Chapter XIII

The person of whom Lily seemed to see least during the period of her engagement was the man whom she was to marry.

Jests about placing them beside one another at the many hospitable tables to which they were invited seemed to be inevitable, but each was obviously expected to talk and make acquaintance with the friends or relations of the other.

Everyone congratulated Lily whole-heartedly.

"He's awfully nice, Lily--he's got such a nice twinkle," said Dorothy Hardinge.

Now that Lily was really engaged, with a ring, and presents arriving every day, and a trousseau imminent, Dorothy was full of excitement, and appeared to have forgotten all her previous strictures.

Perhaps there was something infectious about the glamour surrounding a wedding.

Lily reflected naïvely that she had never before realized how impossible it would be to break off an engagement once it had been made known. Would one have to return all these glittering, shining presents, countermand all the things that had been ordered, write explanations to everybody, and an announcement to the papers so that one's change of mind should be made public? Surely nothing could be more utterly impossible. She had a strong suspicion that the mere imagining of such a contingency would unhesitatingly have been labelled as morbid by Miss Melody.

She abandoned it willingly.

A letter from Miss Melody, the reading of which was very like listening to Miss Melody's own deep voice, did much to confirm the surmise.

"Well, Lily dear, and so the die is cast! Shall you think me quite a witch, childie, if I confess that I wasn't _altogether astonished_ at the news, although very, _very_ much pleased?

"The love of a good man is a great thing. I am glad you look upon the responsibility that it entails upon you as a serious one. At the same time, however, don't let your thoughts dwell too much upon that side of it. Remember that 'the burden is fitted to the back!' Perhaps not very complimentary to Mr. Aubray, but you'll understand what I mean, dear child."

Lily could almost hear the low, rich laugh with which Miss Melody repudiated any uncomplimentary intent in the not very felicitous expression that she had selected.

Many other letters reached her, some of them from relations whom she had scarcely seen. Most of the writers seemed to have heard of Nicholas Aubray as a distinguished and clever man, some of them had even met him, and those who had not done so were as enthusiastic as those who had, since hearsay had endowed him so plentifully.

It was all very like a dream.

Nicholas urged an early wedding, and was rather timidly seconded by Philip.

"I am in favour of early marriages," said Philip, with his habitual air of affirming a theory in the hope of making himself believe in it.

"Yes, yes, yes--for the girl, certainly," said Charlie Hardinge.

Even without Cousin Charlie's tactful implication, it was evident that no one could suggest that Nicholas was making an early marriage.

"He isn't a widower, is he?" said Sylvia to Lily with an air of horrified apprehension.

"Oh no! How could you think so?" Lily was equally horrified.

"I thought he might be, as he's so old--and I must say I should hate to think of your doing anything like that!"

"So should I," said Lily with perfect sincerity. "I should want to be the only person that my--my husband had ever loved."

She was innocently consequential, and Janet Hardinge's scoffing laugh jarred on and surprised her.

"All that is stuff out of books. Nobody ever loves only one person, I don't believe. Not in a _long_ life, anyway."

"Of course, one cares for a lot of people," said Sylvia indignantly, "but Lily and I mean the falling-in-love sort of love. I should hope she _was_ the only girl he'd ever been in love with! I wouldn't marry a man unless _I_ was."

"Mother herself says that very few people ever marry their first love," said Janet quite firmly.

This led to a serious conversation with Cousin Ethel.

Lily did not exactly seek it, but she was ready to resign herself to what she supposed to be a necessity.

"You have no mother, poor child."

Ethel spoke the time-honoured _cliché_ very kindly.

"I am glad you are going to be married, Lily. After my own girls, I don't know that any engagement could have given me so much pleasure. Not only for your father's sake--though I'm delighted to see how happy it makes him--but for your own. Oh, my dear, make the most of your time. It's so wonderful to be young, and happy, and in love."

