THE WEDDING DAY.
After all, Elizabeth's wedding ceremonies, though shorn of much
customary state, were not so wildly unconventional as to shock the
feelings of society. Save in the matter of that excessive haste--which
Mr. Yelverton took pains to show was not haste at all, seeing that,
on the one hand, his time was limited, and that, on the other, there
was absolutely nothing to wait for--all things were done decently
and in order; and Mrs. Duff-Scott even went so far as to confess,
when the bride and bridegroom had departed, that the fashion of their
nuptials was "good art;" and that these were not the days to follow
stereotyped customs blindfold. There was no unnecessary secrecy about
it. Overnight, just, and only just, before she went to bed, the
mistress of the house had explained the main facts of the case to her
head servants, who, she knew, would not be able to repeat the story
until too late for the publication of it to cause any inconvenience.
She told them how the three Miss Kings--who had never been Miss Kings
after all--had come in for large fortunes, under a will that had been
long mislaid and accidentally recovered; and how Miss Elizabeth, who
had been engaged for some considerable time (O, mendacious matron!),
was to be married to her cousin, Mr. Yelverton, in the morning--very
quietly, because both of them had a dislike to publicity and fuss. And
in the morning the little Cockney lady's-maid, bringing them their
tea, brought a first instalment of congratulations to the bride and
her sisters, who had to hold a _levée_ in the servants' hall as soon
as they went downstairs. The household, if not boiling over with the
excitement inseparable from a marriage _à la mode_, was in a pleasant
simmer of decorous enjoyment; and the arrangements for the domestic
celebration of the event lacked nothing in either completeness or
taste. The gardener brought his choicest flowers for the table and
for the bride's bouquet, which was kept in water until her return
from church; and the cook surpassed himself in his efforts to provide
a wedding breakfast that should be both faultless and unique. The
men servants wore bits of strong-scented orange blossom in their
button-holes, and the women white ribbons in their caps. They did what
they could, in short, to honour the occasion and the young lady who had
won their affection before she came into her inheritance of wealth, and
the result to themselves and the family was quite satisfactory.
There was a great deal of cold weather in the last month of 1880,
summer time though it was, and this special morning was very cold.
Elizabeth had not the face to come down to the early breakfast and
a blazing fire in the gown she had worn the day before, and Mrs.
Duff-Scott would not hear of her going to church in it. "Do you
suppose he is quite an idiot?" she indignantly demanded (forgetting
the absolute indifference to weather shown in the conventional bridal
costume), when the bride gave an excuse for her own unreasonableness.
"Do you suppose he wants you to catch your death of cold on your
wedding day?"
"What does it matter?" said Patty. "He won't care what you have on. Put
it in the portmanteau and wear it at dinner every night, if he likes to
see you in it. This morning you had better make yourself warm. He never
expected the day to turn out so cold as this."
And while they were talking of it Mr. Yelverton himself appeared,
contrary to etiquette and his own arrangements. "Good morning," he
said, shaking hands impartially all round. "I just came in to tell you
that it is exceedingly cold, and that Elizabeth had better put a warm
dress on. One would think it was an English December day by the feel of
the wind."
She got up from the breakfast-table and went out of the room, hurried
away by Mrs. Duff-Scott; but in a minute she came back again.
"Did you come for anything in particular?" she asked, anxiously.
"No," he said, "only to take care that you did not put on that thin
dress. And to see that you were alive," he added, dropping his voice.
"And we really are to be married this morning?"
"We really are, Elizabeth. In three quarters of an hour, if you can be
at the church so soon. I am on my way there now. I am just going round
to Myrtle Street to pick up old Brion."
"Pick up young Brion, too," she urged earnestly, thinking of Patty.
"Tell him I specially wished it."
"He won't come," said Mr. Yelverton; "I asked him yesterday. His father
says his liver must be out of order, he has grown so perverse and
irritable lately. He won't do anything that he is wanted to do."
"Ah, poor boy! We must look after him, you and I, when we come back.
Where are we going, Kingscote?"
"My darling, I fear you will think my plans very prosaic. I think we
are just going to Geelong--till to-morrow or next day. You see it is
so cold, and I don't want you to be fagged with a long journey. Mount
Macedon would have been charming, but I could not get accommodation.
