XXI
Wedding Bells and Plighted Troth
A FORTNIGHT LATER,When the family were collected at Jalna for Sunday lunch, Meg took up a position of importance in the wing chair in which her grandmother had always sat. It was not that she had never before sat in it, but that on this occasion she had herself ranged the other chairs in such a position that they appeared to be set for an audience. The weather was cold and the first large fire of the season blazed on the hearth. Meg wore an attractive black and white dress and had had her hair done at the hairdresser’s.
Renny gave her an admiring look from where he sat, with his coffee cup in his hand. “Youlook nice,” he said, “very nice indeed. Is that a new dress?”
“It is, and the first new dress I’ve bought in ages.”
“It’s very becoming. You look ten years younger in it. Don’t you think so, Alayne?”
“I do indeed. There’s something very enlivening in a new dress.”
Somehow the adjective did not quite please Meg. She remarked, “Then you should be continually enlivened. You get so many.”
“Me?” cried Alayne. “No woman could buy fewer clothes than I and look respectable.”
“what about me?” exclaimed Pheasant. “I have had only one new dress in a year. The one Maurice bought me.”
“You wear slacks and riding breeches so much of the time,” said Alayne. “And look so well in them.”
Meg now waved this discussion aside with a gesture of her plump hand. “I set out,” she said, “to decide what sort of wedding Patience is to have.”
But Renny had sprung up, caught her hand in his and was examining it. “where is your wedding ring?” he demanded.
“That?” she murmured absently. “I’ll explain later. First I think we should decide about Patience’s wedding — whether it is to be formal or small and just the family.”
“I should think Patience is the one to decide that,” said Christian.
“Patience,” said that girl’s mother, “will be glad to do what we decide on.”
“The quieter the better so far as I am concerned,” said Patience.
“I don’t agree,” said Renny. “I think we should make a splash of it. You are the first girl of the family to marry.”
“With Adeline it would be different,” said Meg. “Adeline is the only daughter of the eldest son. If Adeline’s bridegroom had been the one we expected him to be” — tactfully she omitted mentioning Fitzturgis’s name — “he was a man whose appearance would well become a formal ceremony; but Humphrey — though he is a nice-looking young man and I like him immensely, and even though blondness is so fashionable — he has an appearance which, it seems to me, goes better with a quiet ceremony. Patience and I will be glad to know what you all think.”
“Certainly a quiet wedding would save money,” said Piers, with a wink at Finch.
“Money is no object,” said Meg, looking noble.
“Money no object!” Piers roared with laughter.
Meg gave him a look of sorrow rather than anger. “How you spoil things, Piers, by your strange insinuations! Everybody here knows that I would gladly spend my last dollar to give my daughter a showy wedding if she wanted it.”
“These ostentatious modern weddings,” said Alayne, “seem to me in rather bad taste when the young couple are probably going to creep into a couple of rooms and eat out of tins.”
“Contra bonos mores,”observed Archer, who was going back to school the following day.
“I think,” said Finch, “that as Patience wants a quiet wedding she should have one, but I should like to see her in a pretty wedding dress and veil.”
“I agree,” said Maurice, and other assenting voices were added to his.
“Shall we call it settled then?” asked Meg, as though she were rather anxious to have the matter settled. “Still,” she hesitated, “is it not possible that Patience, being a largish girl, would, in bridal array, rather overshadow Humphrey?”
“‘A man’s a man for a’ that,’” said Renny.
“what will Humphrey wear?” asked Archer.
“He’ll hire a morning suit,” said Patience.
“And shall you hire your outfit?”
“No. Mine must be bought.”
“And you’ll have it on your hands for the rest of your days?”
“Yes.”
“Mercy!” said Archer.
“I,” said Renny, “shall buy the wedding dress and give the wedding reception here at Jalna.”
Alayne tried to smile happily at this. Piers, with laughter in his eyes, was watching her.
Meg rose, went to Renny and kissed him on the forehead. “Thank you, dear brother,” she said, then turned to Patience. “Thank Uncle Renny, dear. Give him a big hug and kiss.”
