so it was a settled thing between margaret dacre and geoffrey ludlow. she had acceded to his earnest demand--demand thrice repeated--after due consideration and delay, and she was to become his wife forthwith. indeed, their colloquy on that delicious moonlight evening would have been brought to a conclusion much sooner than it was, had not geoff stalwartly declared and manfully held to his determination, spite of every protest, not to go until they had settled upon a day on which to be married. he did not see the use of waiting, he said; it would get buzzed about by the flexors; and all sorts of impertinent remarks and congratulations would be made, which they could very well do without. of course, as regarded herself, margaret would want a--what do you call it?--outfit, _trousseau_, that was the word. but it appeared to him that all he had to do was to give her the money, and all she had to do was to go out and get the things she wanted, and that need not take any time, or hinder them from naming a day--well, let us say in next week. he himself had certain little arrangements to make; but he could very well get through them all in that time. and what did margaret say?
margaret did not say very much. she had been lying perfectly tranquil in geoffrey's arms; a position which, she said, first gave her assurance that her new life had indeed begun. she should be able to realise it more fully, she thought, when she commenced in a home of her own, and in a fresh atmosphere; and as the prying curiosity of the flexors daily increased, and as little flotsam street, with its normal pavement of refuse and its high grim house-rows scarcely admitting any light, was an objectionable residence, she could urge no reason for delay. so a day at the end of the ensuing week was fixed upon; and no sooner had it been finally determined than geoff, looking round at preparations which were absolutely necessary, was amazed at their number and magnitude.
he should be away a fortnight, he calculated, perhaps longer; and it was necessary to apprise the families and the one or two "ladies' colleges" in which he taught drawing of his absence. he would also let stompff know that he would not find him in his studio during the next few days (for it was the habit of this great _entrepreneur_ to pay frequent visits to his _protégés_, just to "give 'em a look-up," as he said; but in reality to see that they were not doing work for any opposition dealer); but he should simply tell stompff that he was going out of town for a little change, leaving that worthy to imagine that he wanted rest after his hard work. and then came a point at which he hitched up at once, and was metaphorically thrown on his beam-ends. what was he to say to his mother and sister and to his intimate friends?
to the last, of course, there was no actual necessity to say any thing, save that he knew he must have some one to "give away" the bride, and he would have preferred one of his old friends, even at the risk of an explanation, to flexor, hired for five shillings, and duly got up in the costume of the old english gentleman. but to his mother and sister it was absolutely necessary that some kind of notice should be given. it was necessary they should know that the little household, which, despite various small interruptions, had been carried on so long in amity and affection, would be broken up, so far as he was concerned; also necessary that they should know that his contribution to the household income would remain exactly the same as though he still partook of its benefits. he had to say all this; and he was as frightened as a child. he thought of writing at first, and of leaving a letter to be given to his mother after the ceremony was over; of giving a bare history in a letter, and an amount of affection in the postscript which would melt the stoniest maternal heart. but a little reflection caused him to think better of this notion, and determined him to seek an interview with his mother. it was due to her, and he would go through with it.
so one morning, when he had watched his sister til safe off into a prolonged diplomatic controversy with the cook, involving the reception of divers ambassadors from the butcher and other tradespeople, geoff made his way into his mother's room, and found her knitting something which might have been either an antimacassar for a giant or a counterpane for a child, and at once intimated his pleasure at finding her alone, as he had "something to say to her."
this was an ominous beginning in mrs. ludlow's ears, and her "cross" at once stood out visibly before her; constantine himself had never seen it plainer. the mere pronunciation of the phrase made her nervous; she ought to have "dropped one and taken up two;" but her hands got complicated, and she stopped with a knitting-needle in mid-air.
"if you're alluding to the butcher's book, geoffrey," she said, "i hold myself blameless. it was understood, thoroughly understood, that it should be eightpence a pound all round; and if smithers chooses to charge ninepence-halfpenny for lamb, and you allow it, i don't hold myself responsible. i said to your sister at the time--i said, 'matilda, i'm sure geoffrey--'"
"it's not that, mother, i want to talk to you about," said geoff, with a half-smile "it's a bigger subject than the price of butcher's meat. i want to talk to you about myself--about my future life."
"very well, geoffrey; that does not come upon me unawares. i am a woman of the world. i ought to be, considering the time i had with your poor father; and i suppose that now you're making a name, you'll find it necessary to entertain. he did, poor fellow, though it's little enough name or money he ever made! but if you want to see your friends round you, there must be help in the kitchen. there are certain things--jellies, and that like--that must come from the pastry-cook's; but all the rest we can do very well at home with a little help in the kitchen."
