IV
The marriage would have taken place earlier but for two circumstances: first, the difficulty of obtaining the wedding outfit for Violet in that out-of-the-way place; and secondly, because Jason insisted upon some important alterations being made in the old house, in order to render it more comfortable for his children.
There is no event in life which causes so much discussion, such pleasant anticipation, as the marriage-day; and at The Place there was not a single thing left unmentioned; every detail of the ceremony was talked over, and it was a standing joke of Jason’s to tell Violet to study her prayerbook, a remark that never failed to make the blood mount to her forehead.
She grew somewhat pensive as the final moment approached—with all her youth and spirits, with all the happy omens that accompanied the course of her love, she could not view this, the most important step she would ever take, always with thoughtless levity. She became silent and thoughtful, gave up riding, and devoted herself almost exclusively to attending upon Jason, till Aymer—silly fellow!—grew jealous, and declared it was unkind of her to look forward to the wedding-day as if it was a sentence of imprisonment.
Mr. Waldron had lived so retired that there was some little difficulty in fixing upon a representative to give Violet away, for as an invalid he could not himself go to the church; and this was the only thing he was heard to regret—that he should not see Violet married. However, he consoled himself with the thought that he should see her immediately afterwards, as the church was hardly half a mile distant, down in a narrow combe or valley. After some reflection, Mr. Waldron decided upon asking his solicitor, Mr. Merton, of Barnham, to act as his representative and give the bride away.
Merton, who was an old bachelor, was really delighted at the idea, but with true professional mendacity made an immense virtue of the sacrifice of time it entailed. He really was so busy with a great law case just coming on that really—but then his old friend Waldron, and lovely Miss Violet—duty pulled him one way and inclination another, and beauty, as was proper, triumphed.
Violet had few acquaintances, and it was more difficult still to find her a bridesmaid—not that there were not plenty ready to fill that onerous post—but she disliked the idea of a stranger. Mr. Merton, the solicitor, solved the difficulty by suggesting a niece of his, a merry girl whom Violet had met once or twice.
Aymer could not do less than ask old Martin Brown to stand as his best man, never dreaming that he would accept the task. But what was his surprise when Martin declared that he should enjoy the fun, and would rather miss Barnham fair than not be there. He came out tolerably handsome for him; he offered Aymer a five-pound note to purchase a suitable dress! This note Aymer very respectfully declined to take, and the farmer, half repenting of his generosity, did not press him too hard. Yet he could not help expressing his wonder as to how Aymer meant to appear at church. “Thee bisn’t a-goin’ to marry th’ squire’s darter in thee ould hat?”
Aymer smiled and said nothing. Fortune had aided him in this way too. After endless disappointments and “returned with thanks,” he had suddenly received a cheque for a sketch of his which had been accepted by an illustrated paper. Immediately afterwards came another cheque for a short story accepted by a magazine. This success, small as it was, elated him, if anything, more than the approaching marriage-day. He had tried, and tried, and tried, and failed again and again, till he despaired and ceased to make the attempt, till the necessity of obtaining some clothes drove him to the last desperate venture. He was elated beyond measure. A successful author, a successful artist, and just about to marry the most beautiful woman in the world!
He resolved to tell Violet nothing about it, but to show her the sketch and the story as they were upon their trip. Thus it was that he was independent of Martini grudging generosity. Fortune did not stop even here. As if determined to shower delight upon him—to make up at one blow for the cruel isolation, the miserable restraint he had undergone—she never seemed to tire of opening up fresh vistas of pleasure. Both Violet and Aymer would have been satisfied, and more than satisfied, with a simple visit to the seaside; but Jason was not so easily pleased. His daughter was his life—nothing was too good for her—and, besides, such an event happened but once in a lifetime, and it was fit and proper that it be accompanied with memorable circumstances. He announced his intention of sending his children to Florence.
To Florence, the beautiful city, which dwelt forever in Aymer’s dreams—the city he had described time after time to Violet, till the girl thought it the finest upon earth. He was to revisit Florence, and to revisit it with Violet! His heart was full—it would have been impossible to add another blessing.