Lily tried to appear responsive, and was angry at the slight self-consciousness that alone possessed her as she tried to contemplate the causes for rejoicing enumerated by Mrs. Hardinge.

"You're a very, very lucky child. He's a man in a thousand, and it's a wonderful thing to have found one another in time. All the nicest men are generally married long before they're anywhere near his age."

"I suppose," said Lily, remembering Janet, "that I oughtn't to expect, perhaps, to be his first love?"

She looked at Mrs. Hardinge, hoping for reassurance.

"My dear child! Of course, there's love and love, you know. Men have their fancies, but it's the woman they want to marry who really counts. Has he ever told you about--about anything of that sort, in his life?"

"He told me he'd never asked anyone to marry him before."

"There!" cried Ethel in a tone of relief. "What more can you want? I think that's marvellous, at his age. And, Lily dear, let me give you a word of advice. You've no mother, poor child! Now that he's so generously and frankly told you that, you'll be content, won't you? I mean, don't go on and on asking him about the time before he knew you. Some girls are so foolish and wreck all their own happiness with that sort of thing. But I don't think you're like that, are you?"

Lily was puzzled, and also rather distressed. Was married life to contain merely a fresh series of those silences and reticences that had made life at home a thing of eternal difficulties?

It did not seem characteristic of Nicholas.

At last she said: "I should like us to tell one another everything, I think, Cousin Ethel."

Mrs. Hardinge burst into a rather nervous laugh.

"Oh, my dear little girl! Now I'm going to talk to you just as though it were Dorothy or Janet. You see, dear, men aren't the same as women and we mustn't expect it. Nicholas is--is a good man, you know, or your father wouldn't let you marry him. But no man can be expected to tell his wife everything, as you call it--especially when there is a difference in age."

Lily began to feel as though they were talking at cross-purposes.

"You must trust your husband, you know, dear," said Cousin Ethel.

"We do trust one another."

"I'm sure of it. And remember, Lily, that men know a great many things that women aren't expected to understand, and so you mustn't be disappointed if Nicholas has interests in which you can't altogether share. It's bound to be so, even in the very happiest marriages."

Lily felt vaguely disappointed. Her ideal of companionship had been otherwise, and no doubt Cousin Ethel would have joined with Miss Melody in apostrophizing it with that disparaging adjective, Romantic.

"You young things are always so romantic," cried Mrs. Hardinge, causing Lily to start guiltily. "Of course it's natural and right that you should be so, and one's glad of it. Dorothy is just like you, Lily, and so is even little Sylvia. Goodness knows I don't want any of you to be old before your time. I'm often worried about Janet, and the things she says. But you know, dear, it wouldn't be fair not to warn you that there's always something to put up with in marriage. There must be give and take on both sides. And it's a great change for a girl, too--naturally it is."

"What did you feel like when you were first married, Cousin Ethel?"

"I was very much in love," declared Mrs. Hardinge, "and so was Cousin Charlie. And we've been as happy as the day is long together. But of course there were things to put up with. I was one of a very large family. We lived in London at first, and my home was in Ireland and we were much too poor to go there and pay them visits as I should have liked to do. I remember at first, when Charlie was at the office all day, I used to wonder how I could bear the loneliness. The housekeeping didn't take any time at all, and I couldn't shop much, because we hadn't a penny to spare, and we couldn't afford a library subscription even, or a piano. I used to do a lot of sewing, and when it got dark, and I wanted to economize and save the gas bill, I used to sit and do nothing, and think about them all at home having a jolly time in the old schoolroom, and I don't mind telling you now, Lily, what no one ever knew, that I used sometimes to cry my eyes out with home-sickness."

"Oh, poor Cousin Ethel! And what did Cousin Charlie do?"

"He never knew anything about it. I wouldn't have let him know for the world. He would have thought I was unhappy."

Lily was more perplexed than ever. It seemed that because a wife was unhappy, it must at all costs be avoided that her husband should think her unhappy.

