The Five-Minute Marriage

by Joan Aiken

  “We do see you quite frequently, Papa,” remarked Isa, taking away her father’s empty cup and refilling it.

  “Yes, child, yes. But that is not the same as being with me always, night and day, in darkness and in light; is it, now? Think of the weary watches of the night, when the candle bums low and the spirit mourns, uncomforted; think of the pale sorrows of dawn when the sun seems lost in hopeless travail and the hands of the clock move not. Think of that!” he said to Delphie, who could only remark, most inadequately,

  “Yes—I suppose you must long for your breakfast—before they are let in!”

  “But I do not repine!” remarked Mr. Palgrave languidly. “No: I accept my lot. What is to be, must be.” He pushed aside his cup and plate, and received in the corner of his mouth a small cigar which Tristram had lit for him. “Thank you, my boy. Would one of you—it matters not which—polish my shoes? Would another of you—any will do—brush my coat and hat? If the day is fine, I shall presently walk in that disagreeable yard for half an hour, while meditating on my next canto.”

  “How is your work going, Papa?” politely inquired Arthur.

  “It goes—it goes. A hard—an arduous path, my boy, is that your father follows. But I persevere; I do not despair. Gareth, my dear boy, by the by, six more cantos lie there, ready for the printer; take them with you when you go and drop them in at John Wallis, in Ludgate Street—would you, like a good fellow? Or, if you wish, you may take them direct to Gillets the printers in Salisbury Square; I leave the choice quite to you.”

  “I will take them to Gillets,” Gareth said calmly, gathering up the bundle of paper. “Are you ready, children? Then I think we should return. Your mother will be needing your help. And your cousin Delphie has to return to her mother.”

  The remains of Mr. Palgrave’s breakfast were swiftly tidied away; materials for a nuncheon were left conveniently disposed upon a shelf and Mr. Palgrave’s attention was drawn to them (he acknowledged this by a nod, without raising his eyes); the polished shoes and brushed coat and hat were arranged respectively under and on the bed. Then, as Mr. Palgrave was once more absorbed in his writing, the children softly stole through the door, each murmuring, “Good-by, Papa,” to which Mr. Palgrave replied merely by a sigh.

  “We will take our leave, then, Thomas,” Gareth said.

  “Good-by, good-by, my dear fellow, you won’t forget Gillets, now, will you? Your servant, Miss Cartwright, so pleased to have met you,” said Mr. Palgrave, his hand with the pen still traveling over the page at a great rate.

  Once out of Mr. Palgrave’s room, although they were still within the dingy confines of the prison, the spirits of the whole party insensibly rose. Tristram gave vent to a shrill whistle, Arthur turned a somersault along the passage, and the two younger children went gaily clattering down the stairs.

  “Have a care, Cousin Delphie; they are so steep,” said Gareth, and cupped a hand under her elbow.

  Down in the yard the boys were carefully loading soiled laundry and empty vessels into the donkey’s panniers; then the procession retraced its steps through the lobby, the narrow entry, and the various gates.

  Just as they were about to step into the street, they were arrested by a respectful cough, which seemed to come from the shadows by the turnkey’s office.

  “Ahem, there, young ladies and gentlemen!”

  “Why!” said Isa, turning with a broad smile of pleasure, “It’s Mr. Swannup! We were just thinking that we hadn’t seen you, Mr. Swannup, and wondering where you were!”

  Mr. Swannup was a somewhat gangling youth, whose pale face was adorned by a thick ginger-colored moustache, and whose block-shaped head ended abruptly in a very bristling quantity of bright ginger-colored hair. He was at work with a bag of tools, evidently repairing some defect in the lock of the main gate.

  “Being as I’m a locksmith by trade, you see, missie,” he said to Isa with a rather wan smile, “whenever there’s a little job of this nature as needs doing, why, they calls for me. That’s why I wasn’t up there as usual a-sweeping of your Pa’s floor, but it’ll get done by and by, don’t you worrit your pretty head. I’ve too great a reverence for litter-ayture to let your Pa’s room go dusty, young ladies and gentlemen; so long as Samuel Swannup is in the Marshalsea, Mr. Palgrave’s room will remain spic and span, there’s my hand on it, and so you can tell my friend Mr. Bardwell.”

