The Wedding
It was a sad wedding, though everything within the power of Mr. Robert
Bolton was done to make it gay. There was a great breakfast, and all the
Boltons were at last persuaded to be present except Mrs. Bolton and Mrs.
Nicholas. As to Mrs. Nicholas she was hardly even asked. 'Of course we
would be delighted to see Mrs. Nicholas, if she would come,' Mrs. Robert
said to Nicholas himself. But there had been such long-continued and
absolute hostility between the ladies that this was known to be
impossible. In regard to Mrs. Bolton herself, great efforts were made.
Her husband condescended to beg her to consent on this one occasion to
appear among the Philistines. But as the time came nearer she became
more and more firm in her resolution. 'You shall not touch pitch and not
be defiled,' she said. 'You cannot serve God and Mammon.' When the old
man tried to show her that there was no question of Mammon here, she
evaded him, as she always did on such occasions, either by a real or
simulated deficiency of consequent intelligence. She regarded John
Caldigate as being altogether unregenerate, and therefore a man of the
world,--and therefore a disciple of Mammon. She asked him whether he
wanted her to do what she thought to be sinful. 'It is very sinful
hating people as you hate my sons' families,' he said in his wrath. 'No,
Nicholas, I do not hate their families. I certainly do not hate
Margaret, nor yet Fanny;--but I think that they live in opposition to
the Gospel. Am I to belie my own belief?' Now the old man was quite
certain that his wife did hate both Robert's wife and William's and
would not admit in her own mind this distinction between the conduct of
persons and the persons themselves. But he altogether failed in his
attempts to induce her to go to the breakfast.
The great contest was between the mother and the daughter; but in all
that passed between them no reference was even made to the banquet. As
to that Hester was indifferent. She thought, on the whole, that her
mother would do best to be absent. After all, what is a breakfast;--or
what the significance of any merry-meeting, even for a wedding? There
would no doubt be much said and much done on such an occasion at
variance with her mother's feelings. Even the enforced gaiety of the
dresses would be distasteful to her, and there would hardly be
sufficient cause for pressing her to be present on such an occasion. But
in reference to the church, the question, to Hester's thinking, was very
different, 'Mamma,' she said, 'if you are not there, it will be a
lasting misery to me.'
'How can I go there when I would give so much to save you from going
there yourself?' This was a terrible thing for a mother to say to her
own child on the eve of her wedding, but it had been now said so often
as to have lost something of its sting. It had come to be understood
that Mrs. Bolton would not allow herself to give any assent to the
marriage, but that the marriage was to go on without such assent. All
that had been settled. But still she might go to the church with them
and pray for good results. She feared that evil would come, but still
she might wish for good,--wish for it and pray for it.
'You don't want me to be unhappy, mamma?'
'Want!' said the mother. 'Who can want her child to be unhappy? But
there is an unhappiness harder to be borne, more to be dreaded, enduring
so much longer than that which we may suffer here.'
'Will you not come and pray that I may be delivered also from that? As I
am going from you, will you not let me know that you are there with me
at the last moment. Though you do not love him, you do not wish to
quarrel with me. Oh, mamma, let me feel at any rate that you are there.'
Then the mother promised that she would be there, in the church, though
unknown to or at least unrecognised by any one else. When the morning
came, and when Hester was dropped at The Nurseries, in order that she
might go up and be invested in her finery amidst her bridesmaids, who
were all her cousins, the carriage went on and took Mrs. Bolton to the
church. It was represented to her that, by this arrangement, she would
be forced to remain an hour alone in the cold building. But she was one
of those who regarded all discomfort as meritorious, as in some way
adding something to her claim for heaven. Self-scourging with rods as a
penance, was to her thinking a papistical ordinance most abominable and
damnatory; but the essence of the self-scourging was as comfortable to
her as ever was a hair-shirt to a Roman Catholic enthusiast. So she went
and sat apart in a dark distant pew, dressed in black and deeply veiled,
praying, not it is to be feared, that John Caldigate might be a good
husband to her girl, but that he, as he made his way downward to things
below, might not drag her darling with him. That only a few can be saved
was the fact in all her religion with which she was most thoroughly
conversant. The strait way and the narrow gate, through which only a few
can pass! Were they not known to all believers, to all who had a
glimmering of belief, as an established part of the Christian faith, as
a part so established that to dream even that the gate would be made
broad and the way open would be to dream against the Gospel, against the
very plainest of God's words? If so,--and she would tell herself at all
hours that certainly, certainly, certainly so it was,--then why should
she trouble herself for one so little likely to come in the way of
salvation as this man who was now robbing her of her daughter? If it was
the will of the Almighty,--as it clearly was the will of the
Almighty,--that, out of every hundred, ninety and nine should perish,
could she dare now to pray more than for one? Or if her prayers were
wider must they not be inefficacious? Yes;--there had been the thief
upon the cross! It was all possible. But this man was a thief, not upon
the cross. And, therefore, as she prayed that morning she said not a
prayer for him.