"Wouldn't he have understood?"

"I daresay he would. I'm sure he would have been very dear and kind. But men do dislike that kind of thing so much. You know, dear, a woman, after she's married, has to forget herself and think of her husband."

Lily had been taught to regard self-abnegation as a virtue, and she saw nothing but cause for shame in her own fleeting suspicion that it might in reality be nothing but a weakness.

"There's one thing, you won't have the wretched question of money to worry you. When I first married I had no allowance, and had to ask Charlie for every penny. Not that he ever grudged it, poor dear--far from it. But it used to make it so difficult, somehow, to ask for a shilling here and a shilling there--even though it was absolutely necessary. Of course later on, when we were a little better off, he gave me a fixed sum for the housekeeping, and I always saved on that. Charlie sometimes asked me how I'd managed to find a new bonnet, or some little thing for the babies, but I never told him very much about it." Ethel laughed reminiscently.

"Would he have minded?"

"Oh, I don't suppose so. But one never quite knows about money, with men. They're so odd about that sort of thing. And, of course, women don't know anything about money matters."

It seemed a pity that there should be so many things that women knew nothing about.

"Marriage is the only life for a woman, my dear. I hope all my three will marry. I can't tell you how sorry I am for women who are old maids--no interests, no children, very likely no home. Whereas a happy married life----" She paused expressively, and then said:

"You were too young to notice very much when your mother was still alive, but look at your father without her! He has never got over her loss. They were absolutely devoted to one another. Or if you want to know what really happily married people are like, Lily dear, you've only to look at _us_."

The contemplation of Mr. and Mrs. Hardinge left Lily still speechless.

Perhaps something of this dubious spirit showed in her face. At all events Mrs. Hardinge said very earnestly:

"Now don't mix up love and romance, Lily. They have nothing whatever to do with one another. You girls never seem to realize that, and then of course you're disappointed. Being in love is one thing, and a very right and natural and charming thing--but you mustn't expect to stay in love all the days of your life."

"I suppose not," said Lily doubtfully.

She had not the moral courage to suppose anything else, imbued as she was with the theory that it was both her duty and to her advantage to accept her opinions ready-made from her seniors.

"I don't want to sound hard and cynical, dear," said Ethel, looking harassed and motherly. "Of course you're in love with Nicholas and he with you, and it's the very happiest and most idyllic time that you'll ever know. I only meant to put you a little bit on your guard--after all.... No mother, poor child!"

It came in almost like the refrain of a song.

"And even if--when the actual glamour of falling in love is over, then, you know, there's something very much better that takes its place."

"What, Cousin Ethel?"

"Oh, my dear child! Love--trust--confidence--all the little ups and downs you've been through together--even the little quarrels. It all helps to draw you more closely together. Charlie and I laugh together now sometimes, at all sorts of funny things that happened to us years ago. It all helps."

Helps--what did it help?

Lily would not ask any further, because of a strange, sick feeling that kept on invading her and to which nothing would have induced her to give the name of dismay.

So that was love.

She felt ashamed and almost angry at the thought of her own secret, past dreams. Romantic, indeed. Miss Melody and Cousin Ethel, extremely unlike as they were, would most certainly have joined issue in kindly condemnation here. Both would alike have made use of the self-same words. Beware, foolish little child, of romance and of imagination alike.

Love was a thing of ephemeral excitements, greatly accrued self-importance, preparations, gifts, congratulations, a great deal of talk and discussion.

It was also a thing of rather bewildering demands and claims. Nicholas had the right to hold her hand now whenever he wanted to, and he always did so whenever they were alone together, playing with her engagement-ring, bending back the supple fingers, examining the tips of them, very often kissing them. He put his arm round her when they were together, frequently. He kissed her lips at each meeting and parting--sometimes he unexpectedly bent and touched her cheek or her forehead.

It had been a relief to Lily to find that his touch did not actually displease her, as did that of most people.