Feeling like a five-year-old, Patience obediently bent over Renny. He reached out and took her on his knee. They kissed. “A long time,” he said, “since I have dandled Patience. And what a solid girl! Lord, I’ll bet you weigh more than Humphrey.”
Meg beamed on the two of them.
“Now,” she said, “I have something startling to tell you, so hold yourselves ready for a surprise.”
All faces were turned toward her.
She blushed in true Victorian fashion. “It’s about the Rector and me. We’re going ... we’ve decided ... oh, really I can’t tell you.... Can’t you guess?”
Either they could not or would not. “Out with it,” Renny ordered her. “We can’t endure this suspense.”
“Mr. Fennel and I are going to marry.”
If Meg had wanted to create a sensation she had her wish.
“I’m delighted,” said Alayne. “I think it’s a splendid idea.” She also had a smile of congratulation for Finch.
“Splendid,” said Piers. “which of you thought of it first?”
“I’m sure you’ll be very happy,” from Pheasant.
“You’re a perfect wife for a clergyman,” added Finch. He went to her and hugged her, thinking what a success he would have been in the diplomatic service.
The younger members of the family were astonished and a little embarrassed by this venture into the realm of love and marriage which they considered their own.
Renny, one arm encircling Patience, held out the other to Meg. “Come and sit on my other knee,” he said. “I dote on you both.”
Meg came at once and plumped herself on his other knee. He clasped and kissed her, but after a few moments of this double weight he pushed them from him, exclaiming:
“Poor little Humphrey! Poor old Fennel! Upon my word, they’ll need all their strength.”
“There’s nothing so nice” — Piers showed his white teeth, laughing — “as a little light wife to sit on a fellow’s knee when he has only one leg.”
“I have a little light wife,” said Renny, stretching out a yearning hand toward Alayne. “A lively little light wife.”
Alayne gave him a repressive look. Whereupon with dignity he remarked that the health of the prospective brides must be drunk. “Archer,” he told his son, “go to the dining room and bring the tallest decanter — the one with the chipped stopper — and enough glasses for everyone. This is a great occasion.” Archer went.
“what about your house, Meg?” asked Piers.
She gave a complacent sigh. “It all works out so beautifully. Humphrey and Patience will want his house for themselves. The Chases are going to rent my house furnished. I, of course, will move into the Rectory.”
“Splendid,” exclaimed Renny. “I’ll wager that the dear old Rector is happy. It will seem funny, Meg, to see you with a husband wearing a beard.”
“why does Mr. Fennel wear a beard?” asked Adeline.
“As a very young man he went to the far north as a missionary,” answered Meg, “and grew it to protect his throat. Ever since he has clung to it.”
“A strange thing to cling to,” observed Christian.
“I don’t agree,” said Pheasant. “I thi
nk that clinging to a beard is quite understandable.”
“I’ll grow one,” declared Piers.
Meg folded her arms and looked as firm as she was able, considering the soft contours of her face. “I have told Rupert that I cannot marry a man with a beard.”
Everyone looked astonished. Piers asked, “what is he going to do about it?”
“He is going to cut it off.”
She spoke so calmly, yet there was almost consternation in the room. That beard which the family had seen, Sunday after Sunday, since childhood, spread fanwise over the breast of his surplice!
“I thought the man had more character,” said Piers sadly.
“He fondled it in church with a pensive air,” observed Finch.
“It shows,” said Renny, “how badly he wants her when he will sacrifice his beard.”
“After this,” said Piers, “anything may happen.”
“I wonder,” said Pheasant, “how Mr. Fennel came to be named Rupert — it’s a lovely name.”
Meg beamed. “His father was a missionary in Prince Rupert’s Land. It was named after Prince Rupert, and the parents liked the name so well they gave it to their son.”
Archer now returned with the decanter of sherry and the glasses on a large silver tray.
“He’s a perfect waiter,” Christian whispered to Adeline. “I’ve always said so. Poor Aunt Alayne! what a disappointment for her.”
“Archie,” said his father, “come and congratulate your Aunty Meg.”
“Mercy!” said Archer. He went and shook hands with Meg, who drew him into her arms and gave him a tender kiss.