In the meantime the carriage had gone back for the bride, who in very
simple raiment, but yet in bridal-white array, was taken up to the
church. These Boltons were prosperous people, who had all their
carriages, so that there was no lack of vehicles. Two of the girls from
London and two from The Nurseries made up the bevy of bridesmaids who
were as bright and fair as though the bride had come from some worldlier
stock. Mrs. Robert, indeed, had done all she could to give to the whole
concern a becoming bridal brightness, till even Mrs. Daniel had been
tempted to remonstrate. 'I don't see why you shouldn't wear pretty
things if you've got the money to pay for them,' said Mrs. Robert. Mrs.
Daniel shook her head, but on the afternoon before the wedding she
bought an additional ribbon.
Caldigate came over from Folking that morning attended by one John
Jones, an old college friend, as his best man. The squire was not at the
wedding, but on the day before he was with Hester at The Nurseries,
telling her that she should be his dear daughter, and at the same time
giving her a whole set of wicked but very pretty worldly gauds. 'Upon my
word, my dear, he has been very gracious,' said Mrs. Robert, when she
saw them. 'I quite envy the girls being married nowadays, because they
get such pretty things.'
'They are very pretty,' said Hester.
'And must have cost, I'm afraid to say how much money.'
'I suppose it means to say that he will love me, and therefore I am so
glad to have them!' But the squire, though he did mean to say that he
would love her, did not come to the wedding. He was, he said,
unaccustomed to such things, and hoped that he might be excused.
Therefore, from the Folking side there was no one but John Caldigate
himself and John Jones. Of the Babingtons, of course, there was not one.
As long as there was a possibility of success Mrs. Babington had kept up
her remonstrances;--but when there was no longer a possibility she
announced that there was to be an everlasting quarrel between the
houses. Babington and Folking were for the future to know nothing of
each other. Caldigate had hoped that though the ladies would for a time
be unforgiving, his uncle and his male cousins would not take up the
quarrel. But aunt Polly was too strong for that; and he was declared to
be a viper who had been warmed in all their bosoms and had then stung
them all round. 'If you will nurse a viper in your bosom of course he
will sting you,' said Aunt Polly in a letter which she took the trouble
to write to the squire. In reply to which the squire wrote back thus;
'My dear sister, if you will look into your dictionary of natural
history you will see that vipers have no stings. Yours truly, D.
Caldigate.' This letter was supposed to add much to the already existing
offence.
But the marriage ceremony was performed in spite of all this
quarrelling, and the mother standing up in the dark corner of her pew
heard her daughter's silver-clear voice as she vowed to devote herself
to her husband. As she heard it, she also devoted herself. When sorrow
should come as sorrow certainly would come, then she would be ready once
again to be a mother to her child. But till that time should come the
wife of John Caldigate would be nothing to her.
She was not content with thinking and resolving that it should be so,
but she declared her intention in so many words to her daughter. For
poor Hester, though she was proud of her husband, this was in truth a
miserable day. Could she have been induced to separate herself
altogether from her mother on the previous night, or even on that
morning, it would have been better, but there was with her that
customary longing for a last word of farewell which has often made so
many of us wretched. And then there was a feeling that, as she was
giving herself away in marriage altogether in opposition to her mother's
counsels, on that very account she owed to her more attached and
increased observance. Therefore, she had arranged with her husband that
when she returned from the banquet to prepare herself for her journey, a
longer absence than usual should be allowed to her;--so that she might
be taken back to Chesterton, and might thus see her mother the last
after saying farewell to all the others. Then the carriage should return
to The Nurseries and he would be ready to step in, and she need not show
herself again, worn out as she would be with the tears and sobbings
which she anticipated.
It all went as it was arranged, but it would have been much better to
arrange it otherwise. The journey to the Grange and back, together with
the time spent in the interview, took an hour,--and the time went very
slowly with the marriage guests. There always comes a period beyond
which it is impossible to be festive. When the bride left the room, the
bridesmaids and other ladies went with her. Then the gentlemen who
remained hardly knew what to do with each other. Old Mr. Bolton was not
jovial on the occasion, and the four brothers hardly knew how to find
subjects for conversation on such an occasion. The bridegroom felt the
hour to be very long, although he consented to play billiards with the
boys; and John Jones, although he did at last escape and find his way up
among the girls, thought that his friend had married himself into a very
sombre family. But all this was pleasant pastime indeed compared with
that which poor Hester endured in her mother's bedroom. 'So it has been
done,' said Mrs. Bolton, sitting in a comfortless little chair, which
she was accustomed to use when secluded, with her Bible, from all the
household. She spoke in a voice that might have been fit had a son of
hers been just executed on the gallows.
'Oh, mamma, do not speak of it like that!'
'My darling, my own one; would you have me pretend what I do not feel?'
'Why, yes. Even that would be better than treatment such as this.' That
would have been Hester's reply could she have spoken her mind; but she
could not speak it, and therefore she stood silent. 'I will not pretend.
You and your father have done this thing against my wishes and against
my advice.'
'It is I that have done it, mamma.'
