"Mr. O'Neill," said Father Dan, "may your parish priest take the liberty
of speaking without being spoken to?"
My father made some response, and then a hush fell over the dining-room.
Either the storm ceased for a time, or in my great agitation it seemed
to do so, for I did not hear it.
"We have heard a great deal about the marriage we have celebrated
to-day, but have we not forgotten something? What _is_ marriage? Is it
the execution of a contract? Is it the signing of a register? Is it even
the taking of an oath before an altar? No. Marriage is the sacred
covenant which two souls make with each other, the woman with the man,
the man with the woman, when she chooses him from all other men, when he
chooses her from all other women, to belong to each other for ever, so
that no misfortune, no storm of life, no sin on either side shall ever
put them apart. That's what marriage is, and all we have been doing
to-day is to call on God and man to bear witness to that holy bond."
My heart was beating high. I raised my head, and I think my eyes must
have been shining. I looked across at the Bishop. His face was showing
signs of vexation.
"Mr. O'Neill, sir," cried Father Dan, raising his trembling voice, "you
say your daughter has a big fortune and her husband has a big name, and
what more do they want in this world? I'll tell you what they want, sir.
They want love, love on both sides, if they are to be good and happy,
and if they've got that they've got something which neither wealth nor
rank can buy."
I had dropped my head again, but under my eyelashes I could see that the
company were sitting spell-bound. Only my husband was shuffling in his
seat, and the Bishop was plucking at his gold chain.
"My Bishop," said Father Dan, "has told us of the submission a wife owes
to her husband, and of her duty to be lovely and wise and faithful in
his eyes. But isn't it the answering thought that the husband on his
part owes something to the wife? Aren't we told that he shall put away
everything and everybody for her sake, and cleave to her and cling to
her and they shall be one flesh? Isn't that, too, a divine commandment?"
My heart was throbbing so loud by this time that the next words were
lost to me. When I came to myself again Father Dan was saying:
"Think what marriage means to a woman--a young girl especially. It means
the breaking of old ties, the beginning of a new life, the setting out
into an unknown world on a voyage from which there can be no return. In
her weakness and her helplessness she leaves one dependency for another,
the shelter of a father for the shelter of a husband. What does she
bring to the man she marries? Herself, everything she is, everything
she can be, to be made or marred by him, and never, never, never to be
the same to any other man whatsoever as long as life shall last."
More than ever now, but for other reasons, I wanted to fly from the
room.
"Friends," cried Father Dan, "we don't know much of the bridegroom in
this parish, but we know the bride. We've known her all her life. We
know what she is. I do, anyway. If you are her father, Mr. O'Neill, sir,
I am her father also. I was in this house when she was born. I baptized
her. I took her out of the arms of the angel who bore her. So she's my
child too, God bless her. . . ."
His voice was breaking--I was sobbing--though he was speaking so loudly
I could scarcely hear him--I could scarcely see him--I only knew that he
was facing about in our direction and raising his trembling hand to my
husband.
"She is my child, too, I say, and now that she is leaving us, now that
you are taking her away from us, I charge you, my lord, to be good and
faithful to her, as you will have to answer for her soul some day."
What else he said I do not know. From that moment I was blind and deaf
to everything. Nevertheless I was conscious that after Father Dan had
ceased to speak there was a painful silence. I thought the company
seemed to be startled and even a little annoyed by the emotion so
suddenly shot into their midst. The Bishop looked vexed, my father
looked uncomfortable, and my husband, who had been drinking glass after
glass of brandy, was muttering something about "a sermon."
It had been intended that Mr. Eastcliff should speak for the
bridesmaids, and I was afterwards told by Betsy Beauty that he had
prepared himself with many clever epigrams, but everybody felt there
could be no more speaking of any kind now. After a few awkward moments
my father looked at his watch and said it was about time for us to start
if we were to catch the steamer, so I was hurried upstairs to change for
our journey.
When I came down again, in my tailor-made travelling dress with sables,
the whole company was in the hall and everybody seemed to be talking at
the same time, making a noise like water in a weir.
I was taken possession of by each in turn. Nessy MacLeod told me in an
aside what an excellent father I had. Betsy Beauty whispered that Mr.
Eastcliff was so handsome and their tastes were so similar that she
hoped I would invite him to Castle Raa as soon as I came back. Aunt
Bridget, surrounded by a group of sympathising ladies (including Lady
Margaret, who was making an obvious effort to be gracious) was wiping
her eyes and saying I had always been her favourite and she had
faithfully done her duty by me.
"Mary, my love," she said, catching my eye, "I'm just telling her
ladyship I don't know in the world what I'll do when you are gone."
My husband was there too, wearing a heavy overcoat with the collar up,
and receiving from a group of insular gentlemen their cheerful
prognostics of a bad passage.
"'Deed, but I'm fearing it will be a dirty passage, my lord."
"Chut!" said my father. "The wind's from the south-west. They'll soon
get shelter."
The first of our two cars came round and my husband's valet went off in
advance with our luggage. Then the second car arrived, and the time came
for our departure. I think I kissed everybody. Everybody seemed to be
crying--everybody except myself, for my tears were all gone by this
time.
Just as we were about to start, the storm, which must certainly have
fallen for a while, sprang up suddenly, and when Tommy the Mate (barely
recognisable in borrowed black garments) opened the door the wind came
rushing into the house with a long-drawn whirr.
I had said good-bye to the old man, and was stepping into the porch when
I remembered Father Dan. He was standing in his shabby sack coat with a
sorrowful face in a dark corner by the door, as if he had placed himself
there to see the last of me. I wanted to put my arms around his neck,
but I knew that would be wrong, so I dropped to my knees and kissed his
hand and he gave me his blessing.
My husband, who was waiting by the side of the throbbing automobile,
said impatiently:
"Come, come, dear, don't keep me in the rain."
I got into the landaulette, my husband got in after me, the car began to
move, there were cries from within the house ("Good-bye!" "Good luck")
which sounded like stifled shrieks as they were carried off by the wind
without, and then we were under weigh.
As we turned the corner of the drive something prompted me to look back
at my mother's window--with its memories of my first going to school.
At the next moment we were crossing the bridge--with its memories of
Martin Conrad and William Rufus.
At the next we were on the road.