CHAPTER XVIII
"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.