'You would not have persevered had he been firm,--as firm as I have
been. But he has vacillated, turning hither and thither, serving God and
Mammon. And he has allowed himself to be ruled by his own son. I will
never, never speak to Robert Bolton again.'
'Oh mamma, do not say that.'
'I do say it. I swear it. You shall not touch pitch and not be defiled.
If there be pitch on earth he is pitch. If your eye offend you, pluck it
out. He is my step-son, I know; but I will pluck him out like an eye
that has offended. It is he that has robbed me of my child.'
'Am I not still your child?' said Hester, going down on her knees with
her hands in her mother's lap and her eyes turned up to her mother's
face.
'No. You are not mine any longer. You are his. You are that man's wife.
When he bids you do that which is evil in the sight of the Lord, you
must do it. And he will bid you. You are not my child now. As days run
on and sins grow black I cannot warn you now against the wrath to come.
But though you are not my child, though you are this man's wife, I will
pray for you.'
'And for him?'
'I do not know. I cannot say. Who am I that I should venture to pray
specially for a stranger? That His way may be shown to all
sinners;--thus will I pray for him. And it will be shown. Though whether
he will walk in it,--who can say that?' So much was true of John
Caldigate, no doubt, and is true of all; but there was a tone in her
voice which implied that in regard to this special sinner there could be
very little hope indeed.
'Why should you think that he is bad, mamma?'
'We are all bad. There is no doubt about his being bad. There is not one
among us fit to sweep the lowest step of God's throne. But they who are
His people shall be made bright enough to sit round His feet. May the
time come when you, my darling, shall be restored to the fold.' The poor
young wife by this time had acknowledged to herself the mistake she had
made in thus coming to her mother after her marriage. She now was of
course in that ecstatic phase of existence which makes one's own self
altogether subordinate to the self of another person. That her husband
should be happy constituted her hope of happiness; that he should be
comfortable, her comfort. If he were thought worthy, that would be her
worthiness; or if he were good, that would be her goodness. And even as
to those higher, more distant aspirations, amidst which her mother was
always dwelling, she would take no joy for herself which did not include
him. The denunciations against him which were so plainly included even
in her mother's blessings and prayers for herself, did not frighten her
on behalf of the man to whom she had devoted herself. She could see the
fanaticism and fury of her mother's creed. But she could not escape from
the curse of the moment. When that last imprecation was made by the
woman, with her hands folded and her eyes turned up to heaven, Hester
could only bury her face on her mother's knees and weep. 'When that time
comes, and I know it will come, you shall return to me, and once more be
my child,' said the mother.
'You do not mean that I shall leave my husband?'
'Who can tell? If you do, and I am living, you shall be my child. Till
then we must be apart. How can it be otherwise? Can I give my cheek to a
man to be kissed, and call him my son, when I think that he has robbed
me of my only treasure?'
This was so terrible that the daughter could only hang around her
mother's neck, sobbing and kissing her at the same time, and then go
without another word. She was sure of this,--that if she must lose one
or the other, her mother or her husband, then she would lose her mother.
When she returned to The Nurseries, her husband, according to agreement
came out to her at once. She had bidden adieu to all the others; but at
the last moment her father put his hand into the carriage, so that she
could take it and kiss it. 'Mamma is so sad,' she said to him; 'go home
to her and comfort her.' Of course the old man did go home, but he was
aware that there would for some time be little comfort there either for
him or for his wife. He and his sons had been too powerful for her in
arranging the marriage; but now, now that it was done, nothing could
stop her reproaches. He had been made to think it wrong on one side to
shut his girl up, and now from the other side he was being made to think
that he had done very wrong in allowing her to escape.
It had been arranged that they should be driven out of Cambridge to the
railway station at Audley End on their way to London; so that they might
avoid the crowd of people who would know them at the Cambridge station.
As soon as they had got away from the door of Robert Bolton's house, the
husband attempted to comfort his young wife. 'At any rate it is over,'
he said, alluding of course to the tedium of their wedding festivities.
'So much is over,' she replied.
'You do not regret anything?'
She shook her head slowly as she leaned lovingly against his shoulder.
'You are not sorry, Hester, that you have become my wife?'
'I had to be your wife,--because I love you.'
'Is that a sorrow?'
'I had been all my mother's;--and now I am all yours. She has thrown me
off because I have disobeyed her. I hope you will never throw me off.'
'Is it likely?'
'I think not. I know that I shall never throw you off. They have tried
to make me believe that you are not all that you ought to be--in
religion. But now your religion shall be my religion, and your life my
life. I shall be of your colour--altogether. But, John, a limb cannot
be wrenched out of a socket, as I have been torn away from my mother,
without pain.'
'She will forgive it all when we come back.'
'I fear--I fear. I never knew her to forgive anything yet.' This was
very bad; but nevertheless it was plain to him as it had been plain to
Robert and William Bolton, that not because of the violence of the
woman's character should the life of her daughter have been sacrificed
to her. His duty to make her new life bright for her was all the more
plain and all the more sound,--and as they made their first journey
together he explained to her how sacred that duty should always be to
him.