At Geelong, where we are both strangers, we shall be practically to
ourselves, and it is better to make sure of a good hotel than of
romantic scenery, if you have to choose between the two--for the
present, at any rate--vulgar and sordid as that sentiment may appear.
We can go where we like afterwards. I have just got a telegram to say
that things will be ready for us. You left it to me, you know."
"I am only too happy to leave everything to you," she said, at once.
"And I don't care where we go---it will be the same everywhere."
"I think it will, Elizabeth--I think we shall be more independent
of our circumstances than most people. Still I am glad to have made
sure of a warm fire and a good dinner for you at your journey's end.
We start at twenty minutes past four, I may tell you, and we are to
get home--_home_, my dear, which will be wherever you and I can be
together, henceforth--at about half-past six. That will give you time
to rest before dinner. And you will not be very tired, after such a
little journey, will you?"
"Elizabeth!" called a voice from the corridor above their heads, "send
Mr. Yelverton away, and come upstairs at once."
So Mr. Yelverton departed in his cab, to pick up old Brion and await
his bride at the nearest church; and he was presently followed by
the major in his brougham, and a little later by Mrs. Duff-Scott's
capacious open carriage, containing herself and the three sisters, all
in woollen walking dresses and furs. And Elizabeth really was married,
still to her own great surprise. She stood in the cold and silent
church, and took Kingscote, her lover, to be her lawful husband, and
legally ratified that irrevocable contract in the clearest handwriting.
He led her out into the windy road, when it was over, and put her into
the brougham--the major taking her place in the other carriage, and on
their way back both bride and bridegroom were very serious over their
exploit.
"You have the most wonderful trust in me," he said to her, holding
her still ungloved hand, and slipping the wedding ring round on her
finger--"the most amazing trust."
"I have," she assented, simply.
"It rather frightens me," he went on, "to see you taking me so
absolutely for granted. Do you really think I am quite perfect,
Elizabeth?"
"No," she replied, promptly.
"Well, I am glad of that. For I am far from it, I assure you." Then he
added, after a pause, "What are the faults you have to find with me,
then?"
"None--none," she responded fervently. "Your faults are no faults to
me, for they are part of you. I don't want you perfect--I only want you
to be always as I know you now."
"I think I am rather a tyrant," he said, beginning to criticise himself
freely, now that she showed no disposition to do it, "and perhaps I
shall bully you if you allow me too much latitude. I am too fond of
driving straight at everything I want, Elizabeth--I might drive over
you, without thinking, some day, if you give me my own way always."
"You may drive over me, if you like, and welcome," she said, smiling.
"You have no consideration for your rights as a woman and a matron?--no
proper pride?--no respect for your dignity, at all?"
"None whatever--now."
"Ah, well, after all, I think it is a good thing for you that I have
got you. You might have fallen into worse hands. You are just made to
be a victim. And you will be better off as my victim than you might
have been as another man's victim."
"Much better," she said. "But I don't think I should have been another
man's victim."
When they reached Mrs. Duff-Scott's house, Patty and Eleanor, who had
arrived a few minutes earlier, met their brother and sister, kissed
them both, and took Elizabeth upstairs, where they tenderly drew
off her furs and her bonnet, and waited upon her with a reverential
recognition of her new and high estate. During their absence, Mr.
Yelverton, Mr. Brion, and their host and hostess stood round the
drawing-room fire, talking over a plan they had hatched between them,
prior to taking leave of the old lawyer, who had to depart for his
country home and business by an afternoon boat. This plan provided for
a temporary disposal of that home and business at an early date, in
order that Mr. Brion might accompany the entire party--the major and
his wife, Mr. Yelverton and the three sisters--to England as the legal
adviser of the latter, it having been deemed expedient to take these
measures to facilitate the conveyance and distribution of the great
Yelverton property. The old man was delighted at the prospect of his
trip, which it was intended should be made both profitable and pleasant
to him, and at the certainty of being identified for some time longer
with the welfare of his young friends. Mrs. Duff-Scott was also ardent
in her anticipation of seeing Elizabeth installed at Yelverton, of
investigating the philanthropical enterprises of Elizabeth's husband,
and of keeping, during the most critical and most interesting period
of their career, the two unappropriated heiresses under her wing. The
major was pleased to join this family party, and looked forward with
some avidity to the enjoyment of certain London experiences that he had
missed from his cup of blessings of late years.
