Chapter 5

But almost at the same instant, the Selbys entered the church at the further end. Mr. Selby, with his red face and fluffy side-whiskers, had Maude upon his arm. She looked very pale and very sweet, with downcast eyes and solemn mouth, while behind her walked her younger sister Mary and her pretty friend Nelly Sheridan, both in pink dresses with broad pink hats and white curling feathers. The bride was herself in the grey travelling-dress with which Frank was already familiar by its description in her letter. Its gentle tint and her tenderly grave expression made a charming effect. Behind them was the mother, still young and elegant, with something of Maude’s grace in her figure and carriage. As the party came up the aisle, Frank was to be restrained no longer. ‘Get to his head!’ cried Jack to Hale in an excited whisper, but their man was already hurrying to shake hands with Maude. He walked up on her right, and they took their position in two little groups, the happy couple in the centre. At the same moment the clang of the church-clock sounded above them, and the vicar, shrugging his shoulders to get his white surplice into position, came bustling out of the vestry. To him it was all the most usual, commonplace, and unimportant thing in the world, and both Frank and Maude were filled with amazement at the nonchalant way in which he whipped out a prayer-book, and began to rapidly perform the ceremony. It was all so new and solemn and all-important to them, that they had expected something mystic and overpowering in the function, and yet here was this brisk little man, with an obvious cold in his head, tying them up in as business-like a fashion as a grocer uniting two parcels. After all, he had to do it a thousand times a year, and so he could not be extravagant in his emotions.

The singular service was read out to them, the exhortations, and the explanations, sometimes stately, sometimes beautiful, sometimes odious. Then the little vicar turned upon Frank—‘_Wilt thou have this woman to thy wedded wife_, _to live together after God’s ordinance in the holy estate of matrimony_? _Wilt thou love her_, _comfort her_, _honour her_, _in sickness and in health_, _and forsaking all other_, _keep thee only unto her as long as ye both shall live_?’

‘_I will_,’ cried Frank, with conviction.

‘_And wilt thou have this man to thy wedded husband_, _to live together after God’s ordinance in the holy estate of matrimony_? _Wilt thou obey him_, _and serve him_, _love_, _honour_, _and keep him_, _in sickness and in health_, _and forsaking all other_, _keep thee only unto him so long as ye both shall live_?’

‘_I will_,’ said Maude, from her heart.

‘_Who giveth this woman to be married to this man_?’

‘_I do_. Mr. John Selby—her father, you know.’

And then in turn they repeated the fateful words—‘_I take thee to have and to hold from this day forward_, _for better_, _for worse_, _for richer_, _for poorer_, _in sickness and in health_, _to love_, _cherish_, _and obey_, _till death us do part_, _according to God’s holy ordinance_, _and thereto I give thee my troth_.’

‘Ring! Ring!’ said Hale.

‘Ring, you Juggins!’ whispered Jack Selby.

Frank thrust his hands frantically into all his pockets. The ring was in the last one which he attempted. But the bank-note was not to be found. He remembered that he had put it in some safe place. Where could it have been? Was it in his boot, or in the lining of his hat? No, surely he could not have done anything so infatuated. Again he took his pockets two at a time, while a dreadful pause came in the ceremony.

‘Vestry—afterwards,’ whispered the clergyman.

‘Here you are!’ gasped Frank. He had come upon it in a last desperate dive into his watch-pocket, in which he never by any chance kept anything. Of course it was for that very reason, that it might be alone and accessible, that he had placed it there. Ring and note were handed to the vicar, who deftly concealed the one and returned the other. Then Maude’s little white hand was outstretched, and over the third finger Frank slipped the circlet of gold.

‘_With this ring I thee wed_,’ said Frank, ‘_and with my body I thee worship_ (he paused, and made a mental emendation of ‘with my soul also’), _and with all my worldly goods I thee endow_.’

There was a prayer, and then the vicar joined the two hands, the muscular sunburned one and the dainty white one, with the new ring gleaming upon it.

‘_Those whom God hath joined together_, _let no man put asunder_,’ said he. ‘_Forasmuch as Francis Crosse and Maude Selby have consented together in holy wedlock_, _and have witnessed the same before God and this company_, _and thereto have given and pledged their troth_, _either to other_, _and have declared the same by giving and receiving of a ring_, _and by joining of hands; I pronounce that they be man and wife together_.’

