The father of the bride did not pretend to smile at all, and made no secret of his sentiments in regard to weddings. He had been in a chronic state of grumblement since the day was fixed. “They say that a man’s house is his castle; mine is much more like a fancy fair,” he said. “People have been coming in at all my doors as if they had a right; the only person who has seemed to have no right to be upon the premises is myself. I shall be glad when the fuss is over.”
His wife was not disconcerted by this pretence at ill-temper, for she knew how much—or, rather, how little—it meant; and was assured that her husband would be genial enough when the time arrived for his after-breakfast speech. For she knew that Mr. Wythburn would not on any account have had things other than they were, since he had long wished to see his daughter married to his oldest neighbour.
Some of Mary’s friends thought it a pity. The two were so entirely different that it was doubtful if they had any tastes or feelings in common. Alfred Greenholme was inactive, self-indulgent, unambitious. Everything was too great an exertion for him. He never wanted even to play at tennis, nor to dance at an evening party. “There was no harm in him,” people said. “He was a good-natured sort of fellow enough;” but he positively seemed to care for nothing but lounging about and smoking cigars. But Mary Wythburn was full of intense, vivid life. She had an enormous capacity for work, and she used this capacity to the utmost. Quiet, and even timid, in manner, she had such perfect control over herself that few guessed how keen was her desire to know and to do. She was an exceedingly clever girl, and had availed herself to the utmost of all the educational advantages which the modern spirit of fairness has granted to women, and at school, college, and university she had gained distinctions and carried off prizes. Her father and mother had not hindered her; but she knew that though they could not help feeling a little proud of her successes, they did not altogether approve of her. They had her portrait taken in the college cap and gown which became her so well; and they said that, since the letters which she had the right to put after her name meant something, she ought to use them; but they both considered it a little unwomanly to be too clever, and wished that she would settle down and be married.
In another respect they scarcely understood their daughter. Her nature was intensely sensitive and sympathetic. She knew what it was to weep over sorrows that were none of hers, and to be punished for sins which she had not committed. Pain, want, wickedness, and woe were spectres that haunted the girl, and would not let her forget them. Moreover, Mary was grievously beset by doubt, which she endured in loneliness because the least expression of it so shocked those whom she loved that she had not the courage to say all that was in her mind. She had once declared, with flushed face and dilated eyes, on returning from visiting a woman who was dying of cancer, that she did not, could not, would not believe that the poor creatures who were so badly off in this world would be also punished in the next, even for their sins. Her father and mother, secure and comfortable in their church-going consummateness, believing all that they ought to believe, and never troubling themselves further, asked her sternly if she read her Bible now. Truth to tell, she read it very little. She tried to reconcile that which she knew was in it with that which she saw in the world, and finding the two apparently irreconcilable she yielded to unbelief; and because she could not herself believe, began to doubt the honesty of those who did. Poor Mary had lost her child’s faith in the Fatherhood of God, and had failed to apprehend the meaning of the sacrifice of His Son.
She sorely needed some one to help her. She was not in the least brave, though she was clever, and had simply drifted into an engagement with Mr. Greenholme.
But when the wedding was drawing near she filled her mother with consternation.
“Mother,” she said, “I am really not sure that I can marry Alfred after all.”
“Oh, my dear child! how you frighten me! What do you mean?”
“I don’t believe I care for him as people generally do care when they are going to be married.”
“Is there any one else for whom you care, Mary?”