"TILL DEATH US DO PART"
Within a fortnight of Mallory's departure from St. Wennys, the whole of
the house-party at Mallow had scattered. Lord St. John was the first
to go--leaving in order to pay a short visit to Eliza McBain before
returning to town. Often though she might scarify him with her sharp
tongue, she was genuinely attached to him, and her clannishly
hospitable soul would have been sorely wounded if he had not spent a
few days at Trevarthen Wood while he was in the neighbourhood. Ralph
Fenton had been obliged to hurry north to fulfil an unexpected concert
engagement; and on the same day Barry left home to join a
shooting-party in Scotland. A few days later Nan and Penelope returned
to London, accompanied by Kitty, who asserted an unshakable
determination to take part in the orgy of spending which Penelope's
forthcoming wedding would entail.
Meanwhile Ralph, being "a big fish" as Penny had once commented, had
secured his future wife's engagement as a member of the concert
party--by the simple method of declining to accept the American tour
himself unless she were included, so that to the joy of buying a
trousseau was added the superlative delight of choosing special frocks
for Penelope's appearances on tour in the States. Lord St. John had
insisted upon presenting the trousseau, Barry Seymour made himself
responsible for the concert gowns, and Kitty announced that the wedding
was to take place from her house in Green Street.
For the first time in the whole of her brave, hard-working life,
Penelope knew what it was to spend as she had seen other women spend,
without being driven into choosing the second-best material or the less
becoming frock for the unsatisfying reason that it was the cheaper.
The two men had given Kitty carte blanche as regards expenditure and
she proceeded to take full advantage of the fact, promptly quelling any
tentative suggestions towards economy which Penelope, rather
overwhelmed by Mrs. Seymour's lavish notions, occasionally put forth.
The date on which the concert party sailed was already fixed; leaving a
bare month in which to accomplish the necessary preparations, and the
time seemed positively to fly. Nan evaded taking part in the shopping
expeditions which filled the days for Penelope and Kitty, since each
new purchase, each frail, chiffony frock or beribboned box which
arrived from dressmaker or milliner, served only to remind her that the
approaching parting with Penelope was drawing nearer.
In women's friendships there must always come a big wrench when one or
other of two friends meets the man who is her mate. The old, tried
friendship retreats suddenly into second place--sometimes for a little
while it almost seems as though it had petered out altogether. But
when once the plunge has been taken, and the strangeness and wonder and
glory of the new life have become ordinary and commonplace with the
sweet commonness of dear, familiar, daily things, then the old
friendship comes stealing back--deeper and more understanding, perhaps,
than in the days before one of the two friends had come into her
woman's kingdom.
Nan sat staring into the fire--for the first breath of autumn had
already chilled the air--trying to realise that to-day was actually the
eve of Penelope's wedding-day. It seemed incredible--even more
incredible that Kitty and she should have gone off laughing together to
see about some detail of the next day's arrangements which had been
overlooked.
She was suddenly conscious that if this were the eve of her own
marriage with Roger laughter would be far enough away from her.
Regarded dispassionately, her decision to marry him because she
couldn't marry the man she loved, seemed rather absurd and illogical.
It was like going into a library and, having discovered that the book
which you required was out, accepting one you didn't really want
instead--just because the librarian, who knew nothing whatever about
your tastes in literature, had offered it to you. You always began the
substitute hopefully and generally ended up by being thoroughly bored
with it and marvelling how on earth anybody could possibly have found
it interesting! Nan wondered if she would get bored with her
substituted volume.
She had rushed recklessly into her engagement, regarding marriage with
Roger much as though it were a stout set of palings with "No Right of
Way" written across them in large letters. Outside, the waves of
emotion might surge in vain, while within, she and Roger would settle
down to the humdrum placidity of married life. But the dull, ceaseless
ache at her heart made her sometimes question whether anything in the
world could keep at bay the insistent claim of love.
She tried to reassure herself. At least there would always remain her
music and the passionate delight of creative work. It was true she had
written nothing recently. She had been living at too high an emotional
strain to have any surplus energy for originating, and she knew from
experience that all creative work demands both strength and spirit,
heart and soul--everything that is in you, if it is to be worth while.
These and other disconnected thoughts flitted fugitively through her
mind as she sat waiting for Penelope's return. Vague visions of the
future; memories--hastily slurred over; odd, rather frightened musings
on the morrow's ceremony, when Penny would bind herself to Ralph ". . .
_in the sight of God, and in the face of this congregation_."
Rather curiously Nan reflected that she had never actually read the
Marriage Service--only caught chance phrases here and there in the
course of other people's marriages. She switched on the light and
hunted about for a book of Common Prayer, turning the pages with quick,
nervous fingers till she came to the one headed: _The Solemnization of
Matrimony_. She began to read.