There now, it was done! They were one, never more to part until the coffin-lid closed over one or the other. They were kneeling together now, and the vicar was rapidly repeating some psalms and prayers. But Frank’s mind was not with the ritual. He looked slantwise at the graceful, girlish figure by his side. Her hair hung beautifully over her white neck, and the reverent droop of her head was lovely to his eyes. So gentle, so humble, so good, so beautiful, and all his, his sworn life-companion for ever! A gush of tenderness flowed through his heart for her. His love had always been passionate, but, for the instant, it was heroic, tremendous in its unselfishness. Might he bring her happiness, the highest which woman could wish for! God grant that he might do so! But if he were to make her unhappy, or to take anything from her beauty and her goodness, then he prayed that he might die now, at this supreme moment, kneeling at her side before the altar rails. So intense was his prayer that he looked up expectantly at the altar, as if in the presence of an imminent catastrophe. But every one had risen to their feet, and the service was at an end. The vicar led the way, and they all followed him, into the vestry. There was a general murmur all round them of congratulation and approval.

‘Heartiest congratulations, Crosse!’ said Hale.

‘Bravo, Maude, you looked ripping!’ cried Jack, kissing his sister. ‘By Jove, it simply went with a buzz from the word “go.”’

‘You sign it here and here,’ said the vicar, ‘and the witnesses here and here. Thank you very much. I am sure that I wish you every happiness. I need not detain you by any further formality.’

And so, with a curious dream-like feeling, Frank Crosse and Maude found themselves walking down the aisle, he very proud and erect, she very gentle and shy, while the organ thundered the wedding-march. Carriages were waiting: he handed in his wife, stepped in after her, and they drove off, amidst a murmur of sympathy from a little knot of idlers who had gathered in the porch, partly from curiosity, and partly to escape the rain.

Maude had often driven alone with Frank before, but now she felt suddenly constrained and shy. The marriage-service, with all its half-understood allusions and exhortations, had depressed and frightened her. She hardly dared to glance at her husband. But he soon led her out of her graver humour.

‘Name, please?’ said he.

‘O Frank!’

‘Name, if _you_ please?’

‘Why, you know.’

‘Say it.’

‘Maude.’

‘That all?’

‘Maude Crosse—O Frank!’

‘You blessing! How grand it sounds! O Maude, what a jolly old world it is! Isn’t it pretty to see the rain falling? And aren’t the shining pavements lovely? And isn’t everything splendid, and am I not the luckiest—the most incredibly lucky of men. Dear girlie, give me your hand! I can feel _it_ under the glove. Now, sweetheart, you are not frightened, are you?’

‘Not now.’

‘You were?’

‘Yes, I was a little. O Frank, you won’t tire of me, will you? I should break my heart if you did.’

‘Tire of you! Good heavens! Now you’ll never guess what I was doing while the parson was telling us about what Saint Paul said to the Colossians, and all the rest of it.’

‘I know perfectly well what you were doing. And you shouldn’t have done it.’

‘What was I doing, then?’

‘You were staring at me.’

‘Oh, you saw that, did you?’

‘I felt it.’

‘Well, I was. But I was praying also.’

‘Were you, Frank?’

‘When I saw you kneeling there, so sweet and pure and good, I seemed to realise how you had been given into my keeping for life, and I prayed with all my heart that if I should ever injure you in thought, or word, or deed, I might drop dead now before I had time to do it.’

‘O Frank, what a dreadful prayer!’

‘But I felt it and I wished it, and I could not help it. My own darling, there you are just a living angel, the gentlest, most sensitive, and beautiful living creature that walks the earth, and please God I shall keep you so, and ever higher and higher if such a thing is possible, and if ever I say a word or do a deed that seems to lower you, then remind me of this moment, and send me back to try to live up to our highest ideal again. And I for my part will try to improve myself and to live up to you, and to bridge more and more the gap that is between us, that I may feel myself not altogether unworthy of our love. And so we shall act and re-act upon each other, ever growing better and wiser, and dating what is best and brightest in our minds and souls from the day that we were married. And that’s _my_ idea of a marriage-service, and here endeth the first lesson, and the windows are blurred with rain, and hang the coachman, and it’s hard lines if a man may not kiss his own wife—you blessing!’

