IN OLD ST. BOTOLPH'S
At twenty minutes past ten, on the morning of the Feast of Epiphany,
David Rivers stood in the empty church of St Botolph's, Bishopsgate,
awaiting his bride.
Perhaps no man ever came to his wedding looking less like a bridegroom
than did David Rivers.
Diana had scorned the suggestion, first mooted by Mrs. Marmaduke Vane,
of clerical broadcloth of more fashionable cut, to be worn by David for
this one occasion.
"Rubbish, my dear Chappie!" had said Diana. "You are just the sort of
person who would marry the clothes, without giving much thought to the
man inside them. _I_ don't propose to be in white satin; so why should
David be in broadcloth? I shall not be crowned with orange-blossom, so
why should David go to the expense of an unnecessary topper? He could
hardly wear it out, among his savages in Central Africa. They might get
hold of it; make of it a fetish; and, eventually, build for it a little
shrine, and worship it. An article might then be written for a
missionary magazine, entitled: 'The Apotheosis of the silk top-hat of
the Rev. David Rivers!' I shall not wear a train, so why should David
appear in a long coat. Have a new one for the occasion, David, because
undoubtedly this little friend, though dear, is an _old_ friend. But
keep to your favourite cut. You would alarm me in tails or clerical
skirts, even more than you do already."
So David on his wedding morning looked, quite simply, what he really
was: the young enthusiast, to whom outward appearance meant little or
nothing, just ready to start on his journey to Central Africa.
His friend, the doctor, with whom David had spent his last night in
England, might, with his frock coat, lavender tie, and buttonhole,
easily have been mistaken for the bridegroom, as the two stood together
in the chancel of St. Botolph's.
"I cannot be your best man, old boy," Sir Deryck had said, "because,
years ago, I did, myself, the best thing a man can do. But I will come
to your wedding, and see you through, if it is really to take place at
half-past ten in the morning, and if I may be off immediately
afterwards. You are marrying a splendid girl, old chap. I only wish she
were going with you to Ugonduma. Yet, I admit, you are doing the right
thing in refusing to let her face the dangers and hardships of such life
and travel. Only--David, old man--if you want any married life at all,
you must be back within the year. With this unexpected attraction
drawing you to England and home, you will hardly keep to your former
resolution, or remain for longer in that deadly climate."
David had smiled, bravely, and gripped the doctor's hand. "I must see
how the work goes on," he said; and prayed to be forgiven the evasion.
Mr. Goldsworthy was robing in the vestry, and kept peeping out, in order
to make his entry into the chancel just before Diana's arrival. There
could not, under the circumstances, be much processioning in connection
with this wedding; but, what there was should be dignified, and might as
well be effectively timed.
Mr. Goldsworthy had passed through some strenuous moments in the vestry
with David, over the question of omissions or non-omissions from the
wedding service. He knew Diana's point of view; in fact he had received
private instructions from his god-daughter to bully David into
submission--"just as Sarah bullies you, you know, god-papa." He knew
Sarah's methods of bullying, quite well; but felt doubtful about
applying them to David. In fact, when the question came up, and the
moment for bullying had arrived, he turned his attention to buttoning
his cassock, and meekly agreed to David's firmly expressed ultimatum.
You cannot button a cassock--a somewhat tight cassock--(why do cassocks
display so inconvenient a tendency to grow tighter each week?) and at
the same time satisfactorily discuss a difficult ecclesiastical point
(why do ecclesiastical points become more and more involved every year?)
with a very determined young man. This should be his excuse to Diana for
failing to bully David into submission.
In his heart of hearts he knew the younger man was right. He himself had
grown slack about these matters. It was years since he had repeated the
creed of Saint Athanasius. It had a tendency to make him so breathless.
When David had recited it on Christmas morning, the congregation had not
known where to find it in the prayer-book; and Mr. Churchwarden Smith
had written the absent Rector an indignant letter accusing David of
popery. He was glad to remember that, in his reply, though feeling very
unequal to letter-writing, he had fully justified his locum-tenens.
The clock struck the half-hour. Mr. Goldsworthy peeped out again.
David and the doctor were walking quietly about in the chancel,
examining the quaint oak carvings. At that moment they stood, with their
backs to the body of the church, studying the lectern. David did not
need to watch for the arrival of Diana. He knew Mrs. Marmaduke Vane was
to enter first, with Mr. Inglestry. Diana had told him she should walk
up the church alone.
As yet, beside the usual church officials, Sarah Dolman was the only
person present. Sarah, having a married niece in town, who could put her
up for the night, had insisted upon attending the wedding of her dear
Miss Diana and that "blessed young gentleman," of whom the worst that
could be said, in Sarah's estimation, appeared to be: that it was a pity
there was not more of him!
She was early at the church, "to get a good place"; and had shifted her
seat several times, before David arrived. In fact she tried so many
pews, that the careful woman always on duty as verger at St. Botolph's,
began to look upon her with suspicion.