At this time Humphrey Bell arrived for lunch. Glasses were filled and a health drunk to the prospective brides and bridegroom. The family circle opened to admit Bell, and shyly he took his place in it. He looked singularly happy. Yet when the lively meal was over he drew Patience aside into the library and said:
“There’s still time for you to get out of this engagement, Patience dear, if you want to.”
“Do you want to get out of it, Humphrey?”
“Never. But I thought ... I wondered if you ...”
“Oh, dearest — just to have you here at Jalna — as one of us — to know that we belong to each other — makes me so happy.” She took his hand and raised it to her cheek.
In fact all the family liked Humphrey Bell. In his unostentatious way he became one of them, as Fitzturgis, so strongly individualistic, failing in his efforts to fit a square peg into a round hole, could never have done. So much had been expected of Fitzturgis. Bell was looked on as a sweet-tempered, rather lovable oddity who possibly had it in him to write something that would add lustre to his name.
Less than a week later Mr. Fennel appeared with shaven face. Renny, walking on the country road, met him face to face and did not recognize him. They passed, then Mr. Fennel turned and called after Renny in a high falsetto voice quite unlike his own, “Pardon me, sir, but can you tell me if I am on the road that leads to St. John’s Church?”
Renny wheeled and strode back to him. “You are going in the opposite direction.” he said. “You must....” Then his voice faltered; he stared and broke out, “Mr. Fennel — you — without a beard! I never believed you’d do it. By Judas, you look wonderful!”
“You think it’s an improvement?” asked the Rector, embarrassed yet rather pleased with himself.
Renny viewed him full face, then in profile. “You look nothing short of a bishop,” he declared, “and if they don’t make you one after this, I miss my guess.”
“My dear fellow,” laughed Mr. Fennel, then added seriously, “The difficulty is appearing before the congregation on Sunday morning.”
“I’ll tell you what. I’ll grow a beard that will take their mind off you. Mine would be fiery red, I’ll wager.”
In truth the congregation were almost as surprised by the disappearance of the Rector’s beard as they were by the announcement of his engagement to Meg. It was universally agreed that both changes were for the better. Meg was looked upon as the perfect wife for a clergyman.
It was decided that Patience’s marriage to Bell should take place in December, and that of Meg to the Rector early in the spring. Someone had suggested a double wedding, but Meg declared it would take her all the winter to prepare her house for the removal and the letting. In the meantime the young couple were to live with her. Often she condoled with Finch for having failed him.
This autumn was a successful one for Renny. East Wind more than lived up to the high hopes for him. He was not a temperamental horse. He took races, as it were, in his stride. With his big body, on which was set his beautiful head, he fairly gambolled over the course. The confusion of a bad start did not trouble him. A piece of paper blown across his path did not cause him to swerve. Straight ahead, in a glory of speed, seeming to enjoy it, he won race after race. In the most important race of the season he defeated the favourite. Renny took him to Kentucky and he was victorious in a great race there. All this good luck, to him who had so often experienced the reverse, put Renny into high good spirits.
Adeline accompanied him on these occasions. He was delighted to have her with him, to be able to take her to the sort of hotels he considered suitable for his daughter. He devoted himself to her — to charm her into the obliterating of Fitzturgis from her mind. Sometimes he succeeded, but there were times when that scene by the lake rose before her with tragic distinctness and she would hear herself give a little moan of pain. Strangely the wild anger she had felt slept in her breast and only the pain was awake, ready still to stir. Once, in the dining room of a hotel, she glimpsed a face that set her pulses thumping. She could not swallow, she could not speak, but sat staring transfixed. Then the man, as though he were conscious of her eyes on him, turned and looked at her. It was a quite different face, not comparable to his in fineness or attraction, she thought, and realized in herself both disappointment and relief. It came to her as a shock, filling her with wonder, for she had never yet analyzed her emotions, that if the man had been Fitzturgis she would have sprung from her seat, gone to him, forgiven him. Nothing could have stopped her. Yet the idea of writing to him, of making an effort to heal the breach between them, never entered her mind. She had sent him off, she was done with him. He had not, since leaving, written to her. Surely if he had loved her deeply he would have written, begged for forgiveness. She had not, in truth, expected a letter from him.
* * *
When the time for the wedding of Patience and Bell drew near Meg asked her daughter whether Roma was to be invited.
