A GOLDEN DAY
Most people detest tears at a wedding, and yet weddings give much
more cause for tears than funerals.
At last Maudie Whittaker's wedding day dawned--a golden July day, fair
and still, without being oppressively hot. I think I have already said
that the houses of Marksby and Whittaker were situated in one of the
main roads of that favorite residential locality which is known to
Londoners as Northampton Park, and to its residents as "the Park,"
without any distinguishing prefix. A stranger passing along Milton
Avenue might have wondered what great function was afoot, for at both
houses flags were flying, and on lines stretched across from house to
house, amidst streaming pennons, was a great green and white marriage
bell. From the gate to the porch of Ye Dene Alfred Whittaker had, some
two years before, erected a covered glass way, almost a conservatory.
This was lined with flowers and carpeted with red felt. A couple of
stalwart commissionaires stood at either side of the entrance, and a
crowd of the poorer denizens of the Park had gathered to watch the
coming and going of the wedding guests. I must tell you at once that on
this occasion Regina was truly great.
"Mother," Maudie had said on the previous evening, when she bade her
parents good-night for the last time as Maudie Whittaker. "Mother
darling, there's one thing that you must not do to-morrow."
"What is that, my love?" said Regina.
"You will not cry when you get to church, and you will not cry when we
go away, will you? Remember that in Harry you are gaining a son, not
losing a daughter."
"No," said Regina, "no, I shall not disgrace you. At the same time,
Maudie, my love, if I am not losing a daughter I am losing my little
girl."
"Not a bit of it, mother," said Julia, chiming in to support her sister
and resolutely keeping her thoughts turned from the fact that on the
morrow half her life would be torn away; "you mustn't think that,
dearest. You know the old saying, 'my son is my son till he gets him a
wife, but my daughter's my daughter all the days of my life.'"
"Then I hope," said Regina, solemnly, to the bride-elect, "that you will
never make that poor little woman across the road feel that _her_ son is
her son till he gets him a wife. But rest assured of one thing, Maudie
darling, your mother will not disgrace you on your wedding day. I was at
a wedding a few years ago when the bride's mother howled persistently
all through the ceremony and till the bride departed on her honeymoon.
They had not been on such terms as we have always been--in fact, if
Constance Colquhoun had not fortunately found a husband, it is very
certain that Mrs. Colquhoun and she would have parted company rather
than have gone on living together in a continual state of wrangling. I
have no regrets for the past and very few fears for the future. You will
have your ups and downs, my darling, as your mother has had before you
and as your children will have after you. You must look for them in this
vale of tears, but anticipation of them on a joyful occasion is foolish
even to criminality."
Probably no sweeter bride had ever passed up the aisle of the fantastic
little church which was alike the spiritual and material centre of
Northampton Park. It was not that Maudie Whittaker was a very pretty
girl--no one but her mother had ever given a second thought to personal
beauty as one of her attributes--but she was soft and round and fair,
with radiant eyes and a winning smile. Her bridal gown was simple and
girlish, and her veil of plain tulle enveloped her like a cloud of
innocence. Her only jewel was the diamond heart which her bridegroom had
given her for his wedding-day present. Her bouquet was a real ornament,
a loosely-arranged posy of flowers tied with broad white ribbon--not the
usual over-weighted bundle of blossoms showering from the hand to the
ground, conveying the idea that if the bride was sufficiently unlucky to
tread upon the mass of trails, the result would be the complete downfall
of bride and bouquet alike. The bridesmaids were quite reasonably
attired. Maudie had been inflexible on that point. "My dear Ju," she had
said to her sister when the question was first mooted, "the bride ought
to choose the bridesmaids' dresses. I have seen bridesmaids in Charles
II. dresses, in Tudor dresses, in Directoire costumes, and such close
copies of Boughton's Dutch maidens, that one felt they only wanted
sabots to be entirely correct. I have seen bridesmaids with their
gathers under their arms, and with pouches down to their knees.
I am going to have none of these monstrosities. You and I are
ordinary-looking girls, but, between ourselves, we are dreams of
style compared with Rachel and Emmeline Marksby."
"Harry seems to have monopolized all the style in the Marksby family,"
said Julia, with a judicial air.
"Oh, Harry has style enough," rejoined Maudie, with not a little pride
in her tones.
"Yes, you are quite right, Rachel and Emmeline are two dear little
girls, but they are dumpy and snub-nosed, and would look ridiculous in
any sort of fancy dress. You could hardly find a greater contrast than
the Ponsonby-Piggots."
"Oh, my dear, where could you find a greater contrast than the
Ponsonby-Piggots themselves? One girl as tall as a lamp post, has
straight features, and is definite and rather commanding; and the other
is a little slip of a thing, with curly red hair, misty blue eyes, and
an air of fragility which completely deceives the ordinary observer. So
no monstrosities and eccentricities of bridesmaids' dresses for me. I
should like white _crepe de chine_ frocks over turquoise blue
petticoats, belts of some handsome embroidery with clasps studded with
big blue stones that will look like turquoise, and big black hats with a
touch of blue under the brim; Harry is going to give them blue enamel
watches. There, I think that is as smart an idea for bridesmaids'
dresses as we need trouble about."
