and saw very little of anybody at the rectory.
He was taken in at the house of a neighbouring squire, where he
dined as a matter of course. He did call at the rectory, and saw his
bride,--but on that occasion he did not even see the rector. The
squire took him to the church in the morning, dressed in a blue frock
coat, brown trousers, and a grey cravat. He was very much ashamed of
his own clothes, but there was nothing about him to attract attention
had not everybody known he was a tailor. The rector shook hands with
him politely but coldly. The ladies were more affectionate; and
Minnie looked up into his face long and anxiously. "He wasn't very
nice," she said afterwards, "but I thought he'd be worse than
that!" When the marriage was over he kissed his wife, but made no
attempt upon the bridesmaids. Then there was a breakfast at the
rectory,--which was a very handsome bridal banquet. On such occasions
the part of the bride is always easily played. It is her duty to look
pretty if she can, and should she fail in that,--as brides usually
do,--her failure is attributed to the natural emotions of the
occasion. The part of the bridegroom is more difficult. He should
be manly, pleasant, composed, never flippant, able to say a few
words when called upon, and quietly triumphant. This is almost more
than mortal can achieve, and bridegrooms generally manifest some
shortcomings at the awful moment. Daniel Thwaite was not successful.
He was silent and almost morose. When Lady Fitzwarren congratulated
him with high-flown words and a smile,--a smile that was intended to
combine something of ridicule with something of civility,--he almost
broke down in his attempt to answer her. "It is very good of you, my
lady," said he. Then she turned her back and whispered a word to the
parson, and Daniel was sure that she was laughing at him. The hero of
the day was the Solicitor-General. He made a speech, proposing health
and prosperity to the newly-married couple. He referred, but just
referred, to the trial, expressing the pleasure which all concerned
had felt in recognising the rights and rank of the fair and noble
bride as soon as the facts of the case had come to their knowledge.
Then he spoke of the truth and long-continued friendship and devoted
constancy of the bridegroom and his father, saying that in the long
experience of his life he had known nothing more touching or more
graceful than the love which in early days had sprung up between the
beautiful young girl and her earliest friend. He considered it to be
among the happinesses of his life that he had been able to make the
acquaintance of Mr. Daniel Thwaite, and he expressed a hope that he
might long be allowed to regard that gentleman as his friend. There
was much applause, in giving which the young Earl was certainly the
loudest. The rector could not bring himself to say a word. He was
striving to do his duty by the head of his family, but he could not
bring himself to say that the marriage between Lady Anna Lovel and
the tailor was a happy event. Poor Daniel was compelled to make some
speech in reply to his friend, Sir William. "I am bad at speaking,"
said he, "and I hope I shall be excused. I can only say that I am
under deep obligation to Sir William Patterson for what he has done
for my wife."
The couple went away with a carriage and four horses to York, and the
marriage was over. "I hope I have done right," said the rector in
whispered confidence to Lady Fitzwarren.
"I think you have, Mr. Lovel. I'm sure you have. The circumstances
were very difficult, but I am sure you have done right. She must
always be considered as the legitimate child of her father."
"They say so," murmured the rector sadly.
"Just that. And as she will always be considered to be the Lady Anna,
you were bound to treat her as you have done. It was a pity that
it was not done earlier, so that she might have formed a worthier
connection. The Earl, however, has not been altogether overlooked,
and there is some comfort in that. I dare say Mr. Thwaite may be
a good sort of man, though he is--not just what the family could
have wished." These words were undoubtedly spoken by her ladyship
with much pleasure. The Fitzwarrens were poor, and the Lovels were
all rich. Even the young Earl was now fairly well to do in the
world,--thanks to the generosity of the newly-found cousin. It was,
therefore, pleasant to Lady Fitzwarren to allude to the family
misfortune which must in some degree alloy the prosperity of her
friends. Mr. Lovel understood it all, and sighed; but he felt no
anger. He was grateful to Lady Fitzwarren for coming to his house at
all on so mournful an occasion.
And so we may bid farewell to Yoxham. The rector was an honest,
sincere man, unselfish, true to his instincts, genuinely English,
charitable, hospitable, a doer of good to those around him. In
judging of such a character we find the difficulty of drawing the
line between political sagacity and political prejudice. Had he been
other than he was, he would probably have been less serviceable in
his position.
The bride and bridegroom went for their honeymoon into Devonshire,
and on their road they passed through London. Lady Anna Thwaite,--for
she had not at least as yet been able to drop her title,--wrote to
her mother telling her of her arrival, and requesting permission to
see her. On the following day she went alone to Keppel Street and was
admitted. "Dear, dear mamma," she said, throwing herself into the
arms of her mother.
"So it is done?" said the Countess.
"Yes;--mamma,--we are married. I wrote to you from York."
"I got your letter, but I could not answer it. What could I say?
I wish it had not been so;--but it is done. You have chosen for
yourself, and I will not reproach you."
"Do not reproach me now, mamma."
"It would be useless. I will bear my sorrows in silence, such as they
are. Do not talk to me of him, but tell me what is the life that is
proposed for you."