"_I require and charge you both, as ye will answer at the dreadful day
of judgment when the secrets of all hearts shall be disclosed . . ._"
How tremendously solemn and searching it sounded! She never remembered
being struck with the awfulness of matrimony when she had so
light-heartedly attended the weddings of her girl friends. Her
principal recollection was of small, white-surpliced choir-boys shrilly
singing "The Voice that breathed o'er Eden," and then, for a brief
space, of a confused murmur of responsive voices, the clergyman and the
bride and bridegroom dividing the honours fairly evenly between them,
while the congregation rustled their wedding garments as they craned
forward in their efforts to obtain a good view of the bride.
Followed the withdrawal into the vestry for the signing of the
register, when everybody seemed to be kissing everybody else with
considerable lack of discrimination. Finally, to the inspiriting
strains of Mendelssohn--who evidently saw nothing sad or sorrowful in a
wedding, but only joy and triumph and the completing of life--the whole
company, bride and bridegroom, relatives and guests, trooped down the
aisle and dwindled away in cars and carriages, to meet once more, like
an incoming tide, at the house of the bride's parents.
But this! . . . This solemn "_I charge ye both . . ._"--Nan read
on--"_If either of you know any impediment why ye may not be lawfully
joined together in matrimony, ye do now confess it_."
There would certainly be an impediment in her own case, since the bride
was in love with someone other than the bridegroom. Only, in the
strange world we live in, that is not regarded in the light of a
"lawful" impediment, so she wouldn't need to confess it--at least, not
to anyone except Roger, and her sense of fair play had already impelled
her to do that.
Her eyes flew along the words of the service, skimming hastily over the
tender beauty of the vows the man and woman give each other. For they
are only beautiful if love informs them. To Nan they were rather
terrifying with their suggestion of irrevocability.
"_So long as ye both shall live . . ._"
Why, she and Roger were young enough to anticipate thirty or forty
years together! Thirty or forty years--before death came and released
them from each other.
"_Then shall the priest join their right hands together and say, Those
whom God hath joined together, let no man put asunder._"
Nan stretched out a slender right hand and regarded it curiously. Some
time to-morrow--at about half-past twelve, she supposed--the priest
would join the hands of Penelope and Ralph and henceforth there would
be no sundering "till death did them part."
Driven by circumstances, she had not stopped to consider the possible
duration of marriage when she pledged her word to Roger, and during the
time which had elapsed since she left Mallow the vision of the Roger
who had sometimes jarred upon her, irritating her by his narrowed
outlook and his lack of perception, had inevitably faded considerably,
as the memory of temperamental irritations is apt to do as soon as
absence has secured relief from them.
Latterly, Nan had been feeling quite affectionately disposed towards
him--he was really rather a dear in some ways! And she had accepted an
invitation to spend part of the winter at Trenby Hall.
The Seymours had planned to go abroad for several months and, since
Penelope would be married and on tour, it had seemed a very natural
solution of matters. So that when Lady Gertrude's rather
stiffly-worded letter of invitation had arrived, Nan accepted it,
determining in her own mind that, during the visit, she would try to
overcome her mother-in-law's dislike to her. The knowledge of how much
Roger loved her and of how little she was really able to give him in
return, made her feel that it was only playing the game to please him
in any way she could. And she recognised that to a man of Roger's
ideas, the fact that his wife and mother were on good terms with one
another would be a source of very definite satisfaction.
But now, as she re-read the solemn phrase: _So long as ye both shall
live_, she was seized with panic. To be married for ten, twenty, forty
years, perhaps, with never the hand of happy chance--the wonderful,
enthralling "might be" of life--to help her to endure it! With a
little stifled cry she sprang up and began pacing the room
restlessly--up and down, up and down, her slim hands clenching and
unclenching as she walked.
Presently--she could, not have told whether it was five minutes or five
hours later--she heard the click of a latch-key in the lock. At the
sound, the imperative need for self-control rushed over her. Penelope,
of all people, must never know--never guess that she wasn't happy in
her engagement to Roger. She didn't intend to spoil Penny's own
happiness by the faintest cloud of worry on her account.
She snatched up the prayer-book she had let fall and switching off the
lights, dropped down on the hearthrug just as Penelope came in, fresh
and glowing, from her walk.
"All in the dark?" she queried as she entered. "You look like a kitten
curled up by the fire." She stooped and kissed Nan with unwonted
tenderness. Then she turned up the lights and drew the curtains across
the window, shutting out the grey October twilight.
"Penny," said Nan, fingering the prayer-book, "have you ever read the
marriage service?"
Penelope's face lightened with a sudden radiance.
"Yes, isn't it beautiful?"
Nan stared at her.
"Beautiful?" She gave an odd little laugh. "It sounds to me much more
like a commination service. Doesn't it frighten you?"
"Not a bit." Penelope's serenely happy eyes confirmed her quick denial.
