SUCCESS
Some three weeks later George Coventry proposed to Rafella Forte, but
not among the roses in the sunshine, as he had so often pictured, for
rain was coming down with inconsiderate persistence. The proposal took
place in the church porch, where they lingered after choir practice,
hoping it might clear.
His visits had been frequent since the day of the sale; and once he had
persuaded the vicar and his daughter to spend an afternoon at his
mother's house, conveying them to and fro at his own expense in the
ever-available wagonette supplied by the country town inn.
To-day he had arrived just as Rafella was about to start for the church,
enveloped in a macintosh, holding a monstrous cotton umbrella over her
head; and for the last hour he had sat patiently in a pew while school
children droned out hymns around Rafella and the harmonium, staring at
him throughout the performance with unblinking curiosity.
Now the children had clattered away, Rafella had closed the harmonium
and put everything straight, and they were alone in the porch; the
church door, covered with notices, was closed behind them, and in front
the rain streamed down on the huddled graves, the sunken, lichen-stained
headstones, and the old-fashioned, coffin-shaped tombs.
The supreme moment had come when, in spite of the place and the weather,
George Coventry felt he could be silent no longer. There was little
doubt in his mind as to Rafella's feelings towards himself, there could
be no doubt in hers as to his intentions; he had made them plain enough
almost from the first.
It was very soon over. He had spoken, he had kissed her with passion yet
reverence; she had trembled, shed a few tears, confessed that she cared
for him. And then, as he had all along apprehended, came the protest,
when he urged a short engagement, that she could not leave her father.
"It would be wicked of me to leave him by himself," she cried in tearful
distress. "He could never get on without me. I think it would kill him,
and I should never forgive myself."
"It would be wicked of _him_ to want to keep you always," said Coventry
firmly. He was prepared, within reason, to compromise, but he was also
determined not to be beaten. "The moment we get back to the vicarage
I'll interview him in his den. That was where you saw me first. Do you
remember, little angel saint? You looked through the window, and I fell
in love with your darling face, as I had already fallen in love with
your hair and your voice. I say, couldn't we have that hymn at our
wedding?
"'_Other refuge have I none;
Hangs my helpless soul on Thee._'"
He sang the words joyfully, quite out of tune, for he was no musician.
"Oh, no. It wouldn't be suitable at all," she said, rebuke in her voice.
"I should say it was most appropriate, for I am going to comfort and
protect you as long as I live."
"But it's not meant that way," she explained, shocked. "And, oh," she
went on miserably, "you mustn't count on our being married. I feel
dreadful about it all. I don't know _what_ father would do without me. I
can't think of going so far away and leaving him alone. Don't ask him;
don't say anything about it."
Then, still standing in the porch, they went over it all again. He
argued, entreated, cajoled, but her distress was so genuine, the
conflict between her love and her duty so acute, that at last Coventry
found himself willing, almost, to agree to an indefinite engagement, to
the question of marriage being deferred till his next return from India.
Finally he promised that if she would only give him permission to speak
to her father he would press for no more than the vicar's consent to a
wedding perhaps two years hence.
They returned to the house through the rain, Coventry rueful, depressed,
yet alive to the virtue of Rafella's decision--it was only in accordance
with the pure perfection of her character. He had little hope of Mr.
Forte being equally unselfish, of his refusing to accept his daughter's
temporary sacrifice; two years to a man of his age would seem a trifling
period, and, of course, apart from personal inconvenience, he would be
all in favour of discreet delay, and the wisdom of waiting, the test of
time on the affections, and so forth. Coventry was conscious that were
he in the vicar's place, with a young and guileless daughter to
consider, his own sentiments would be identical; therefore he ultimately
sought his future father-in-law's presence in a meek and dutifully
acquiescent spirit, not altogether free from nervousness.
The vicar's mouldy sanctum was not quite the pleasant spot this
afternoon that it had been on the occasion of Coventry's first visit;
now the room was darkened by the rain, and the creepers, limp with
moisture, clinging to the window. Mr. Forte himself looked dismal and
depressed; he complained that the damp affected his throat and caused
discomfort in his joints. He indicated with a weary gesture of his hand
a pile of documents and ledgers connected with parish affairs, and some
blank sheets of paper on which, owing to pressure of other business, his
sermon for to-morrow had not yet been inscribed. He said he wished he
could afford a curate, though to Coventry's consternation he affirmed
that Rafella was as valuable to him as any curate could be, save in the
matter of accounts and sermons.
"A good girl, Captain Coventry, a very good girl!" He shook his head as
though he were saddened rather than cheered by the fact of Rafella's
worth; but it was merely, as Coventry understood, the vicar's manner of
emphasising his appreciation.
"Indeed, sir, she has no equal!" the younger man agreed with fervour.
It seemed a rather inauspicious moment for declaring his request, but
delay could make no difference, and he spoke out boldly, though with
quickened pulses, confessing that he had already approached Rafella and
had not been rejected. To his amazed relief Mr. Forte listened to him
with benign attention.
"I cannot pretend," he said, "that I have been altogether blind to your
object in coming here, but before we go any farther there are one or two
matters that must be discussed between us."
Coventry's heart went out to Rafella's father. He felt sure that the
vicar was suppressing his own feelings in consideration of his cherished
daughter's happiness.
"Dear old chap!" he thought warmly. Readily he said: "Of course--my
prospects and my financial position, and my past? I hope I shall be able
to satisfy you on every point." And he proceeded to explain that he
possessed a fair income of his own apart from his pay, an income that
must be materially increased on the death of his mother. Therefore he
could make adequate provision for a wife and a possible family. There
were no secrets in his past or his present; he had led a steady life, he
was sound in health and, he hoped, in morals. As for religion, he was a
member of the Church of England.