A broad-brimmed hat with a curling feather is not a good shape for driving with an ardent young bridegroom in a discreetly rain-blurred carriage. Frank demonstrated the fact, and it took them all the way to the Langham to get those pins driven home again. And then after an abnormal meal, which was either a very late breakfast or a very early lunch, they drove on to Victoria Station, from which they were to start for Brighton. Jack Selby and the two regimental fizzers, who had secured immortality for the young couple, if the deep and constant drinking of healths could have done it, had provided themselves with packages of rice, old slippers, and other time-honoured missiles. On a hint from Maude, however, that she would prefer a quiet departure, Frank coaxed the three back into the luncheon-room with a perfectly guileless face, and then locking the door on the outside, handed the key and a half-sovereign to the head-waiter, with instructions to release the prisoners when the carriage had gone—an incident which in itself would cause the judicious observer to think that, given the opportunity, Mister Frank Crosse had it in him to go pretty far in life. And so, quietly and soberly, they rolled away upon their first journey—the journey which was the opening of that life’s journey, the goal of which no man may see.

KEEPING UP APPEARANCES

IT was in the roomy dining-room of the Hotel Metropole at Brighton. Maude and Frank were seated at the favourite small round table near the window, where they always lunched. Their immediate view was a snowy-white tablecloth with a shining centre dish of foppish little cutlets, each with a wisp of ornamental paper, and a surrounding bank of mashed potatoes. Beyond, from the very base of the window, as it seemed, there stretched the huge expanse of the deep blue sea, its soothing mass of colour broken only by a few white leaning sails upon the furthest horizon. Along the sky-line the white clouds lay in carelessly piled cumuli, like snow thrown up from a clearing. It was restful and beautiful, that distant view, but just at the moment it was the near one which interested them most. Though they lose from this moment onwards the sympathy of every sentimental reader, the truth must be told that they were thoroughly enjoying their lunch.

With the wonderful adaptability of women—a hereditary faculty, which depends upon the fact that from the beginning of time the sex has been continually employed in making the best of situations which were not of their own choosing—Maude carried off her new character easily and gracefully. In her trim blue serge dress and sailor hat, with the warm tint of yesterday’s sun upon her cheeks, she was the very picture of happy and healthy womanhood. Frank was also in a blue serge boating-suit, which was appropriate enough, for they spent most of their time upon the water, as a glance at his hands would tell. Their conversation was unhappily upon a very much lower plane than when we overheard them last.

‘I’ve got such an appetite!’

‘So have I, Frank.’

‘Capital. Have another cutlet.’

‘Thank you, dear.’

‘Potatoes?’

‘Please.’

‘I always thought that people on their honeymoon lived on love.’

‘Yes, isn’t it dreadful, Frank? We must be so material.’

‘Good old mother Nature! Cling on to her skirt and you never lose your way. One wants a healthy physical basis for a healthy spiritual emotion. Might I trouble you for the pickles?’

‘Are you happy, Frank?’

‘Absolutely and completely.’

‘Quite, _quite_ sure?’

‘I never was quite so sure of anything.’

‘It makes me so happy to hear you say so.’

‘And you?’

‘O Frank, I am just floating upon golden clouds in a dream. But your poor hands! Oh, how they must pain you!’

‘Not a bit.’

‘It was that heavy oar.’

‘I get no practice at rowing. There is no place to row in at Woking, unless one used the canal. But it was worth a blister or two. By Jove, wasn’t it splendid, coming back in the moonlight with that silver lane flickering on the water in front of us? We were so completely alone. We might have been up in the interstellar spaces, you and I, travelling from Sirius to Arcturus in one of those profound gulfs of the void which Hardy talks about. It was overpowering.’

‘I can never forget it.’

‘We’ll go again to-night.’

‘But the blisters!’

‘Hang the blisters! And we’ll take some bait with us and try to catch something.’

‘What fun!’

‘And we’ll drive to Rottingdean this afternoon, if you feel inclined. Have this last cutlet, dear!’

‘No, thank you.’

‘Well, it seems a pity to waste it. Here goes! By the way, Maude, I must speak very severely to you. I can’t if you look at me like that. But really, joking apart, you must be more careful before the waiters.’

‘Why, dear?’

‘Well, we have carried it off splendidly so far. No one has found us out yet, and no one will if we are reasonably careful. The fat waiter is convinced that we are veterans. But last night at dinner you very nearly gave the thing away.’

‘Did I, Frank?’