  “Very obliging of you, Swannup,” said Gareth, stopping by him, and there was a slight clink as two palms met.

  “I would a been happy to do it just for the service to litter-ayture,” said Mr. Swannup mournfully, “but I thank you, sir, just the same.”

  Then he fixed his rather colorless eyes on Delphie. She, for the past minute, had been wondering why he seemed so familiar; then, as he spoke, she realized where she had seen him.

  “Am I right in addressing you, ma’am, as Miss Carteret, what lives up above my intended, Miss Jenny Baggott, in Greek Street?”

  “Why, of course, Mr. Swannup; I was wondering why I seemed to know you so well. I am sorry to see you here,” said Delphie. “I hope it won’t be for long?”

  “I hope so, too, ma’am, I’m sure,” he said rather dolefully. “It’s all according to Providence. Sometimes she giveth, and sometimes she removeth; and she’s in the removing way at the moment, so far as Sam Swannup is concerned. But, ma’am, I’d be greatly obliged if you’d just drop a word to my Jenny as how the fragrance of one of her apple turnovers wouldn’t half sweeten the air of this stinking crib (asking your pardon), not to mention as how the sight of her sweet face ‘ud cheer me up.”

  “I’ll certainly tell her,” promised Delphie. “Er—how much are you in for, Mr. Swannup?”

  “Oh, it’s only a mere tilbury sum, miss, compared with Mr. Palgrave upstairs; he’s a real plummy cove,” said Sam with great respect. “Mine’s only a tenner, miss, I feel downright humble at being allowed to consort with gents like Mr. P.”

  “Only ten pounds! Oh, how dreadful!” said Delphie, wishing that she had it to spare, so that she might buy him out. But Gareth, grasping at her elbow, said,

  “Come away, Cousin Delphie! I can see how your thoughts run, but if once you begin to think like that, in the Marshalsea, you will end up here yourself, probably before a month is out!”

  “I suppose so,” she said regretfully, waving good-by to Mr. Swannup, who still stood regarding them with melancholy eyes through the bars of the gate. “But it seems so sad! Such a nice young man! And all for a ten-pound debt.” Then, rather tentatively, she inquired, “How—how much is your brother-in-law liable for?”

  “Oh—” said Gareth with an impatient sigh, “even the amount is almost impossible to ascertain! His affairs were in such a sorry tangle—debtors here and creditors there, fines for offenses (quite unwitting, I am sure) against the revenue laws, and more fines for not paying those fines, bills backed by people who have since vanished away, assignments and settlements of things that ought not to have been assigned and settled in the way they were—I sometimes despair of ever getting it all sorted out. That was why you saw me at Lady Dalrymple’s party—because I knew that one of his creditors would be there—but it is hopeless, I sometimes feel. Even if I get him out, what is to prevent him from plunging back into the same kind of muddle?”

  He had spoken unreflectingly loud, and little Isa suddenly burst into a heartrending fit of sobs.

  “Oh, poor Papa—poor Papa!” she wept. “Why should he have to live there, in a cage—like a poor canary?”

  And she looked back at Sam Swannup, still watching them through the bars of the gate.

  Overcome by compunction at having asked the question that gave rise to this outburst, Delphie knelt down on the cobbles by the sobbing child.

  “Come, do not cry! Think how brave your father is, he does not cry a bit! And he keeps writing away at his poetry, and one of these days I daresay so many people will have bought his poems that he will be as rich as the King, and they will let him
out of those gates, and he will come riding home in a bright red carriage! Now let me dry your eyes, and then perhaps your uncle Gareth will allow you to ride on the donkey for a very little way!”

  “Yes—that is allowed on the way home,” said Gareth, smiling faintly. “And we will go back over London Bridge, so that I can leave your father’s papers at the printer, and you will be able to see the Tower of London.”

  “Oh yes!” Isa brightened up. “And you will tell us about the Princes in the Tower, and their wicked uncle—won’t you, Uncle Gareth?”

  Gareth looked amused.