Violet raced about the house and the garden, teasing Dando to distraction—all her pensiveness dispelled, murmuring “Florence” at every turn. What further joy could there be in store?—it was impossible. It is almost safe to say that these two were the happiest in England. Well they might be. They had all upon their side—i.e., youth.
Violet was to be married upon her twenty-first birthday; Aymer was twenty-three only. Money—not riches—but sufficient for an easy life. Italy in view—the land of the artist and the poet! It was like a fairy dream!
The days flew by. The dresses came—oh, what eager discussions and conferences there were over the dresses! All the farmers’ daughters and wives in the neighbourhood to whom Violet was even distantly known, claimed the privilege to see the trousseau. In London it would have been overlooked—there all things are upon a grand scale.
At World’s End the ladies were never tired of descanting upon the glories of the silk and satin, the lace and tulle. How can a wretched, unsympathising man describe the sensation produced by Violet’s wedding outfit?
The dear girl was in ecstasies. Waldron had gone to the utmost limit of his purse—his friend Merton even frowned a little—but he argued it was only for once—just this once—he must be permitted a little extravagance on Violet’s marriage-day.
Aymer was again plagued with his old tormentors—they did not sneer or jeer at him, but he had to run the gauntlet of rude jokes and rustic wit. He forgave them, and asked as many as he could to the breakfast.
The breakfast was to be laid out in that very apartment the window of which opened upon the garden near the sycamore tree, where he had sat so many times listening to Violet playing upon the pianoforte. There was of course a cake, and there was to be what had never before been seen or tasted at World’s End from time immemorial—i.e., several dozens of champagne.
If the wedding outfit caused a sensation among the ladies, this champagne was all the talk among the men. They thought of nothing else—it was the subject of endless allusions and unabating anticipation. Here and there was one who could say he had tasted the wine—when after a good hunting spin Lord So-and-So had asked the sportsmen to refresh themselves at his mansion. But the majority had not the faintest notion of what it was like, and formed the most fantastic expectations. There were a few who doubted whether there would be any champagne, and treated it as a myth, till the servants at The Place, proud of their importance, admitted some favoured individuals who were regaled in secret with—the taste?—no, but the view only of certain tall bottles dressed in rosy tissue paper, upon the removal of which stood out the far-famed silver-foil, and doubt was no more. World’s End was full of its first champagne treat.
Old Martin Brown swelled up into a person of enormous importance, as being the nearest relative of the bridegroom; he was looked upon as an oracle, and his remarks listened to with intense interest at the nightly tobacco parliament at the Shepherd’s Bush.
The carriers took fabulous reports of what was to happen at World’s End all over the district, and scores of honest people made up their minds to trudge to Bury Wick Church.
Aymer was no longer knocked up at five in the morning, as was the custom, to breakfast at six. He was undisturbed. No more jeers and contempt—he was treated with deference. “My nevvy” was a success; Martin spoke of his “nevvy” as if the connection did him honour.
I hope among the readers of this history there will be many ladies who can remember their feelings on the approach of the marriage-day. Let them kindly recall those moments of wild excitement, of trepidation lest some accident should happen, of a half-hesitation, of a desire to plunge at once and get it over—and approximately they will understand Violet’s heart.
Even yet Fortune had not exhausted her favours. On the morning of World’s End Races, just one short week before the day, there came a letter in an unknown handwriting, addressed to Aymer Malet, Esq., enclosing five ten-pound notes from an anonymous donor, who wished him every felicity, and advised him to persevere in his art studies.
This extraordinary gift, so totally unexpected, filled Aymer with astonishment. It seemed as if it had dropped from the skies, for he had not the remotest suspicion that Lady Lechester was watching him with interest.
At last the day came. Violet was awake at the earliest dawn, and saw the sun rise, clear and cloudless, from the window. It was one of those days which sometimes occur in autumn, with all the beauty and warmth of summer, without its burning heat, and made still more delicious by the sensation of idle drowsiness—a day for lotus eating. The beech trees already showed an orange tint in places; the maples were turning scarlet; the oaks had a trace of buff. The rooks lazily cawed as they flew off with the acorns, the hills were half hidden with a yellowy vapour, and a few distant fleecy clouds, far up, floated in the azure. A dreamlike, luxurious day, such as happens but once a year!