‘Don’t look so sweetly penitent, you blessing. The fact is that you make a shocking bad conspirator. Now I have a kind of talent for that, as I have for every other sort of depravity, so it will be pretty safe in my hands. You are as straight as a line by nature, and you can’t be crooked when you try.’

‘But what did I say? Oh, I _am_ so sorry! I tried to be so careful.’

‘Well, about the curry, you know. It was an error of judgment to ask if I took chutnee. And then . . . ’

‘Something else?’

‘About the boots. Did I get them in London or Woking.’

‘Oh dear, dear!’

‘And then . . . ’

‘Not another! O Frank!’

‘Well, the use of the word “my.” You must give that word up. It should be “our.”’

‘I know, I know. It was when I said that the salt water had taken the curl out of the feather in my—no, in our—well, in _the_ hat.’

‘That was all right. But it is _our_ luggage, you know, and _our_ room, and so on.’

‘Of course it is. How foolish I am! Then the waiter knows! O Frank, what shall we do?’

‘Not he. He knows nothing. I am sure of it. He is a dull sort of person. I had my eye on him all the time. Besides, I threw in a few remarks just to set the thing right.’

‘That was when you spoke about our travels in the Tyrol?’

‘Yes.’

‘O Frank, how _could_ you? And you said how lonely it was when we were the only visitors at the Swiss hotel.’

‘That was an inspiration. That finished him.’

‘And about the closeness of the Atlantic staterooms. I blushed to hear you.’

‘But he listened eagerly to it all. I could see it.’

‘I wonder if he really believed it. I have noticed that the maids and the waiters seem to look at us with a certain interest.’

‘My dear girlie, you will find as you go through life that every man will always look at you with a certain interest.’

Maude smiled, but was unconvinced.

‘Cheese, dear?’

‘A little butter, please.’

‘Some butter, waiter, and the Stilton. You know the real fact is, that we make the mistake of being much too nice to each other in public. Veterans don’t do that. They take the small courtesies for granted—which is all wrong, but it shows that they _are_ veterans. That is where we give ourselves away.’

‘That never occurred to me.’

‘If you want to settle that waiter for ever, and remove the last lingering doubt from his mind, the thing is for you to be rude to me.’

‘Or you to me, Frank.’

‘Sure you won’t mind?’

‘Not a bit.’

‘Oh, hang it, I can’t—not even for so good an object.’

‘Well, then, I can’t either.’

‘But this is absurd. It is only acting.’

‘Quite so. It is only fun.’

‘Then why won’t you do it?’

‘Why won’t you?’

‘He’ll be back before we settle it. Look here! I’ve a shilling under my hand. Heads or tails, and the loser has to be rude. Do you agree?’

‘Very well.’

‘Your call.’

‘Heads.’

‘It’s tails.’

‘Oh goodness!’

‘You’ve got to be rude. Now mind you are. Here he comes.’

The waiter had come up the room bearing the pride of the hotel, the grand green Stilton with the beautiful autumn leaf heart shading away to rich plum-coloured cavities. He placed it on the table with a solemn air.

‘It’s a beautiful Stilton,’ Frank remarked.

Maude tried desperately to be rude.

‘Well, dear, I don’t think it is so very beautiful,’ was the best that she could do.

It was not much, but it had a surprising effect upon the waiter. He turned and hurried away.

‘There now, you’ve shocked him?’ cried Frank.

‘Where _has_ he gone, Frank?’

‘To complain to the management about your language.’

‘No, Frank. Please tell me! Oh, I wish I hadn’t been so rude. Here he is again.’

‘All right. Sit tight,’ said Frank.

A sort of procession was streaming up the hall. There was their fat waiter in front with a large covered cheese-dish. Behind him was another with two smaller ones, and a third with some yellow powder upon a plate was bringing up the rear.

‘This is Gorgonzola, main,’ said the waiter, with a severe manner. ‘And there’s Camembert and Gruyère behind, and powdered Parmesan as well. I’m sorry that the Stilton don’t give satisfaction.’

Maude helped herself to Gorgonzola and looked very guilty and uncomfortable. Frank began to laugh.

‘I meant you to be rude to _me_, not to the cheese,’ said he, when the procession had withdrawn.

‘I did my best, Frank. I contradicted you.’

‘Oh, it was a shocking display of temper.’

‘And I hurt the poor waiter’s feelings.’

‘Yes, you’ll have to apologise to his Stilton before he will forgive you.’

