It was agreed between them that, to avoid endless family councils, the
sisters should not be told, and that the ceremony should be conducted
as privately as possible. The archdeacon himself was coming up to town
to perform the ceremony in the church of another of his sons in Chalk
Farm. After the short honeymoon, Daniel was to come and live with the
couple in Whitechapel, for they were to live in the centre of their
labours. Poor Daniel tried to find some comfort in the thought that
Whitechapel was a more Jewish and a homelier quarter than Highbury.
But the unhomely impression produced upon him by his latest son-in-law
neutralized everything. All his other sons-in-law had more or less
awed him, but beneath the awe ran a tunnel of brotherhood. With this
Alfred, however, he was conscious of a glacial current, which not all
the young man's cordiality could tepefy.
"Are you sure you will be happy with him, little Schnapsie?" he asked
anxiously.
"You dear worrying old thing!"
"But if after marriage you quarrel, he will always throw it up to you
that you are--"
"And I'll throw it up to him that he is a Christian, and oughtn't to
quarrel."
He was silenced. But his heart thanked God that his dear old wife had
been spared the coming ordeal.
"This too was for good," he murmured, in the Hebrew proverb.
And so the tragic day drew nigh.
X
One short week before, Daniel was wandering about, dazed by the near
prospect. An unholy fascination drew him toward Chalk Farm, to gaze on
the church in which the profane union would be perpetrated. Perhaps he
ought even to go inside; to get over his first horror at being in such
a building, so as not to betray himself during the actual ceremony.
As he drew near the heathen edifice he saw a striped awning,
carriages, a bustle of people entering, a pressing, peeping crowd. A
wedding!
Ah, good! There was no doubt now he must go in; he would see what this
unknown ceremony in this unknown building was like. It would be a sort
of rehearsal; it would help to steel him at the tragic moment. He was
passing through the central doors with some other men, but a policeman
motioned them to a side door. He shuffled timidly within.
Full as the church was, the chill stone spaces struck cold to his
heart; all the vast alien life they typified froze his soul. The dread
word _Meshumad_--apostate--seemed echoing and reechoing from the cold
pillars. He perceived his companions had bared their heads, and he
hastily snatched off his rusty beaver. The unaccustomed sensation in
his scalp completed his sense of unholiness.
Nothing seemed going on yet, but as he slipped into a seat in the
aisle he became aware of an organ playing joyous preludes, almost
jiggish. For a moment he wondered dully what there was to be gay
about, and his eyes filled with bitter tears.
A craning forward in the nondescript congregation made the old man
peer forward.
He saw, at the far end of the church, a sort of platform upon which
four men, in strange, flowing robes, stood under a cross. He hid his
eyes from the sight of the symbol that had overshadowed his ancestors'
lives. When he opened his eyes again the men were kneeling. Would _he_
have to kneel, he wondered. Would his old joints have to assume that
pagan posture? Presently four bridesmaids, shielded by great glowing
bouquets, appeared on the platform, and descending, passed with
measured theatric pace down the farther avenue, too remote for his
clear vision. His neighbours stood up to stare at them, and he rose,
too. And throughout the organ bubbled out its playful cadenzas.
A stir and a buzz swept through the church. A procession began to file
in. At its head was a pale, severe young man, supported by a cheerful
young man. Other young men followed; then the bridesmaids reappeared.
And finally--target of every glance--there passed a glory of white
veil supported by an old military looking man in a satin waistcoat.
Ah, that would be he and Schnapsie, then. Up that long avenue, beneath
all these curious Christian eyes, he, Daniel Peyser, would have to
walk. He tried to rehearse it mentally now, so that he might not shame
her; he paced pompously and stiffly, with beautiful Schnapsie on his
arm, a glory of white veil. He saw himself slowly reaching the
platform, under the chilling cross; then everything swam before him,
and he sank shuddering into his seat. His little Schnapsie! She was
being sucked up into all this hateful heathendom, to the seductive
music of satanic orchestras.
He sat in a strange daze, vaguely conscious that the organ had ceased,
and that some preacher's recitative had begun instead. When he looked
up again, the bridal party before the altar loomed vague, as through
a mist. He passed his hand over his clouded brow. Of a sudden a
sentence of the recitative pierced sharply to his brain:--
"Therefore if any man can show any just cause why they may not
lawfully be joined together, let him now speak, or else hereafter
forever hold his peace."
O God of Israel! Then it was the last chance! He sprang to his feet,
and shouted in agony: "No, no, she must not marry him! She must not!"
All heads turned toward the shabby old man. An electric shiver ran
through the church. The bride paled; a bridesmaid shrieked; the
minister, taken aback, stood silent. A white-gloved usher hurried up.
"Do you forbid the banns?" called the minister.
The old man's mind awoke, and groped mistily.
"Come, what have you to say?" snapped the usher.
"I--I--nothing," he murmured in awed confusion.
"He is drunk," said the usher. "Out with you, my man." He hustled
Daniel toward the side door, and let it swing behind him.
But Daniel shrank from facing the cordon of spectators outside. He
hung miserably about the vestibule till the Wedding March swelled in
ironic triumph, and the human outpour swept him into the street.