So it was decided, and the eight bridesmaids who followed Maudie
Whittaker to the altar were all dressed alike, as I have just described.
On her left breast each wore the enamel watch given by the bridegroom,
while the bride's gifts to her bridesmaids were the embroidered belts
studded with blue stones.
Yes, it was a very pretty wedding, and Regina, resplendent in ruby
velvet, with a white feather waving in her coronet bonnet, and over her
ample shoulders a large cape arrangement of rich lace, sailed up the
aisle on the arm of Mr. Marksby. She had an air of "alone I did it"
about her which was at the same time touching and misleading. In her
tightly-gloved hand she carried a large posy of roses, and truly there
was nothing of Niobe in her expression and demeanor. The service went
off without a hitch, the decorations were lavish, and the little boys,
who were all that could be mustered of the regular choir, wore clean
surplices. The favors were extremely choice, and the happy face of the
bride was more than matched by the radiant self-satisfaction of the
bridegroom. "A delightful wedding" was the general verdict. And then
there was the streaming back to the house just down the road, there was
the string of carriages belonging to friends from town, the Park guests
having followed the simpler plan of going afoot. How shall I describe it
all? The palms, the flowers, the gay dresses, the gently-murmured
felicitations, the health drinking, the speech making, the cake cutting,
the present inspecting, which is the usual course of the smart wedding.
These things were all there, for the Alfred Whittakers had given their
daughter what is generally called "a good send-off."
Then there came the terrible moment when Regina might have been forgiven
for breaking down. But Regina was equal to the occasion--Regina was a
woman of her word.
"Oh, no, I am not at all inclined to break down," she said in reply to a
friend who was offering judicious sympathy. "I feel that in my girl's
husband I have gained what I have always longed for--a son. I am going
to be a mother-in-law quite out of the ordinary run, and I am not going
to begin by making him feel himself a cruel marauder who is taking away
my most valued possession. I should not like to have children who did
not marry; it is a natural thing, and Maudie's choice is so absolutely
ours that I have nothing to regret and everything to be delighted with."
"But did not Maudie choose her own husband?" said someone who was
standing by.
"Oh, of course she did, but if we had chosen her husband our choice
would have been Harry Marksby."
It chanced that Harry was just entering the house, having been across
the road to change his wedding garments for traveling gear. He was in
time to hear the whole of his mother-in-law's reply to the question as
to whether Maudie had chosen her own husband. He slipped his hand under
her arm and twisted her round a little.
"You are not going to be a mother-in-law out of the common," he said,
"because you are one. Nothing you could do would be in the common. But I
cannot thank you enough for saying that if you had chosen Maudie's
husband you would have chosen me. And I'm so glad," he went on in a
lower tone, "that you did not think it necessary to treat us to the
usual shower of maternal tears on this occasion."
"Perhaps I should have done," cried Mrs. Whittaker, "if I were not so
perfectly happy in Maudie's choice. Why should I want to weep over my
girl's happiness? Why should your mother want to make herself look a
silly fright because you have married the girl of your heart? We are
agreed, are we not, Mrs. Marksby?"
"Oh, yes, I always did believe in young men getting married as soon as
they are in a position to marry comfortably. As I said to Harry as we
were having a little talk last night, 'Remember, my boy, that you are
marrying in a very different position to what pa and me did. Pa and me
married to a little house with three bedrooms in the southeast district,
with never a thought that we should end up west, and see our boy married
as we have seen him married this day'--didn't we pa?"
"Yes, mother, we did. And I don't know that we've had any cause to
regret it."
"I don't know about you, pa," said Mrs. Marksby, bridling visibly.
"Oh, I don't say but that you might have done better," said Mr. Marksby,
"but we were very happy in that little house, and I only hope that the
young people will be as happy in their beginning as we were in ours."
"We shall not be less happy because we are able to afford a decent house
in the West End," said Harry, sensibly. "If we are, you may take it as
certain that we should have been just as unhappy in the cottage with
three bedrooms. But, I say, Mrs. Whittaker, isn't Maudie nearly ready?
We sha'n't catch that train if we don't look out. Ah, here she is. Come
along, my dear girl, come along; we've got none too much time to spare."
Perhaps it was as well. There was a moment's hesitation as Maudie said
"good-bye" to her mother; for one instant, Julia standing by, vigilant
and keen, feared that her mother was going to break down in spite of all
her good resolves. But Mrs. Whittaker was a valiant soul; she pulled
herself up sharply as the little bride, holding her father's hand, went
out to face the storm of rice and old slippers which was awaiting them
outside the house.
"I know," she said, her voice a little tremulous in spite of her
self-control, "I know she will make a good wife, because she has been
such a good daughter."
"We can cry quits, Mrs. Whittaker," said the mother of the bridegroom,
"for a better boy to his father and mother than our Harry I don't
believe you could find from one end of the earth to the other."