  “Wicked uncles are a favorite theme in this family,” he told Delphie. “I do not know how it comes about! The children seem to prefer them to ogres and brigands.”

  The way home, therefore, was enlivened by all the tales of wicked uncles which the combined memories of Delphie and Gareth could produce.

  When they reached Fleet Street, Gareth turned aside, saying he would just leave their father’s manuscript at the printers in Salisbury Square; they might go on slowly and he would catch them up. The children went on, but Delphie loitered a little, waiting for Gareth, and asked him, when he rejoined her—the children being now some fifty yards ahead—

  “What was Mr. Palgrave’s profession before—before he was incarcerated? Or has he always been a poet?”

  “Profession?” said Gareth dryly. “Why—none, to speak of. The man’s an amiable sponger—always has been! He’s well bred enough, and had just a little money of his own—met my sister—she fell in love with him—thought he was the most handsome, romantic man in the world—ran off with him, my mother objecting to the match, as well she might—and look at the result! Can you wonder that I think as I do on certain subjects—romantic marriages—love at first sight, woman’s intuition—? Then, of course, he spent all Una’s money, having already run through his own, and, in return, bestowed ten children upon her. Luckily they are as good little things as ever twanged—”

  “I can see that,” said Delphie warmly.

  “But how in the world are ten children to be provided for,” he said furiously, “when the father does nothing but scribble verses behind bars, and the mother lies upon a sofa and blames everybody in the world but herself? I tell you, it is enough to put one out of all patience with—”

  “With what?” asked Delphie as he broke off, his eyes suddenly fixed ahead in a look of incredulous dismay.

  “Good God!” he exclaimed. “I know Mordred warned me of it—but I had no real expectation that he would come quite so soon—Those are my uncle’s bays, unless I am much mistaken—and that is his traveling carriage!”

  “What? Where?”

  “There! Yes—it is he! What’s more, he sees us. He is opening the window—he is making the coachman pull up.” Casting a glance ahead toward the church of St. Clement Danes, Gareth muttered, “What a piece of luck that at least I had directed the children to walk on! He may not connect them with us.”

  “Why? Does he not approve of them?”

  “He does not know of them! And he would certainly not approve! By great good fortune, he did not hear of my sister’s disastrous marriage—for it took place during one of the periods when he was abroad, taking the waters. Fortunately, also, his visits to town are so rare: he has no friends, and listens to no gossip. For if he did hear of my sister’s marriage—we should be completely in the basket!”

  “Take care!” exclaimed Philadelphia, for at this moment the carriage which had been the object of Gareth’s attention pulled up close beside them, and the face which Delphie had last seen apparently in articulo mortis now looked peevishly down at them from the window.

  Lord Bollington was grotesquely swathed in traveling capes, and had an extraordinary, countrified, wide-brimmed hat, pulled down over a series of flannel bands, which were wound and tied under his chin. Certainly he did not look quite so ill as he had at Chase, but he did not, Delphie thought, look at all well, either; there was a bright flush on his cheekbones, his mouth worked, his eyes were glazed and rheumy, and the gloved hand with which he beckoned to Gareth perceptibly shook. A faint suspicion, which Delphie had been entertaining, that Lord Bollington had feigned his deathbed scene in order to hurry his nephew into matrimony, was rapidly dispelled at sight of him; she exclaimed,

  “Oh, my dear sir, you should not be driving about the streets in your state of health! It is most ill advised!”

  “Shut your head, ma’am!” growled his lordship ill-temperedly. “I didn’t halt the carriage to be given a lot of vaporish advice which I don’t require! I’ll be the judge of whether I’m fit to ride about the streets, and I’ll thank you to remember that!”

  “My—my dear wife was merely solicitous on your account, sir,” Gareth remarked.

  Lord Bollington gave a sudden malicious bark of laughter. “Didn’t think to see you two strolling along arm in arm like a pair of turtledoves at half-past eight in the morning, I must confess! Come about, have you? Decided to run in harness? I never thought you was sweet on your cousin Elaine,” he said to Gareth. “Truth to tell, thought you detested her!”