Then came a pause. Mr. Forte sat still, his elbow on the table, his head
resting on his hand. He looked old and sad and tired, and George, with
compunction, remembered his promise to Rafella.
"If you will give your consent to an engagement," he said impulsively,
"I would undertake not to urge Rafella to marry me till I come back next
time from India. I know she does not want to leave you yet, and it would
be wrong and selfish of me to expect it."
The vicar placed his hand before his mouth and coughed. To Coventry his
self-possession seemed extraordinary. The notion that worldly
inducements might weigh with this simple old parson never came into his
head.
"Well, well," said Mr. Forte magnanimously, "I must think it over. In
the meantime, my dear lad"--with a smile of resignation he held out his
hand and Coventry grasped it emotionally--"go and talk to Rafella."
He went, and a few minutes later the vicar resumed his spectacles, drew
the blank sheets of sermon paper towards him, and opened his Bible. He
happened to light upon the text:
"_Discretion shall preserve thee, understanding
shall keep thee_."
And he began to write rapidly.
Mr. Forte had made up his mind that Rafella should marry Captain
Coventry in the autumn and go back with him to India. He would miss his
daughter sadly, the wrench of parting would be cruel, but such things
had to be; God would give him grace to bear the trial.... Otherwise,
translated into the vulgar tongue--here was a young man of good
character and safe position, with private means and clear prospects, who
would make an excellent husband; it was a chance in a thousand, and if
the fellow were ready and anxious to marry the penniless daughter of a
poverty-stricken country clergyman, the vicar did not intend to
discourage him nor to take the hazard of sentimental and unnecessary
delays.
His decision was imparted (in the more dignified form) a couple of hours
later to the expectant pair, whom he discovered seated close together on
the springless sofa in the drawing-room, and there followed an affecting
little scene. Tears, embraces, hand-shakes, blessings, assurances,
general happy excitement, tinged for father and daughter with natural
and touching melancholy.
When it was all over and the vicar had returned to his study, Coventry
drew a long breath. The day for him had been one of unaccustomed
emotional strain, and he felt a wholesome craving for refreshment.
Almost involuntarily he said: "I'd give anything for a peg!"
"A peg?" echoed Rafella, mystified.
"Meaning a whisky and soda."
"Oh, George!" She held primitive principles with regard to strong drink,
though already she was reconciled to the fact that he smoked innumerable
cigarettes.
"Is it so shocking?" he asked, with an indulgent smile.
"Well," she said uneasily, "you see, we think temperance so important.
Beer I can understand, in strict moderation, though I don't approve of
it; we always keep a small cask in the cupboard under the stairs in case
it should be wanted, and, of course, there is a little brandy in my
medicine chest; we use it, too, for moistening the jam papers. But we
haven't any _whisky_!"
He perceived that the imbibing of spirits as an ordinary drink might
appear to his fiancée as little less than wicked. Concealing his
amusement, he explained, as a personal precaution, that though, of
course, it was revolting to see a lady consume alcohol, unless by the
doctor's orders, it was, taken judiciously, harmless, if not beneficial,
to men, particularly to men accustomed to a hot climate; thus allaying
her scruples and fears on his own behalf. He accepted a large cup of tea
in preference to beer from the cupboard under the stairs, or brandy from
the medicine chest, both of which Rafella proffered hospitably after his
reassurance.
The wedding took place a fortnight before Coventry was to sail for
India. One or two trivial disputes arose between the affianced pair, and
on each occasion George's will prevailed. For example over the
trousseau. It appeared that Rafella was entitled, on her twenty-first
birthday, or on her marriage, to the legacy of a hundred pounds
bequeathed to her by her godmother. She maintained that the half of this
sum would be ample for her outfit, and she was on the point of engaging
the village dressmaker to work daily at the vicarage, when George
interfered. Though he did not wish Rafella to be anything but simply
dressed, he had a suspicion that Under-edge fashions might be regarded
as somewhat peculiar in an Indian military station. Therefore he
insisted that her "costumes," as she called them, should at least be
ordered in the little country town, under the guidance of his mother and
sister, in whose taste he had implicit confidence. The result enchanted
all concerned, though certainly it might have evoked contempt on the
part of the more fastidious.
At any rate, in Coventry's eyes, and in the opinion of all present at
the wedding, Rafella looked lovely as a bride; and, indeed, it was a
very pretty ceremony, altogether, in its idyllic simplicity. The autumn
day was radiant with sunshine, the kind of day when spiders' webs hang
sparkling and perfect, as though spun with tiny crystal beads, and the
air is still and humid; when the foliage, all red and gold, strikes
wonder, and the blackberries are ripe and round and purple. The little
church was decked with brilliant leaves and berries, and the pews were
as well filled as if it had been Christmas Day. Not that any formal
invitations had been issued; the only wedding guests from any distance
were the bridegroom's near relations (he had few besides), and the
bride's only aunt, who had consented to come and live at the vicarage
and to join her small income to that of her brother. But the entire
village was present in Sunday garments, save those who were bedridden
and had been left without compunction to take care of themselves for the
time. Rafella's only aunt did successful battle with the unwilling
harmonium, and with much solemn emotion the vicar married his daughter
to Captain Coventry.
It may be added that the bridegroom also had his way, after all, about
the hymn, and it was sung by the congregation with a raucous fervour
that stirred George Coventry to the depths of his being, for he could
not help investing the words with a personal application, in spite of
Rafella's previous protests to the contrary.
So the newly married pair sailed a fortnight later for India; and the
unsophisticated daughter of an obscure country parson found herself
launched without preparation into a world that to her was completely
bewildering. From the stagnation of English village existence, and
from relative hardship, she went straight into the activities,
contradictions, and comparative luxuries of life in a large Indian
station, a life that, perhaps, has no actual parallel anywhere else on
earth.