THE HOUR OF TRIUMPH
A man may do a great many things without receiving from the world the
least sign of regard or interest. He may write the most lovely
verses--and no one will read them. He may design and invent the most
beautiful play--which no one will act: he may advocate a measure
certain to bring about universal happiness--but no one will so much as
read it. There is one thing, however, by which he may awaken a spirit
of earnest curiosity and interest concerning himself: he may get
married. Everybody will read the announcement of his marriage in the
paper: everybody will immediately begin to talk about him. The
bridegroom's present position and future prospects, his actual income
and the style in which he will live: the question whether he has done
well for himself, or whether he has thrown himself away: the bride's
family, her age, her beauty, her _dot_, if she has got any: the
question whether she had not a right to expect a better marriage--all
these points are raised and debated when a man is married. Also, which
is even more remarkable, whatever a man does shall be forgotten by the
world, but the story of his marriage shall never be forgotten. A man
may live down calumny; he may hold up his head though he has been the
defendant in a disgraceful cause; he may survive the scandal of
follies and profligacies; he may ride triumphant over misfortune: but
he can never live down his own marriage. All those who have married
'beneath' them--whether beneath them in social rank, in manners, in
morals, character, in spiritual or in mental elevation, will bear
unwilling and grievous testimony to this great truth.
When, therefore, the _Times_ announced the marriage of Mr. Alexander
Feilding, together with the fact that the announcement was no less
than three years late, great amazement fell upon all men and all
women--yea, and dismay upon all those girls who knew this Universal
Genius--and upon all who knew or remembered the lady, daughter of the
financial City person who let in everybody to so frightful a tune, and
then, like another treacherous person, went away and hanged himself.
And as many questions were asked at the breakfast-tables of London as
there were riddles asked at the famous dinner-party at the town of
Mansoul. To these riddles there were answers, but to those none. For
instance, why had Alec Feilding concealed his marriage? Where had he
hidden his wife? And (among a very few) how could he permit her to go
about the country in a provincial troupe? To these replies there have
never been any answers. The lady herself, who certainly ought to know,
sometimes among her intimate friends alludes to the cruelty of
relations, and the power which one's own people have of making
mischief. She also speaks of the hard necessity, owing to these
cruelties, of concealing her marriage. This throws the glamour and
magic of romance--the romance of money--over the story. But there are
some who remain unconvinced.
* * * * *
The bridegroom wrote one letter, and only one, of explanation. It was
to Mr. Jagenal, the family solicitor.
'To so old a friend,' he wrote, 'the fullest explanations are due
concerning things which may appear strange. Until the day before
yesterday there were still existing certain family reasons which
rendered it absolutely necessary for us to conceal our marriage and to
act with so much prudence that no one should so much as suspect the
fact. This will explain to you why we lent ourselves to the little
harmless--perfectly harmless--pretence by which my wife appeared in the
character of a widow. It also explains why she was unwilling--while
under false colours--to go into general society. The unexpected
disappearance of these family reasons caused her to abandon her charge
hurriedly. I had not learned the fact when you called yesterday. Now, I
hope that we may receive, though late, the congratulations of our
friends.--A. F.'
* * * * *
'This,' said Mr. Jagenal, 'is an explanation which explains nothing.
Well, it is all very irregular; and there is something behind; and it
is no concern of mine. Most things in the world are irregular. The
little windfall of which I told him yesterday will be doubly welcome
now that he has a wife to spend his money for him. And now we
understand why he was always dangling after Armorel--because his wife
was with her--and why he did not fall in love with that most beautiful
creature.'
He folded up the note; put it, with a few words of his own, into an
envelope, and sent it to Philippa. Then he went on with the cases in
his hands. Among these were the materials for many other studies into
the workings of the feminine heart and the masculine brain. The
solicitor's tin boxes: the doctor's notebook: the priest's memory:
should furnish full materials for that exhaustive psychological
research which science will some day insist upon conducting.
In the afternoon of the same day was the Private View of the Grosvenor
Gallery. There was the usual Private View crowd--so private now that
everybody goes there. It would have been incomplete without the
presence of Mr. Alec Feilding.
Now, at the very thickest and most crowded time, when the rooms were
at their fullest, and when the talk was at its noisiest, he appeared,
bearing on his arm a young, beautiful, and beautifully dressed woman.
He calmly entered the room where half the people were talking of
himself and of his marriage, concealed for three years, with as much
coolness as if he had been about in public with his wife all that
time: he spoke to his friends as if nothing had happened: and he
introduced them to his wife as if it was by the merest accident that
they had not already met. Nothing could exceed the unconsciousness of
his manner, unless it was the simple and natural ease of his wife. No
one could possibly guess that there was, or could be, the least
awkwardness in the situation.
The thing itself, and the manner of carrying it through, constituted a
_coup_ of the most brilliant kind. This public appearance deprived the
situation, in fact, of all its awkwardness. No one could ask them at
the Grosvenor Gallery what it meant. There were one or two to whom the
bridegroom whispered that it was a long and romantic story: that there
had been a bar to the completion of his happiness, by a public avowal:
that this bar--a purely private and family matter--had only yesterday
been removed: nothing was really explained: but it was generally felt
that the mystery added another to the eccentricities of genius. There
was a something, they seemed to remember dimly, about the marriages
and love-passages of Shelley, Coleridge, and Lord Byron.
Mrs. Feilding, clearly, was a woman born to be an artist's wife:
herself, artistic in her dress, her manner, and her appearance:
sympathetic in her caressing voice: gracious in her manners: and
openly proud of a husband so richly endowed.
Alec presented a great many men to her. She had, it seemed, already
made acquaintance with their works, which she knew by name: she
betrayed involuntarily, by her gracious smile, and the interested,
curious gaze of her large and limpid eyes, the genuine admiration
which she felt for these works, and the very great pleasure with which
she made the acquaintance of this very distinguished author. If any of
them were on the walls, she bestowed upon them the flattery of
measured and appreciative praise: she knew something of the technique.
'Alec is not exhibiting this year,' she said. 'I think he is right. He
had but one picture: and that was in his old style. People will think
he can do nothing but sea-coast, rock, and spray. So he is going to
send his one picture away--if you want to see it you must make haste
to the studio--and he is going--this is a profound secret--to break
out in a new line--quite a new line. But you must not know anything
about it.'
A paragraph in a column of personal news published the fact, the very
next day, which shows how difficult it is to keep a secret.
Before Mrs. Feilding left the gallery she had made twenty friends for
life, and had laid a solid foundation for her Sunday evenings.
In the evening there was a First Night. No First Nights are possible
without the appearance of certain people, of whom Mr. Alec Feilding
was one. He attended, bringing with him his wife. Some of the men who
had been at the private view were also present at the performance, but
not many, because the followers of one art do not--as they
should--rally round any other. But all the dramatic critics were
there, and all the regular first-nighters, including the wreckers--who
go to pit and gallery--and the friends of the author and those of the
actors. Between the acts there was a good deal of circulation and
talking. Alec presented a good many more gentlemen to his wife. Before
they went home Mrs. Feilding had made a dozen more friends for life,
and placed her Sunday evenings on a firm and solid basis. Her social
success--at least among the men--was assured from this first day.