“No,” Patience said firmly. “I don’t want her at my wedding.”
“But we cannot treat Roma like that. It would be too unkind and would look so small-minded to the rest of the family and very strange to our friends.”
“I don’t want her.”
“You should be grateful to her, dear, for getting Norman out of the way to make room for Humphrey.”
“I hadn’t thought of that.... If you think she should be invited, let’s do it.”
Roma was invited, and Roma came, bringing with her a handsome New York handbag as a present to Patience. Somehow the family had expected her to be different, to have about her the air of the great metropolis. They were prepared to see Roma elegantly trigged out in expensive clothes. They felt sure that she would be foolishly extravagant with the legacy from Nicholas.
But Roma looked exactly the same. She went up to her old bedroom at Meg’s, hung up her things in the clothes cupboard, hummed a little tune, just as though she had never been away. She was charming to Humphrey, was pleasant to everyone, though a little pensive in the presence of Adeline, a little puzzled, as though she wondered why Adeline treated her with such coldness.
Adeline was bridesmaid to Patience, little Mary was flower girl. Renny gave the bride away. White chrysanthemums decorated the church, which was filled not only by the guests but by farmers and the working people of the neighbourhood, for everyone liked Pat
ience. Mr. Fennel, clean-shaven, looked so different from the Rector of old that Pheasant almost questioned whether the ceremony were legal. Humphrey was so nervous that he persisted in trying to place the ring on the wrong finger. But finally the two were united and the bridegroom kissed the bride with a strange gaiety, as though to imply that they were now in for it and that, on his part, he had cast humility to the winds. As for little Mary, who had so valiantly led the procession, followed by Adeline, in a primrose-yellow dress, then by the bride on Renny’s arm, little Mary bent her golden head over her basket of flowers and shed an unseen tear or two. But, if her tears were unseen, certainly Meg’s were not. No Victorian mother ever wept more feelingly over the loss of a daughter. Yet Patience was marrying a man whom Meg liked, and the pair would live within a stone’s throw of the Rectory.
On the way to Jalna after the ceremony Renny remarked to Meg, for they were driving in the same car, “I hope that when your time comes you’ll not disgrace us all by blubbering throughout the service.”
“It will be an entirely different thing,” she cried hotly. “Being married oneself is not like losing one’s only daughter. And besides, when I saw Rupert” — she now called the Rector Rupert — “standing there, looking so beautiful in his clean surplice and his clean-shaven face, and realized how soon....” She began again to weep.
“Do you mean,” he said, “you were thinking how soon the surplice would get soiled and how soon the Rector will grow another beard? For he can, you know, and probably will, as soon as you’re married.”
“Never. I shall never let him!”
They were now turning into the driveway. From other cars people began pouring into the house. A contingent of Humphrey’s relations had arrived from New Brunswick. One and all thought his bride an attractive girl, and several of them wondered what she saw in him.
Wakefield had been unable to come to the wedding as he was on a tour through the United States in a successful play. He was playing male lead to an established actress. His own position in the theatre seemed secured. He sent one of the most admired presents received by the pair and a telegram so amusing that when it was read aloud the guests broke into genuine applause. The wedding was indeed a happy occasion. Meg dried her tears, and she and the Rector, standing side by side, for their engagement had been announced, were almost as much congratulated as the bride and groom. Renny, as the bride’s guardian, made a lively and pungent speech. Referring to the bride’s father as his dearest friend, he all but brought Meg to the point of tears again, but in consideration for the Rector she restrained them. Renny had the advantage of an incisive voice, a physical magnetism, and appearance which added point and raciness to what he said. Mr. Fennel spoke felicitously, recalling how he had baptized Patience, who had not once cried; how he had prepared her for confirmation, performed the ceremony at her wedding. He even hinted, amid great applause, that he was soon to take on a new relationship toward her. Yet it was Maurice, as best man, who made the best speech. None of the family had believed it was in him to make such a speech — so warm, so eloquent, so poetic. Pheasant was so proud of him that she could scarcely restrain herself from open demonstration of her pride and tenderness. His brothers (for it was the first day of the Christmas holidays and Christian and Philip were present) were proud of him. Piers was proud of him.
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