"And the dear girls will not be separated, except for this little week
or two," said the fairy godmother, wiping away a surreptitious tear.
"How happy that will make them!"
They entered the room as she spoke, clinging together; and they sat
down round the hearthrug, and were drawn into the discussion. Yes, it
did make them happy, they said; it was the sweetest and brightest of
plans and prospects. Only Patty, thinking of Elizabeth and Nelly going
and Paul Brion left behind, felt her heart torn in two.
The wedding breakfast was the mid-day lunch, to which they were
summoned by the butler with his bridal favour in his button-hole. The
little party of seven, when they went into the dining-room, found
that apartment decorated with flowers and evergreens in a manner
wonderful to behold, considering the short notice that had been given.
The table was glorious with white blossoms of every description, the
orange predominating and saturating the air with its almost too strong
fragrance; and the dishes and the wines would have done honour to the
bridal banquet of a princess. Little did anyone care for dishes and
wines, except the host and hostess, who would have been less than
mortal had they not felt interested therein; and most of them were glad
to get the meal over. Some healths were drunk in the major's best dry
champagne, and three little speeches were delivered; and then Mr. Brion
respectfully begged to be excused, said good-bye all round, made his
Grandisonian bow, and departed.
"Tell Paul," said Elizabeth (she could call him Paul now), "that we
have missed him to-day."
"I will, my dear, I will," said the old man. And when he delivered that
message half-an-hour later, he was hurt to see in what a bad spirit it
was received. "I daresay!" was Paul's cynical comment.
When Mr. Brion was gone, the little family returned to the
drawing-room, and again sat round the bright fire, and behaved
themselves as if nothing had happened. Elizabeth spread out her hands
to the warmth, and gazed at her thick wedding ring meditatively: and
the girls, who hung about her, gazed at it also with fascinated eyes.
Mr. Yelverton sat a little apart, and watched his wife furtively. Mrs.
Duff-Scott chatted, recalling the topography and notable features of
Geelong. They had afternoon tea, as usual (only earlier than usual),
in the familiar precious teacups, out of the familiar Queen Anne
teapot. There was an every-day homeliness about this quiet hour, and
yet it seemed that years had come and gone since yesterday. Presently
Mr. Yelverton's watch-case was heard to shut with a sharp click, and
the bride turned her head quickly and looked at him. He nodded. And
as she rose from her low chair, holding out her hand to the faithful
Patty, the wheels of the brougham crunched over the gravel in front of
the windows. It was time to go.
And in ten minutes more they were gone. Like that monarch who went
into his own kingdom and shut the door, Elizabeth went into hers--to
assume the crown and sceptre of a sovereignty than which no woman
can boast a greater, let her be who she may--passing wholly into her
strong husband's keeping without one shadow of regret or mistrust left
in her heart, either for herself or him. They were driven to Spencer
Street, where, while they waited a few minutes for their train, people
who knew them stared at them, recognising the situation. They paced
up and down the platform, side by side, she in her modest cloth dress
and furs; and, far from avoiding observation, they rather courted it
unconsciously, in a quiet way. They were so proud of belonging to each
other, and from the enclosure of their own kingdom the outside world
seemed such an enormous distance off. They went to Geelong in a saloon
car full of people--what did it matter to them?--and at the seaside
station found a carriage waiting for them. And by half-past six, as
her husband said, Elizabeth reached home. There was a bright and cosy
sitting-room, with a table prettily set for their _tête-à-tête_ dinner,
and a bright fire (of wood and not coal--a real bush fire) crackling
on the hearth. In an inner room there was a fire too; and here, when
her portmanteau had been unstrapped, and while Kingscote was consulting
with the landlord, she hastily threw off her wraps and travelling
dress, twisted up her fine hair afresh, put on that delicate gown that
she had worn yesterday morning--could it possibly, she asked herself,
have been _only_ yesterday morning?--and made herself as fair to look
upon as she knew how. And, when she opened the door softly, trembling
with excitement and happiness, he was waiting for her, standing on the
hearthrug, with his back to the fire--looking at her as he had looked
that day, not so very long ago, when they were in the cave together,
he on one side of the gulf and she on the other. He held out his arms
again, and this time she sprang into them, and lifted her own to clasp
his neck. And so they stood, without moving or speaking--"resting
before dinner"--until the waiter, heralding his approach by a discreet
tap at the door, came in with the soup-tureen.