‘And I don’t believe he is a bit more convinced that we are veterans than he was before.’

‘All right, dear; leave him to me. Those reminiscences of mine must have settled him. If they didn’t, then I feel it is hopeless.’

* * * * *

It was as well for his peace of mind that Frank could not hear the conversation between the fat waiter and their chambermaid, for whom he nourished a plethoric attachment. They had half an hour off in the afternoon, and were comparing notes.

‘Nice-lookin’ couple, ain’t they, John?’ said the maid, with the air of an expert. ‘I don’t know as we’ve ‘ad a better since the spring weddin’s.’

‘I don’t know as I’d go as far as that,’ said the fat waiter critically. ‘’E’d pass all right. ’E’s an upstandin’ young man with a good sperrit in ’im.’

‘What’s wrong with ’er, then?’

‘It’s a matter of opinion,’ said the waiter. ‘I likes ’em a bit more full-flavoured myself. And as to ’er taste, why there, if you ’ad seen ’er turn up ’er nose at the Stilton at lunch.’

‘Turn up ’er nose, did she? Well, she seemed to me a very soft-spoken, obligin’ young lady.’

‘So she may be, but they’re a queer couple, I tell you. It’s as well they are married at last.’

‘Why?’

‘Because they ’ave been goin’ on most owdacious before’and. I ’ave it from their own lips, and it fairly made me blush to listen to it. Awful, it was, _awful_!’

‘You don’t say that, John!’

‘I tell you, Jane, I couldn’t ’ardly believe my ears. They was married on Tuesday last, as we know well, and to-day’s _Times_ to prove it, and yet if you’ll believe me, they was talkin’ about ’ow they ’ad travelled alone abroad—’

‘Never, John!’

‘And alone in a Swiss ’otel!’

‘My goodness!’

‘And a steamer too.’

‘Well, there! I’ll never trust any one again.’

‘Oh, a perfec’ pair of scorchers. But I’ll let ’im see as I knows it. I’ll put that _Times_ before ’im to-night at dinner as sure as my name’s John.’

‘And a good lesson to them, too! If you didn’t say you’d ’eard it from their own lips, John, I never could ’ave believed it. It’s things like that as shakes your trust in ’uman nature.’

Maude and Frank were lingering at the _table d’hôte_ over their walnuts and a glass of port wine, when their waiter came softly behind them.

‘Beg pardon, sir, but did you see it in the _Times_?’

‘See what?’

‘_That_, sir. I thought that it might be of interest to you and to your good lady to see it.’

He had laid one page of the paper before them, with his forefinger upon an item in the left-hand top corner. Then he discreetly withdrew. Frank stared at it in horror.

‘Maude, your people have gone and put it in.’

‘Our marriage!’

‘Here it is! Listen! “Crosse—Selby. 30th June, at St. Monica’s Church, by the Rev. John Tudwell, M.A., Vicar of St. Monica’s, Frank Crosse, of Maybury Road, Woking, to Maude Selby, eldest daughter of Robert Selby, Esq., of St. Albans.” Great Scot, Maude! what shall we do?’

‘Well, dear, does it matter?’

‘Matter! It’s simply awful!’

‘I don’t mind much if they do know.’

‘But my reminiscences, Maude! The travels in the Tyrol! The Swiss Hotel! The Stateroom! Great goodness, how I have put my foot into it.’

Maude burst out laughing.

‘You old dear!’ she cried, ‘I don’t believe you are a bit better as a conspirator than I am. There’s only one thing you can do. Give the waiter half a crown, tell him the truth, and don’t conspire any more.’

And so ignominiously ended the attempt which so many have made, and at which so many have failed. Take warning, gentle reader, and you also, gentler reader still, when your own turn comes.

THE HOME-COMING

THE days of holiday were over, and for each of them the duties of life were waiting. For him it was his work, and for her, her housekeeping. They both welcomed the change, for there was a rush and a want of privacy about the hotel life which had been amusing at first, but was now becoming irksome. It was pleasant, as they rolled out of Waterloo Station that summer night, to know that their cosy little home was awaiting them just five-and-twenty miles down the line. They had a first-class carriage to themselves—it is astonishing how easy it is for two people to fit into one of those armchair partitions,—and they talked all the way down about their plans for the future. Golden visions of youth, how they can glorify even a suburban villa and four hundred a year! They exulted together over the endless vista of happy days which stretched before them.