She was by temperament, she supposed, undemonstrative, but it disappointed her vaguely that certain latent possibilities in herself had not in any way been roused by Nicholas. She wished that there was anyone to whom she could turn for explanation.

But of course everybody would make the same humiliating accusation, and inform her regretfully that she was romantic. These wild, sweet dreams had been romantic, undoubtedly.

She had thought of love as a thing of flames and carnations--the odd, beautiful words had served her fancy instinctively. Something so wonderful that talk would spoil it. Or if there had to be talk and discussion and preparation, it would all pass by unheeded, because of something that mattered so infinitely more.

She had a curious idea that one would not care to have a wedding, and a beautiful lace veil, and all those presents. It would be more like an inevitable recognition of a great central fact in the whole universe, and then--what?

She hardly knew, but could formulate vaguely the picture of a going forth. The soft, dark-blue gloom of a summer night, and the trusted, hidden depths of a known and loved beech-wood, or the lashing wind of a grey, winter sky and the shelter of a flung cloak and the lee of a high boulder--what would it matter, which the setting were?

O folly, O romance! O shadows of Philip Stellenthorpe, tremulously proud of a future position, of Charlie and Ethel happily married and discussing the new asparagus-bed, and the children, and the ups and downs of their joint past, of Dorothy Hardinge, gaily pursuing her course of handy-pandy, eyesie-pysie and the rest of it, and yet frankly envious of Lily's new dignities!

Those were the real things, the real necessities, and so were the wedding preparations, and the beautiful ring, and the endless consultations over clothes and furniture and journeys....

The dreams were--just Romance, to be condemned and eschewed, now that Reality had come. And Cousin Ethel had said that this was the happiest and most idyllic time of Lily's life.

It was full of excitement, certainly.

"Lily dear, you'll have to settle about that blue brocade quickly, if you want to take it away with you. Of course, if you wait for it till you get back there's heaps of time."

"Oh, must I write another letter, Cousin Ethel?"

"Poor child, your hand must be tired. Janet can write it for you quite well if you tell her what to say."

And Janet, not at all unwillingly, was pressed into the service.

Lily's own sudden importance positively bewildered her.

"My dear child, the vicar wants to know your choice of hymns for the ceremony. Will you and Nicholas talk it over, and let me know as soon as you can? Nicholas will be here on Saturday, I suppose?"

"Yes, Father. You know you said every week-end until the wedding."

"Of course, my little pet, of course. I only wish he could give us more time; but after all, he'll want the holiday more, later on. How long are you hoping to be away?"

"He thinks he can spare a month quite well."

"That's excellent. It'll be a wonderful time for you both, my dear child."

"Lily, Lily!" Kenneth burst into the room. "There's another enormous parcel for you just come--it says _Glass_. Come and see what it is."

"A telegram for you, miss."

"Nicholas can't get away on Saturday, Father. He isn't coming."

"Dear me, how very disappointing. My poor, dear child!"

"He'll come next week-end, for certain."

Lily was actually experiencing an unacknowledged relief at the thought that the claims upon her time necessitated by the presence of Nicholas were at least postponed.

There were so many letters to be written, parcels to be unpacked, clothes to be tried on, and it was all so very important.

"That's my good little girl," said Philip, in a tone that expressed as much relief as though he had feared the outbreak of tears to be expected from a child disappointed of its treat.

Mrs. Hardinge was plain-spoken.

"Well, you'll see plenty of Nicholas after the wedding, and now you can get some of those letters off your mind, Lily. You can make them very short. Everybody knows that a bride never has time for long letters, and you simply must get everything finished up before the wedding."

Before the wedding--until the wedding--because of the wedding.

They all said that, in a frenzied sort of way which implied that the wedding was the final goal towards which Time itself was tending as to the ultimate bourne.