"you don't comprehend me yet, mother. i--i'm going to leave you."
"to leave us!--o, to live away! very well, geoffrey," said the old lady, bridling up; "if you've grown too grand to live with your mother, i can only say i'm sorry for you. though i never saw my name in print in the _times_ newspaper, except among the marriages; and if that's to be the effect it has upon me, i hope i never shall."
"my dear mother, how _can_ you imagine any thing so absurd! the truth is--"
"o yes, geoffrey, i understand. ive not lived or sixty years in the world for nothing. not that there's been ever the least word said about your friends coming pipe-smoking at all times of the night, or hot water required for spirits when emma was that dead with sleep she could scarcely move; nor about young persons--female models you call them--trolloping misses i say."
it is worthy of remark that in all business matters mrs. ludlow was accustomed to treat her son as a cipher, forgetting that two-thirds of the income by which the house was supported were contributed by him. there was no thought of this, however, in honest old geoff's mind as he said,
"mother, you won't hear me out! the fact is, i'm going to be married."
"to be married, geoffrey!" said the old lady, in a voice that was much softer and rather tremulous; "to be married, my dear boy! well, that is news!" her hands trembled as she laid them on his big shoulders and put up her face to kiss him. "well, well, to be sure! i never thought you'd marry now, geoffrey. i looked upon you as a confirmed old bachelor. and who is it that has caught you at last? not miss sanders, is it?"
geoffrey shook his head.
"i thought not. no, that would never do. nice kind of girl too; but if we're to hold our heads so high when all our money comes out of sugar-hogsheads in thames street, why where will be the end of it, i should like to know? it isn't miss hall?"
geoffrey repeated his shake.
"well, i'm glad of it; not but what i'm very fond of emily hall; but that half-pay father of hers! i shouldn't like some of the people about here to know that we were related to a half-pay captain with a wooden leg; and he'd be always clumping about the house, and be horrible for the carpets! well, if it isn't minnie beverley, i'll give it up; for you'd never go marrying that tall dickenson, who's more like a dromedary than a woman!"
"it is not minnie beverley, nor the young lady who's like a dromedary," said geoff, laughing. "the young lady i am going to marry is a stranger to you; you have never even seen her."
"never seen her! o geoff!" cried the old lady, with horror in her face, "you're never going to marry one of those trolloping models, and bring her home to live with us?"
"no, no, mother; you need be under no alarm. this young lady, who is from the country, is thoroughly ladylike and well educated. but i shall not bring her home to you; we shall have a house of our own."
"and what shall we do, til and i? o, geoffrey, i shall never have to go into lodgings at my time of life, shall i, and after having kept house and had my own plate and linen for so many years?"
"mother, do you imagine i should increase my own happiness at the expense of yours? of course you'll keep this house, and all arrangements will go on just the same as usual, except that i sha'n't be here to worry you."
"you never worried me, my dear," said the old lady, as all his generosity and noble unselfishness rose before her mind; "you never worried me, but have been always the best of sons; and pray god that you may be happy, for you deserve it." she put her arms round his neck and kissed him fondly, while the tears trickled down her cheeks. "ah, here's til," she continued, drying her eyes; "it would never do to let her see me being so silly."
"o, here you are at last!" said miss til, who, as they both noticed, had a very high colour and was generally suffused about the face and neck; "what have you been conspiring about? the mater looks as guilty as possible, doesn't she, geoff? and you're not much better, sir. what is the matter?"
"i suspect you're simply attempting the authoritative to cover your own confusion, til. there's something--"
"no, no! i won't be put off in that manner! what _is_ the matter?"
"there's nothing the matter, my dear," said mrs. ludlow, who by this time had recovered her composure; "though there is some great news. geoffrey's going to be married!"
"what!" exclaimed miss til, and then made one spring into his arms. "o, you darling old geoff, you don't say so? o, how quiet you have kept it, you horrible hypocrite, seeing us day after day and never breathing a word about it! now, who is it, at once? stop, shall i guess? is it any one i know?"
"no one that you know."
"o, i am so glad! do you know, i think i hate most people i know--girls, i mean; and i'm sure none of them are nice enough for my geoff. now, what's she like, geoff?"
"o, i don't know."
