‘If it’s standard trees you’re having,’ he remarked, ‘you’ll want light six-feet stakes. Bowers is your man.’
WEDDING-DAY
WEDDING-DAY
WEDDING-DAY. It was curiously unreal. His own face grimaced back at him as he struggled to adjust his tie, a face that no man could feel satisfied with. ‘I sometimes wish Uncle Edgar hadn’t died after all,’ he confided to the looking-glass. Round and pink, with a wisp of light brown moustache that didn’t seem to belong to it, that ghost of himself continued to agonize. Funny, what women could see to admire in men. As for Florrie’s devotion to himself, the unreasonableness of it, the obstinacy, positively vexed him. If it hadn’t been for that little legacy they would have had to wait another five years. Not that he wanted to wait, but still—five years was five years, time to turn round in. That fifty pounds a year had made just the difference; it had brought this day within his immediate reach; his heart’s desire, glowing like luminous fruit upon an inaccessible tree, had bent suddenly towards him, and his hand was already poised to grasp it. Fateful moment. It didn’t bear thinking about. The old man ought not to have sprung it on him like this.
‘Cheer-O, Bert!’ There was a bang upon the bedroom door, and before it could be answered the attacking force entered tumultuously. It was a large red-headed man, dressed unmistakably for the approaching ceremony, tall, clean-shaven, possessing hands a size too big for his body.
‘Hullo, elephant!’ He resented the fellow’s entry, and yet in some vague way he was glad of it. He wanted to be alone with his dreams, but he feared to be alone with his doubts. Well, in a few hours solitude would be a thing of the past indeed. Florrie and he would be together, sleeping and waking, in sickness and in health, till death them did part. Forty years, perhaps, and never alone. Breakfast with Florrie, the eight-thirteen to town, the six-five back, a late tea with Florrie, conversation with Florrie, supper with Florrie; and week-ends spent going to church or digging in the garden. There was no escape now. Escape! Who wanted to escape? Not he, anyhow. And that was fortunate, for here was Maurice, the jubilant best man, and Florrie’s brother to boot. No escape.
‘You’d better pull your socks up, old feller,’ said Maurice, his face bisected by a grin. ‘You haven’t got as much time to spare as you seem to think. Cab’s at the door.’
It was fortunate, he knew, that the tide of events was sweeping him along, or he would have stood for ever staring at himself in a dream of indecision. Yet he hated to be bustled. He was still a free man, and there leapt to life in him a spark of anger against the man who sought to wrest that freedom from his grasp before the hour had struck. It would strike soon enough, but until then ... it seemed suddenly necessary that he should assert his independence of Maurice. His toilet was already completed, but he would delay a while yet.
‘All right. I won’t keep you a minute.’ He spoke with an affected coolness, as though addressing an importunate commercial traveller. And, without haste, he picked up from the dressing-table a small pair of nail-scissors. With these he began cutting off his moustache.
‘Hullo, what’s the game?’ asked Maurice.