Mad: A Story of Dust and Ashes

by George Manville Fenn

The Lake Uncaged.

That was only a poor wedding that Jean Marais, with a bright spot in each of his sallow cheeks and a wild look in his dark eyes, gazed down upon from the gloomy old gallery of the church; only a quiet wedding that those two eager eyes had gazed upon, when their crippled owner had climbed slowly and laboriously up to the gallery to watch unseen, while the ceremony was performed which gave Lucy Grey to her happy husband; but beneath those wild eyes there were convulsed features, cracked and quivering lips.

And the lark? He bore his treasure with him, the bird she had loved to hear; it nestled in his breast, and a stall-keeper hard by took charge of the cage. And there watched Jean unseen, while Lucy, turning her eyes upon her husband, accompanied him into the vestry.

Then below in the nave there was the buzz of expectation as the party came from the vestry—Lucy, blushing and fair, leaning upon the curate’s arm; and he, proud of the treasure he had won, walking happy and elate by her side. But it was only a poor wedding—poor in the show that was made and in those who assembled; for Bennett’s-rents was empty that morning, and Mrs Sims’ sniff was heard again and again, just inside the chancel; while the only wonder was that some of the children gathered together were not crushed beneath the wheels of the conveyances.

It was only a poor affair, but there was a light in many a face there that would have outshone the glories of a fashionable wedding. Even Mrs Septimus forgot her troubles, and confided more than once to Aunt Fanny that she thought her complaint had got the turn.

But there knelt Jean the cripple, alone in the gallery, till the last looker-on had left, the last wheel rolled from the gate, and a sad stillness had fallen upon the empty church, when, with a bitter, heart-wrung cry, the young man crouched lower and lower, burying his face in his hands. Then he slowly rose, and taking his crutch, painfully made his way towards the narrow door, his looks worn and weary, but with a strange light in his eye.

Pausing at length in the busy street, he took from his breast the bird he had so long tended, and started slightly, but with a bitter smile upon his lips, for in his emotion he had crushed the poor thing, and it panted feebly, with half-closed eye and open beak; but Jean only smiled. And with the same sad look he replaced the bird in his bosom, and then slowly and laboriously crept along, side by side, with the hurrying stream of passengers. Toiling on slowly and patiently, his crutch sounding loudly upon the pavement, with the same bitter look fixed as it were upon his lip, Jean Marais slowly toiled on till he was lost in the crowd.

Only a poor wedding; but Aunt Fanny was there, laughing and crying by turns, and vowing that she heard every word of the service, and that Arthur never spoke out so well before. And what a dress the old lady wore! surely no poplin ever before displayed such plaits; and then, forgetful of dress, plaits, muslin, everything, was it not a treat to see her take Lucy to her warm old heart when they had returned to Essex-street, as the fair girl knelt at her feet, the large eyes gazing up so appealingly, and seeming to say—“Don’t despise me for being so humble!” But, there; had she been a princess, she could have had no warmer nook in the old dame’s heart, for was not Arthur happy? And then those arms, that of old lay so placidly across her black-silk apron—worn even at the return from the wedding, and brought in a reticule—became restless to a degree, ever animated by the desire to embrace her children.

Did she love Lucy? Had not Arthur, the wisest of men, chosen her? and did not that spread such a mantle of holiness around the maiden that, even had Aunt Fanny never seen her, she would have battled for her to the death? Would he have chosen any but the purest and noblest of heart? she asked herself again and again. So she divided her love between them, and then, upon the return from church, laughed and cried by turns; for, said she, “I must leave poor Arty now.”

Arthur Sterne was silent, but he smiled as he saw two soft round arms circle Aunt Fanny’s neck, prisoning her as their owner whispered words whose import he could guess.