IRREVOCABLE
When Osborn dressed for his wedding he felt in what he called
first-class form. He thought great things of life; life had been
amazingly decent to him throughout. It had never struck him any
untoward blow. The death of his parents had been sadness, certainly,
but it was a natural calamity, the kind every sane man expected sooner
or later and braced himself for. His mother had left him a very little
money, and his father had left him a very little money; small as the
sum total was, it gave a man the comfortable impression of having
private means. He paid the first instalments on the dream-flat's
furniture with it, and there was some left still, to take Marie and
him away on a fine honey-moon, and to brighten their first year with
many jollities. His salary was all right for a fellow of his age.
Marie was not far wrong when she said that they were starting "awfully
well."
Osborn sang:
"And--when--I--tell--them,
And I'm certainly going to tell them,
That I'm the man whose wife you're one day going to be,
They'll never believe me--"
That latest thing in revue songs fitted the case to a fraction. He was
the luckiest man in the whole great round world.
Osborn was pleased with his reflection in the glass. For his wedding
he had bought his first morning-coat and silk hat. He had been as
excited as a girl. He had a new dress-suit, too, and a dinner-jacket
from the best tailor in town, ready packed for travelling. He had been
finicking over his coloured shirts, handkerchiefs, and socks; a set of
mauve, a set of blue, a set of grey; the brown set with the striped
shirt; they were all awf'ly smart. Marie was so dainty, she liked a
man to be smart, too. All he wanted was to please her.
Rokeby came early, as quiet and lacklustre as ever. He sat down in the
obvious lodging-house bedroom, lighted a cigarette and looked at
Osborn without a smile. He prepared himself to be bored and amazed;
weddings, tiresome as they were, always amazed him. And he was
prepared, too, for a settled insanity in Osborn until--
"I wonder how long _he'll_ be?" Rokeby thought.
"I've finished packing," said Osborn, clapping his old brushes
together; the new ones lay among the new suits. "It's time we started,
almost, isn't it?"
"Not by an hour," Rokeby answered, consulting a wrist watch. "Have you
breakfasted?"
"Not yet."
"You'd better, hadn't you?"
Osborn was concerned with the set of the new coat over his fine
shoulders.
"Breakfast was on the table when I came through," added Rokeby.
"Was it?" replied Osborn absently.
Rokeby took his friend's arm, piloted him with patient firmness into
the sitting-room, and pulled out a chair.
Osborn ate and drank spasmodically. Between the spasms he hummed under
his breath:
"And--when--I--tell--them,
And I'm certainly going to tell them,
That I'm the man whose wife you're one day going to be,
They'll never believe me--"
Rokeby smoked several cigarettes.
"How long'll it take us to get to the church?" Osborn asked presently,
with his eye on the clock.
"Ten minutes, about. We'll walk."
"Desmond, I say, I wouldn't like to be late."
"I'll look after that. I've escorted a good many fellows to the
tumbril."
"Desmond, that nonsense of yours gets boring."
"All right! Sorry."
"Let's start," said Osborn.
So they started on their short walk. The pale gold sun of a splendid
crisp morning hailed them and the streets were bright. Already, though
they arrived early at the church, several pews were full of whispering
guests who turned and looked and smiled, with nods that beckoned, at
the two young men.
"What'll we do?" Osborn whispered.
"Hide," said Rokeby.
They hid in a cold, stony little place which Rokeby said was a vestry,
and there they waited while interminable minutes drifted by. Osborn
fell into a dream from which he was only fully roused by finding
himself paraded side by side at the chancel steps with a dazzling
apparition, robed in white clouds, veiled and wreathed. She carried a
great bouquet. He stole a look at her entrancing profile and thought
that never had she looked so lovely. She had a flush on her cheeks,
her gay eyes were serious, and her little bare left hand, when, under
whispered instructions, he took it, startled him by being tremulous
and cold as ice. He pressed it and felt tremendously protective.
An irrevocable Act had taken place without fuss or difficulty, or any
abnormal signs and wonders; the gold circle was on Marie's finger and
they were married. For a moment or two, while they knelt and a strange
clergyman was addressing them, Osborn was surprised at the ease, the
speed and simplicity with which two people gave each other their
lives. He did not know what else he had expected, but how simple it
all was! This was their day of days; their wedding. He stole another
look at Marie and found her rapt, calm.
He began to be annoyed with the presence of the clergyman, of Desmond,
and Julia, who waited disapprovingly upon the bride, of Marie's mother
and the small horde of friends and relations; he began to think, "If
only it was over and I had her to myself! In another hour, surely,
we'll be away."
* * * * *
They had chosen one of the most fashionable seaside resorts as an
idyllic honeymoon setting. The journey was not long, only long enough
to enjoy the amenities of luxurious travelling. Rokeby had seen to the
tea-basket and the foot-warmers, as he had to the magazines. Marie
repeated what she had said to Julia:
"Oh, isn't it nice, getting married!"
"Being married is nicer," said Osborn ardently. "I'll come and sit
beside you. Let's take off your hat. Now, put your head on my
shoulder. Isn't it jolly? I want to tell you how beautiful you looked
in church. I was half scared."
"So was I at first."
"But you're not now? You're not scared with me?"
"No--no," said Marie with bated breath.
Osborn smiled. "I'm going to make you very happy. You shall be the
happiest girl in town. You're going to have absolutely all you want.
But first, before we go back to town, there's our honeymoon, the best
holiday of our lives. That's joyful to think of, isn't it, darling?"
"It's lovely!"
"Glad you think so, too, Mrs. Kerr."
"Osborn, now tell me how my frock looked."
"I _couldn't!_" he cried in some awe. He sighed as if at a
beautiful memory.
"Ah!" said Marie, satisfied, "you liked it?"
She lay against his shoulder supremely content. The winter landscape,
which had lost its morning sun, was rushing by them and it looked
cold. But inside the honeymoon carriage all was warm, love-lit and
glowing. There was no dusk. Marie reviewed the day in her light, clear
mind, and it had been very good. Hers had been a wedding such as she
had always wanted. Osborn had looked so fine. She reviewed the details
so carefully thought out and arranged for by herself and her mother.
With the unthinking selfishness of a young gay girl, she discounted
the strain on the mother's purse and heart. The favours had been
exactly the right thing; the cake was good; the little rooms hadn't
seemed at all bad; Aunt Toppy's new gown was an unexpected concession
to the occasion; Mrs. Amber had been really almost distinguished; the
country cousins hadn't looked too dreadfully rural. People hadn't been
stiff, or awkward, or dull. As for Mr. Rokeby--that was a very
graceful speech he made. He was rather a gifted man; worth knowing.
But Osborn had very nice friends.
With the agility of woman, her mind jumped ahead to those little
dinner-parties. Soup one prepared well beforehand; a chicken, _en
casserole_....
Perhaps Osborn saw the abstraction of her mind and was jealous of it;
at the moment she must think of nothing save him, as he could think of
nothing but her. He put his hand under her chin, to lift her dreamy
face, and he kissed her lips possessively.
"Here," he demanded, against them, "what are you thinking about? We're
not going to think of anything or anyone but just ourselves. We're
going to live entirely in the next glorious fortnight, for a whole
fortnight. Have you any objection to that programme, Mrs. Kerr?"
"No, no," said Marie sighing, "no, no! It's beautiful."