Sarah had feared she would not succeed in catching David's eye; but
David had seen her directly he came into the chancel. He had also
noticed, in Sarah's bonnet, the exact counterpart of Mrs. Churchwarden
Smith's red feather. He knew at once how much this meant, because Sarah
had told him that she only "went to beads." Often, in the lonely times
to come, when David chanced to see a gaily plumaged bird, in the great
forests of Ugonduma, he thought of Sarah's bonnet, and the red feather
worn in honour of his wedding.
He now went straight down the church, and shook the good woman by the
hand: "Which was beyond m' proudest dreams," Sarah always explained in
telling the story afterwards.
"Hullo, Sarah! How delightful of you to come; and how nice you look!"
Then as he felt Sarah's white cotton glove still warmly clasping his own
hand, he remembered the Christmas card. David possessed that priceless
knack of always remembering the things people expected him to remember.
"Sarah," he said, glancing down at their clasped hands, "you should have
brought me a buttonhole of forget-me-nots."
Sarah released his hand, and held up an impressive cotton finger.
"Ah, Mr. Rivers, sir," she said; "I knew you would say that. But who
could 'a' thought that card of mine would ha' bin prophetic!"
"Prophetic?" repeated David, quite at a loss.
"The turtle-doves," whispered Sarah, with a wink, infinitely romantic
and suggestive.
Then David understood. He and Diana were the pair of turtle-doves,
flying above the forget-me-nots, united by a festoon of ribbon, held in
either beak.
At first he shook with silent laughter. Good old Sarah, with her
prophetic card! He and Diana were the turtle-doves! How it would amuse
Diana!
Then a sharp pang smote him. Tragedy and comedy moved on either side of
David, as he walked back to the chancel.
He and Diana were the turtle-doves.
Soon after the half-hour, a stir and bustle occurred at the bottom of
the church. Mrs. Marmaduke Vane entered, on the arm of Mr. Inglestry.
The dapper little lawyer was completely overshadowed by the large and
portly person of Diana's chaperon. She tinkled and rustled up the
church, all chains, and bangles, and nodding plumes. She seemed to be
bowing right and left to the empty pews. Mr. Inglestry put her into the
front seat on the left, just below the quaintly carved lectern; then
went himself to the vestry for a word with Mr. Goldsworthy.
Sarah, from her pew on the opposite side, glared at Mrs. Marmaduke Vane.
The glories of her own new bonnet and crimson feather had suffered
eclipse. Yet--though the nodding purple plumes opposite seemed to beckon
him--she marked, with satisfaction, that David did not even glance in
their direction. She--Sarah--had had a hand-shake from the bridegroom.
Mrs. Marmaduke Vane, in all her grandeur, had failed to catch his eye.
Truth to tell, no sooner did David become aware of the arrival of
Diana's chaperon and of her lawyer, who were, he knew, accompanying her,
than he ceased to have eyes for any one or anything save for the place
where she herself would presently appear.
He took up his position alone, at the chancel step, slightly to the
right; and, standing sideways to the altar, fixed his eyes upon the
distant entrance at the bottom of the church.
Suddenly, from the organ-loft above it, where the golden pipes and
carved wood casing stand so quaintly on either side of a stained-glass
window, there wafted down the softest, sweetest strains of tender
harmony. A musician, with the touch and soul of a true artist, was
playing a lovely setting of David's own, to "Lead, kindly Light." This
was a surprise of Diana's. Diana loved arranging artistic surprises.
In his astonishment and delight at hearing so unexpected and so
beautiful a rendering of his own theme, David lifted his eyes for a
moment to the organ-loft.
During that moment the door must have opened and closed without making
any sound, for, when he dropped his eyes once more to the entrance,
there, at the bottom of the church, pausing--as if uncertain whether to
advance or to retreat--was standing his Lady of Mystery.
David's heart stood still.
He had been watching for Diana--that bewildering compound of sweetness
and torment, for whose sake he had undertaken to do this thing--and here
was his own dear Lady of Mystery, the personification of softness and of
silence, waiting irresolute at the bottom of this great London church,
just as she had waited in the little church at Brambledene, on that
Sunday evening, seven weeks ago.
How far Diana consciously intended to appear thus to David, it would be
difficult to say; but she purposely wore in every detail just what she
had been wearing on the Sunday evening when he saw her first; and
possibly the remembrance of that evening, now also strongly in her own
mind, accounted for her seeming once more to be enveloped in that
atmosphere of soft, silent detachment from the outer world, which had
led David to call her his Lady of Mystery.
In a swift flash of self-revelation, David realised, more clearly than
before, that he had loved this girl he was now going to marry, ever
since he first saw her, standing as she now stood--tall, graceful,
irresolute; uncertain whether to advance or to retreat.
Down the full length of that dimly lighted church, David's look met the
hesitating sweetness of those soft grey eyes; met, and held them.
Then--as if the deep earnestness of his gaze drew her to him, she moved
slowly and softly up the church to take her place beside him.
The fragrance of violets came with her. She seemed wafted to him, in
the dim light, by the melody of his own organ music: "Lead, kindly
Light, amid the encircling gloom; lead Thou me on."
David's senses reeled. He turned to the altar, and closed his eyes.
When he opened them again, his Lady of Mystery stood at his side, and
the opening words of the marriage service broke the silence of the empty
church.