"After the wedding" was only alluded to as some remote period during which rest might obtain which must until then be utterly foregone. Lily's own imagination refused to entertain more than the crowding preoccupations of the present. She knew that she and Nicholas were going to Paris together, but all that she could realize was that by that time all the presents must be acknowledged, all the new frocks finished and packed up, and all the various business of the last few weeks finally accomplished.

The relief of it would be incalculable.

The last Saturday before the wedding-day brought Nicholas, but this time he stayed with the Hardinges. Lily saw him, alone, less than ever.

"Can't I see you in your wedding-dress, just for a minute?" he urged.

"Good gracious, no!" Cousin Ethel was horrified. "Don't you know it's unlucky? She isn't going to put it on again till she goes to the church. You'll see it then. And she looks lovely. It's the prettiest wedding-dress I've ever seen."

Lily thought of the misty whiteness of her wedding-dress, swathed in tissue paper, hanging alone in a large closet, with a dust-sheet spread upon the floor beneath it, across which lay the heavy gleaming folds of the embroidered train.

She could not believe that she was to wear it. On the eve of her wedding, the preparations all somehow miraculously completed, Lily was principally conscious of overpowering physical fatigue.

The wistfulness of an utterly over-wrought spirit possessed her, and she felt strangely inclined to tears.

"It will be a very sad house without you, little Lily," said her father pathetically.

"Oh, I hope not, Father."

"Well, well--I mustn't let my loneliness sadden your joy. You _are_ happy, my darling?"

"Very," said Lily in a choked voice.

"Remember that if you have the slightest doubt of your own feelings, it's not too late to say so. Even now, at the eleventh hour," said Philip solemnly. "It's not too late."

It was the first time that he had made any suggestion of the sort, and Lily was by this time quite incapable of viewing it as a practical possibility. The beautiful and costly wedding-dress hanging in the closet upstairs, the lace veil and the pearl necklace, the packed and corded trunks with new-painted initials, the very fact that within less than twenty-four hours a number of guests would be assembling in church, made it quite impossible to receive Philip's portentous warning as being more than a mere form of words.

It almost seemed as though he regarded it so himself, for when Lily murmured an inarticulate and meaningless reply he said:

"You've chosen a good man, and one to whom I am proud to give you."

He kissed and blessed her very kindly, rather as though it were part of some grave ritual.

"I approve your choice on behalf of your mother, as well as myself. If only she were here, Lily! Poor child, it's hard on you."

Philip suddenly began to fidget with whatever lay nearest to hand.

"You've had a little talk with Cousin Ethel?" he said meaningly.

Lily had had innumerable talks with Cousin Ethel, but a terrifying certainty suddenly invaded her that her father was alluding to none of them.

She said "Yes" nevertheless, and Philip said hastily: "That's right, that's right," and did not look at her.

Lily hoped fervently that there the mysterious question would be allowed to rest.

When Mrs. Hardinge sought her that evening, however, she knew that her hopes were futile.

Cousin Ethel looked at the wedding-dress, scrutinized the white gloves, told Lily to drink a glass of hot milk so that she might sleep, and then began to wander aimlessly round Lily's bedroom, straightening small pieces of furniture with a confused and absent air.

"Everything is absolutely ready, I think, and Dorothy and I will be round in good time to help you dress. You--you're all right, dear?"

"Yes, thank you, Cousin Ethel. I'm so tired I believe I shall go to sleep at once."

"That's right. Try and not think about anything, but just go off to sleep."

Cousin Ethel seemed to hesitate, picked up a packet of labels and put it down again, and said rather hoarsely:

"You mustn't be nervous, my dear. Poor little thing--I wish you had your mother. But it'll be quite all right really, you know."

Mrs. Hardinge gazed at her with an apprehensive look.

"You've lived in the country all your life, after all. You--you know----Well, dear," said Mrs. Hardinge in a sudden burst of courage, "after all--you've seen the animals."

The expression was perhaps infelicitous.

Lily, terrified and over-tired, began uncontrollably to cry.