They were to stay in the south of Devonshire for a month and then to
sail for the new colony founded at the Antipodes. As to any permanent
mode of life no definite plan had yet been formed. They were bound
for Sydney, and when there, "my husband,"--as Lady Anna called
him, thinking that the word might be less painful to the ears of
her mother than the name of the man who had become so odious to
her,--would do as should seem good to him. They would at any rate
learn something of the new world that was springing up, and he would
then be able to judge whether he would best serve the purpose that he
had at heart by remaining there or by returning to England. "And now,
mamma, what will you do?"
"Nothing," said the Countess.
"But where will you live?"
"If I could only find out, my child, where I might die, I would tell
you that."
"Mamma, do not talk to me of dying."
"How should I talk of my future life, my dear? For what should I
live? I had but you, and you have left me."
"Come with me, mamma."
"No, my dear. I could not live with him nor he with me. It will be
better that he and I should never see each other again."
"But you will not stay here?"
"No;--I shall not stay here. I must use myself to solitude, but the
solitude of London is unendurable. I shall go back to Cumberland if
I can find a home there. The mountains will remind me of the days
which, sad as they were, were less sad than the present. I little
dreamed then when I had gained everything my loss would be so great
as it has been. Was the Earl there?"
"At our marriage? Oh yes, he was there."
"I shall ask him to do me a kindness. Perhaps he will let me live at
Lovel Grange?"
When the meeting was over Lady Anna returned to her husband
overwhelmed with tears. She was almost broken-hearted when she asked
herself whether she had in truth been cruel to her mother. But she
knew not how she could have done other than she had done. Her mother
had endeavoured to conquer her by hard usage,--and had failed. But
not the less her heart was very sore. "My dear," said the tailor to
her, "hearts will be sore. As the world goes yet awhile there must be
injustice; and sorrow will follow."
When they had been gone from London about a month the Countess wrote
to her cousin the Earl and told him her wishes. "If you desire to
live there of course there must be an end of it. But if not, you
might let the old place to me. It will not be as if it were gone out
of the family. I will do what I can for the people around me, so that
they may learn not to hate the name of Lovel."
The young lord told her that she should have the use of the house as
long as she pleased,--for her lifetime if it suited her to live there
so long. As for rent,--of course he could take none after all that
had been done for him. But the place should be leased to her so that
she need not fear to be disturbed. When the spring time came, after
the sailing of the vessel which took the tailor and his wife off to
the Antipodes, Lady Lovel travelled down with her maid to Cumberland,
leaving London without a friend to whom she could say adieu. And at
Lovel Grange she took up her abode, amidst the old furniture and the
old pictures, with everything to remind her of the black tragedy of
her youth, when her husband had come to her and had told her, with a
smile upon his lips and scorn in his eye, that she was not his wife,
and that the child which she bore would be a bastard. Over his wicked
word she had at any rate triumphed. Now she was living there in his
house the unquestioned and undoubted Countess Lovel, the mistress of
much of his wealth, while still were living around her those who had
known her when she was banished from her home. There, too often with
ill-directed generosity, she gave away her money, and became loved
of the poor around her. But in the way of society she saw no human
being, and rarely went beyond the valley in which stood the lonely
house to which she had been brought as a bride.
Of the further doings of Mr. Daniel Thwaite and his wife Lady
Anna,--of how they travelled and saw many things; and how he became
perhaps a wiser man,--the present writer may, he hopes, live to tell.
Printed by Virtue and Co., City Road, London.
* * * * * *
Transcriber's note:
Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.
Specific changes in wording of the text are listed below.
Volume I, Chapter XIX, paragraph 43. The word "Lady" was changed
to "Aunt" in the sentence: Mrs. Lovel accompanied them, but AUNT
Julia made her farewells in the rectory drawing-room.
Volume II, Chapter XXXVII, paragraph 1. The word "was" was changed
to "were" in the sentence: The Countess had assented;--but when
the moment came, there WERE reasons against her sudden departure.
Volume II, Chapter XXXIX, paragraph 5. The word "or" was deleted
from the sentence: He pointed it out as a fact that the Earl had
not the slightest claim upon any portion of the estate,--not more
than he would have had if this money had come to Lady Anna from
her mother's instead of [OR] from her father's relatives.
Volume II, Chapter XXXIX, paragraph 6. The word "not" was deleted
from the sentence: If the Earl could get £10,000 a year by
amicable arrangement, the Solicitor-General would be shown to have
been right in the eyes of all men, and it was [NOT] probable,--as
both Mr. Goffe and Mr. Flick felt,--that he would not repudiate a
settlement of the family affairs by which he would be proved to
have been a discreet counsellor.
Volume II, Chapter XLV, paragraph 20. "David" was changed to
"Daniel" in the sentence: Neither on that occasion, or on either
of the two further callings, did any one get up in church to
declare that impediment existed why DANIEL Thwaite the tailor and
Lady Anna Lovel should not be joined together in holy matrimony.