“We’ve talked it out, Mr. Mole, and you’ve got to marry her or pay up handsome.”
Marry! His first thought was in terms of the novelette, but those terms would not embrace Mrs. Copas or her present attitude. His first glimpse of the physical fact was through the chinks of his sentimental fiction, and he was angry and hurt and disgusted. Then, the fiction never having been rounded off, he was able to escape from it—(rare luck in this world of deceit)—and he shook himself free of its dust and tinsel, and, responding to the urgency of the occasion, saw or half-saw the circumstances from Matilda’s point of view. Mentally he swept Mrs. Copas aside. The thing lay between himself and the girl. Out of her presence he could not either think or feel about it clearly. Only for himself there lay here and now, before him, the opportunity for action, for real, direct, effective action, which would lift him out of his despond and bring his life into touch with another life. It gave him what he most needed, movement, uplift, the occasion for spontaneity, for being rid, though it might be only temporarily, of his fear and doubt and sickness of mind. Healthily, or rather, in his eagerness for health, he refused to think of the consequences. He lit another cigar, steadying himself by a chair-back, so dazzled was he by the splendor of his resolution and the rush of mental energy that had brought him to it, and said:
“Of course, if Matilda is willing, I will marry her.”
“I didn’t expect it of you, being a gentleman,” returned Mrs. Copas, obliterating her spider’s web, “and, marriage being the lottery it is, there are worse ways of doing it than that. After all, you do know you’re not drawing an absolute blank, which, I know, happens to more than ever lets on.”
Mr. Mole found that it is much easier to get married in life than in sentimental fiction. He never proposed to Matilda, never discussed the matter with her, only after the interview with Mrs. Copas she kissed him in the morning and in the evening, and as often in between as she felt inclined. He made arrangements with the registrar, bought a special license and a ring. He said: “I take you, Matilda Burn, to be my lawful wedded wife,” and she said: “I take you, Herbert Jocelyn Beenham, to be my lawful wedded husband.” Mrs. Copas sat on the registrar’s hat, and, without any other incident, they were made two in one and one in two.
In view of the approaching change in his condition he had written to his lawyer and his banker in Thrigsby, giving orders to have all his personal property realized and placed on deposit, also for five hundred pounds to be placed on account for Mrs. H. J. Beenham.
The day after his wedding came this letter from the Head Master:
“MY DEAR BEENHAM:—I am delighted that your whereabouts has been discovered. All search for you has been unavailing—one would not have thought it so easy for a man to disappear—and I had begun to be afraid that you had gone abroad. As I say, I am delighted, and I trust you are having a pleasant vacation. I owe you, I am afraid, a profound apology. If there be any excuse, it must be put down to the heat and the strain of the end of the scholastic year. I was thinking, I protest, only of the ancient foundation which you and I have for so long served. The Chairman of the Governors, always, as you know, your friend, has denounced what he is pleased to call my Puritanical cowardice. The Police have made inquiries about the young woman and state that she is a domestic servant who left her situation in distressing circumstances without her box and without a character. I do apologize most humbly, my dear Beenham, and I look to see you in your place at the commencement of the approaching term.”
Old Mole read this letter three times, and the description of his wife stabbed him on each perusal more deeply to the heart. He tore the sheet across and across and burned the pieces on the hearth. Matilda came in and found him at it: and when she spoke to him he gave no answer, but remained kneeling by the fender, turning the poker from one hand to the other.