"Well"--Nan regarded her contemplatively--"it rubs in all the dreadful
things that may happen to you--like ill-health, and poverty, and 'for
worse'--whatever that may mean--and dins into your ears the fact that
nothing but death can release you."
"You're looking at the wrong side of it, Nan. It seems to me to show
just exactly _how much_ a husband and wife may be to each other, and
how--together--they can face all the ills that flesh is heir to."
"Reminds one of a visit to the dentist--you can screw your courage up
more easily if someone goes with you," remarked Nan grimly.
"You're simply determined to look on the ugly side of things,"
protested Penelope.
"And yet, Penny dear, at one time you used to scold me for being too
idealistic in my notions!"
But Penelope declined to shift from her present standpoint.
"And now you're expecting so little that, when your turn comes, you'll
be beautifully disappointed," she remarked as she left the room in
order to finish some odds and ends of packing.
* * * * * *
In her capacity of sole bridesmaid Nan followed Penelope's tall,
white-clad figure up the aisle. Each step they made was taking her
friend further away from her--nearer to the man whom the next half-hour
would make her husband. With a swift leap of the imagination, she
visioned herself in Penelope's place, leaning on Lord St. John's
arm--and the man who waited for her at the chancel steps was Roger!
She swayed a moment, then by an immense effort forced herself back to
the reality of things, following steadily once more in the wake of her
uncle and Penelope.
There seemed to her something dream-like in their slow progression.
The atmosphere was heavy with the scent of flowers, a sea of blurred
faces loomed up at her from the pews on either side, and the young,
sweet voices of the choristers soared high above the organ. She stole
a glance at her uncle. He looked frailer than usual, she thought, with
a sudden pang of apprehension; perhaps the heat of the summer had told
upon him a little. Then her gaze ran on to where the bridegroom stood,
the tall altar-lights flickering behind him, his face turned towards
the body of the church, and his eyes, very bright and steady, resting
on Penelope as she approached.
He stepped forward quickly as she neared the chancel and Nan saw that a
smile passed between them as he took his place beside her. A feeling
of reassurance crept over her, quieting the sense of almost breathless
panic which had for a moment overwhelmed her when she had pictured
herself in Penny's place. There was dear old Ralph, looking quite
ordinary and matter-of-fact, only rather sprucer than usual in his
brand-new wedding garments. The feeling of reassurance deepened.
Marriage wasn't so appalling. Good heavens! Dozens of people were
married every day and she was quite sure they were not all wildly in
love with each other.
Then the service commenced and the soft rise and fall of responsive
voices murmured through the church a little space. . . .
It was over very quickly--Nan almost gasped to find how astonishingly
short a time it takes to settle one of the biggest things in life. In
a few minutes the scented dimness of the church was exchanged for the
pale gold of the autumn sunlight, the hush of prayer for the throb of
waiting cars.
Later still, when the afternoon was spent, came the last handshakings
and kisses. A rising chorus of good wishes, a dust of confetti, the
closing of a door, and then the purr of a car as Penelope and Ralph,
were borne away on the first stage of that new, untried life into which
they were adventuring together.
Nan's face wore a queer look of strain as she turned back into the
house. Once more the shadow of the future had fallen across her--the
shadow of her marriage with Roger Trenby.
"My dear"--she looked up to meet Lord St. John's kindly gaze. "My
dear, come into the dining-room. A glass of champagne is what you
want. You're overdone."
He poured it out and mechanically Nan lifted it to her lips, then set
it down on the table, untasted, with a hand that shook.
"I don't want it," she said. Then, unevenly: "Uncle, I can't--I can't
ever marry--"
"Drink this," insisted St. John. He held out the champagne once more,
quietly ignoring her stumbling utterance.
Nan pushed the glass aside. The whole of her misery was on the tip of
her tongue.
"Listen Uncle David--you must listen!" she began rather wildly. "I
don't care for Ro--"
"No, my dear. Tell me nothing." He checked the impending confession
hastily. He guessed that it had some hearing upon her marriage with
Trenby. If so, it would be better left unsaid. Just now she was tired
and unstrung; later, she might regret her impulsive confidence. He
wanted to save her from that.
"Don't tell me anything. What's done is done." He paused, then added:
"Don't forget, Nan, a Davenant's word is his bond--always."
She responded to the demand in his voice as a thoroughbred answers to
the touch of the whip. The champagne glass trembled a little in her
fingers, as she took it from him, and clicked against her teeth. She
swallowed the wine and replaced the glass on the table.
"Thank you," she said quietly. But it wasn't the wine for which she
thanked him. She knew, just as he had known, that she had been on the
verge of utter break-down. Her nerves, on edge throughout the whole
marriage ceremony she had just witnessed, had almost given way beneath
the strain, undermining the courage with which she had hitherto faced
the future.