"that's what men always say--so tiresome! is she dark or fair?"
"well, fair, i suppose."
"and what coloured hair and eyes?"
"eh? well, her hair is red, i think."
"red! lor, geoff! what they call carrots?"
"no; deep-red, like red gold--"
"o, geoff, i know, i know! like the scylla in the picture. o, you worse than fox, to deceive me in that way, telling me it was a model, and all the rest of it. well, if she's like that, she must be wonderful to look at, and i'm dying to see her. what's her name?"
"margaret."
"margaret! that's very nice; i like margaret very much. of course you'll never let yourself be sufficiently childishly spoony to let it drop into peggy, which is atrocious. i'm very glad she's got a nice name; for, do all i could, i'm certain i never could like a sister-in-law who was called belinda or keziah, or any thing dreadful."
"have you fixed your wedding-day, geoffrey?"
"yes, mother; for thursday next."
"thursday!" exclaimed miss til. "thursday next? why there'll be no time for me to get anything ready; for i suppose, as your sister, geoff, i'm to be one of the bridesmaids?"
"there will be no bridesmaids, dear til," said geoffrey; "no company, no breakfast. i have always thought that, if ever i married, i should like to walk into the church with my bride, have the service gone through, and walk out again, without the least attempt at show; and i'm glad to find that margaret thoroughly coincides with me."
"but surely, geoffrey," said mrs. ludlow, "your friends will--"
"o my! talking of friends," interrupted miss til, "i quite forgot in all this flurry to tell you that mr. charles potts is in the drawing-room, waiting to see you, geoffrey."
"dear me! is he indeed? ah, that accounts for a flushed face--"
"don't be absurd, geoff! shall i tell him to come here?"
"you may if you like; but don't come back with him, as i want five minutes' quiet talk with him."
so mrs. ludlow and her daughter left the studio, and in a few minutes charley potts arrived. as he walked up to geoffrey and wrung his hand, both men seemed under some little constraint. geoff spoke first.
"i'm glad you're here, charley. i should have gone up to your place if you hadn't looked in to-day. i have something to tell you, and something to ask of you."
"tell away, old boy; and as for the asking, look upon it as done,--unless it's tin, by the way; and there i'm no good just now."
"charley, i'm going to be married next thursday to margaret dacre--the girl we found fainting in the streets that night of the titians."
geoff expected some exclamation, but his friend only nodded his head.
"she has told me her whole life: insisted upon my hearing it before i said a word to her; made me wait a week after i had asked her to be my wife, on the chance that i should repent; behaved in the noblest way."
geoffrey again paused, and mr. potts again nodded.
"we shall be married very quietly at the parish-church here; and there will be nobody present but you. i want you to come; will you?"
"will i? why, old man, we've been like brothers for years; and to think that i'd desert you at a time like this! i--i didn't quite mean that, you know; but if not, why not? you know what i do mean."
"thanks, charley. one thing more: don't talk about it until after it's over. i'm an awkward subject for chaff, particularly such chaff as this would give rise to. you may tell old bowker, if you like; but no one else."
and mr. potts went away without delivering that tremendous philippic with which he had come charged. perhaps it was his conversation with miss til in the drawing-room which had softened his manners and prevented him from being brutal.
they were married on the following thursday; margaret looking perfectly lovely in her brown-silk dress and white bonnet charley potts could not believe her to be the haggard creature in whose rescue he had assisted; and simple old william bowker, peering out from between the curtains of a high pew, was amazed at her strange weird beauty. the ceremony was over; and geoff, happy and proud, was leading his wife down the steps of the church to the fly waiting for them, when a procession of carriages, coachmen and footmen with white favours, and gaily-clad company, all betokening another wedding, drove up to the door. the bride and her bridesmaids had alighted, and the bridegroom's best-man, who with his friend had just jumped out of his cabriolet, was bowing to the bridesmaids as geoff and margaret passed. he was a pleasant airy fellow, and seeing a pretty woman coming down the steps, he looked hard at her. their eyes met, and there was something in margaret's glance which stopped him in the act of raising his hand to his hat. geoffrey saw nothing of this; he was waving his hand to bowker, who was standing by; and they passed on to the fly.
"come on, algy!" called out the impatient intended bridegroom; "they'll be waiting for us in the church. what on earth are you staring at?"
"nothing, dear old boy!" said algy barford, who was the best man just named,--"nothing but a resurrection!--only a resurrection; by jove, that's all!"
