Better still, he advanced them the money they needed to pay their way during the first few days, and to arrange the wedding, according to the simple rites of the Scottish Church. His only condition was that Shelley should treat him and his friends to a supper on the wedding night.
So it was in the midst of Edinburgh tradesmen that the grandson of Sir Bysshe ate his wedding-feast. The fumes of the wines and the spectacle of the young people going to the heads of the guests, these honest Puritans became a trifle too wanton for Shelley’s taste. The jests grew ribald. The modest Harriet blushed crimson, and Shelley rising announced that he and his wife would say good night.
A roar of laughter was the reply.
A little later there came a knock at their door. Shelley opened it to find his landlord, followed by all his friends. He spoke tipsily: “It’s the custom here when there’s a wedding, to come up in the middle of the night and wash the bride with whisky. . . .”
“Take another step into the room, and I blow your brains out!” cried Shelley, seizing a pistol in each hand.
Perceiving that there was something dangerous in this young man who looked so like a girl, the intruders wished him a respectful good night, and tumbled precipitately downstairs.
Thus Shelley and Harriet found themselves husband and wife, free and alone in a big unknown city. They looked at each other in rapture.
A few days had sufficed to render the young husband, who in the stage had reflected with melancholy, “An act of will and not of passion,” over head and ears in love.
Harriet was really delightful to look upon: always pretty, always bright, always blooming, her head well dressed, not a hair out of its place; smart, usually plain in her neatness, without a wrinkle, without a spot, she resembled some pink-and-white flower.
Without being really cultivated she was remarkably well-informed. She had read a prodigious number of books, she still read all day long, and works of a high ethical tone for choice.