  “Why,” said Gareth coolly, “I wonder what can have put such a notion into your head, sir? We are excellent friends, are we not, my dear?” he added, looking down at Delphie; the expression in his eyes filled her with an urge to burst out laughing which she had to choke back as best she could.

  “Indeed we are,” she agreed demurely.

  “Glad to hear it! Wish it may last!”

  “And what are you doing in the streets at this hour, sir?” inquired Gareth.

  “Confounded wheeler cast a shoe at Deptford; obliged to rack up for the night at a devilish noisy drafty ill-run dirty inn called The Blue Boar; wouldn’t wish such a night on my worst enemy! Glad to make an early start and get away.”

  “In that case, sir,” said Gareth, “you must be extremely anxious to reach the comfort of your own house, which I know my cousin Mordred has ready for you, and we will detain you not a moment longer.”

  “Yes, sir,” added Delphie, “I am persuaded you should immediately retire to bed—between thoroughly warmed sheets—with a tisane, a hot brick, and a sprinkling of aromatic vinegar on the pillow!”

  Since this was precisely what his lordship had been proposing to do, he nearly snapped her head off.

  “Hot fiddlestick, madam! Keep your nostrums to yourself! I intend to go to my club. But tomorrow evening I shall come and take my mutton with you both in Curzon Street—I trust you are dining in? Want to make sure you are settling down! Needn’t fidget your cook to give me anything out of the common—Gareth knows I can’t abide fancy Francayed foreign kickshaws!”

  “Oh!” responded Gareth rather blankly. “Of course, sir! Are we dining in, tomorrow, my love?” he added, to Delphie.

  “I—I believe so!” she said, rather breathless. “At wh-what time do you care to dine, great-uncle?”

  “At five!” said Lord Bollington, and called to his coachman to drive on. “I shall be at your house by a quarter before five!” he called, and shut the window.

  “Now look what you have done!” exclaimed Gareth as soon as the carriage was out of earshot. “You have properly landed us in the suds! What possessed you to give him that wretchedly ill-timed and meddlesome piece of advice, just when he would otherwise have gone off to bed and forgotten us?”

  “I—I couldn’t resist it,” said Philadelphia guiltily.

  “Just as I thought! You did it out of pure mischief!”

  “No, no!” she defended herself. “It was good advice. Besides, I am persuaded it made no real difference. He was bound to insist on coming around to Curzon Street sooner or later.”

  “Yes,” Gareth said gloomily. “And now that all our skeletons are out of the closet, I imagine that you have completely set your face against complying with my suggestion that you come and occupy my ground floor?”

  “Do you?” said Delphie. “Then you are strangely mistaken! On the contrary, I int
end to move myself and Mamma without delay. I shall have to, shall I not, if we are to entertain Great-uncle Mark tomorrow at five?”

  10

  Delphie’s parting from Gareth and the children was brief and unceremonious. If she and Mrs. Carteret were to be moved into Curzon Street by tomorrow, there was much to be done; for in among the business of the move must be sandwiched other necessary operations: pupils to be notified of her change of address, lessons to be given, and, last but not least, Miss Elaine Carteret to be visited that afternoon.

  On her way home, Delphie cut through Covent Garden Market, and arranged with a carter there to come and transport their belongings and pieces of furniture during the afternoon. That done, the news was to be broken to Mrs. Carteret.

  Delphie delayed doing this until she had woken her mother (who fortunately proved to be still asleep on her return) and had served her a comfortable breakfast; then she informed her that they had been offered very spacious ground-floor accommodation, rent-free, near to the park, in Cousin Gareth’s house in Curzon Street. Though somewhat startled at these tidings, Mrs. Carteret made no objections to this change of abode; their residence in Soho had always been a matter of expediency, not preference, because housing was cheaper in that district; she was delighted to remove to a more fashionable neighborhood.

  “And there, ten to one, some eligible gentleman will see you as you pass along the street, and come to ask me if he may pay his addresses,” she said happily. “Oh, I can see many advantages, Philadelphia! But do you think that Mrs. Andrews will be willing to remove with us?”

  Delphie had been exercised in her mind on this point. Since they were saving the rent, she thought that she might be able to offer to pay Mrs. Andrews a little extra to come with them and assume the duties of a housekeeper.