Violet was up with the sun—how could she rest? Miss Merton was with her, chatting gaily. Oh, the mysteries of the toilet! my feeble pen must leave that topic to imagination. All I can say is, that it seemed as if it never would be completed, notwithstanding the reiterated warnings of Jason that the time was going fast.
There came one more pleasant surprise.
A strange man on horseback was seen riding up to The Place. This was so rare an event that Violet’s heart beat fast, fearing lest even at the eleventh hour something should happen to cause delay. She waited; her hands trembled. Even the delicious toilet had to be suspended.
Footsteps came up the staircase, and then the maidservant, bearing in her hand a small parcel, advanced to Miss Waldron. With trembling fingers she cut the string—it was a delicate casket of mother-of-pearl. The key was in it; she opened the lid, and an involuntary exclamation of surprise and admiration burst from her lips.
There lay the loveliest necklace of pearls that ever the sun had shone upon. Rich, costly pearls—pearls that were exactly fitted above all jewels for her—pearls that she had always wished for—pearls! They were round her neck in a moment.
Miss Merton was in raptures; the maidservant lost her wits, and ran downstairs calling everyone to go up and see Miss Vi’let “in them shiners!”
For a while, in the surprise and wonder, the donor had been forgotten. Under the necklace was a delicate pink note, offering Lady Lechester’s sincere desire that Miss Waldron would long wear her little present, and wishing her every good thing. When the wedding trip was over, would Mrs. Aymer Malet let her know that she might call?
Violet was not perfect any more than other girls; she had naturally a vein of pride; she did feel no little elation at this auspicious mark of attention and regard from a person in Lady Lechester’s position. The rank of the donor added to the value of the gift.
Mr. Waldron was much affected by this token of esteem. He could not express his pleasure to the giver, because her messenger had galloped off the moment he had delivered the parcel. The importance of the bride, great enough before, immediately rose ninety percent, in the eyes of Miss Merton, and a hundred and fifty percent, in the eyes of the lower classes.
Mr. Waldron, examining the pearls with the eye of a connoisseur, valued them at the very lowest at two hundred guineas. The involuntary tears of the poor pilgrim at the shrine of art had indeed solidified into gems!
The news flew over the adjacent village of Bury Wick; the servants at The Place spread it abroad, and in ten minutes it was known far and wide. The excitement was intense. Champagne was grand enough—but pearls! World’s End went wild! Champagne and pearls in one day! The whole place turned out to give the bride a triumphant reception.
Aymer was forgotten in the excitement over Violet: forgotten, but not by the bride. All she wished was to be able to show him her present—but etiquette forbade his being sent for on that particular morning; he must meet her at the church.
At the church—goodness! these pearls had delayed the toilet, and ten o’clock had struck. At eleven—ah! at eleven!
Mr. Merton had not arrived yet. He had arranged to bring his carriage; at The Place they had nothing grander than the pony-carriage. Mr. Merton, anxious to do the thing well, as he expressed it, had sent word that he should bring his carriage and pair of greys, to take the bride to the church.
From the earliest dawn the bells at Bury Church had been going from time to time; and every now and then there was a scattered fire of musketry, like skirmishing; it was the young farmers and their friends arriving with their guns, and saluting.
But at a quarter-past ten there was a commotion. The bells burst out merrier than ever; there was volley after volley of musketry, and cheering which penetrated even to the chamber of the bride, where she sat before the mirror with the pearls round her neck. It was Merton driving up in style, with his greys decorated with wedding favours.
Bang! clang! shout, and hurrah! The band from Barnham struck up. “See the Conquering Hero comes!” There never was such a glorious day before or since at World’s End.
“Nevvy,” said old Martin, already a little warm, and slapping Aymer on the back, “nevvy, my buoy! Thee bist th’ luckiest dog in Inglandt—champagne and purls—Ha! ha! ha!”