MARRIAGE IN HIGH LIFE.
How curiously different things look to each of us according to our particular point of view! While Faith and Paul at Hillborough and in London were reflecting seriously how to make things decent for the Thistleton family at the approaching ceremony, the Thistletons in turn, in their opulent mansion in the Park at Sheffield, were all agog with the unwonted excitement of preparation for their Charlie’s marriage with the sister of Sir Paul Gascoyne, Fifteenth Baronet.
“The wedding must be in London, of course,” Mrs. Thistleton said musingly — she was a comfortable body of a certain age, with a material plenitude of face and figure; “and Sir Paul’ll give her away himself, you maybe certain. I suppose they won’t want it to be at Hillborough, Charlie? I’d much rather, for my part, you should be married in London.”
“I think Faith would prefer it, too,” Thistleton answered, smiling. “You must remember, mother dear, I’ve always told you, they live in a very quiet way of their own down at Hillborough; and I fancy they’d rather we were married — well, away from the place, of course, where they’ve just lost their poor father.”
“Naturally,” Mrs. Thistleton went on, still turning over with those matronly hands of hers the patterns for her new silk dress for the occasion, sent by post that morning — the richest Lyons — from Swan & Edgar’s. “There’ll be an account of it in the World, I suppose, and in the Morning Post, and the bride’s dress’ll be noticed in the Queen. I declare I shall feel quite nervous. But I suppose Sir Paul will be affable, won’t he?”
Her son laughed good-humoredly. “Gascoyne’s a first-rate fellow,” he answered, unabashed; “but I can hardly imagine his being affable to anybody. To be affable’s to be condescending, and Gascoyne’s a great deal too shy and retiring himself ever to dream of condescending to, or patronizing anyone.
“Well, I hope Faith won’t give herself any airs,” Mrs. Thistleton continued, laying four fashionable shades of silk side by side in the sunlight for critical comparison; “because your father’s a man who won’t stand airs; and I should be very sorry if she was to annoy him in any way. It’s a great pity she couldn’t have come up to stay with us beforehand, so that we might all have got to know a little about her and not be so afraid of her.”
“It would have been impossible,” Thistleton replied, gazing across at his mother with an amused air. “But I wish I could disabuse your mind of these ideas about the Gascoynes. Paul and Faith will be a great deal more afraid of you than you are of them; and as to Faith giving herself airs, dear girl, she’ll be so awfully frightened, when she comes to stay here, at the size of the house and the number of the servants, that I wouldn’t for worlds have had her come to visit us before she’s married, or else I’m certain she’d try to cry off again the moment she arrived, from pure nervousness.”
“Well, I’m sure I hope you’re right,” Mrs. Thistleton replied, selecting finally the exact shade that suited her complexion, and laying it down by itself on the costly inlaid table that stood beside the Oriental ottoman in the alcove by the bay window. “For though, of course, one naturally likes to be connected with people of title, and all that, one doesn’t want them to trample one under foot in return for all one’s consideration.”
But at the very same moment, away over at Hillborough, Faith, as she sat in her simple black frock by the window of her new lodgings, stitching away at the skirt of her wedding-dress with aching fingers, was remarking to her mother:
“What I am afraid of, dear, is that, perhaps, Charlie’s father and mother will turn out, when one comes to know them, to be nothing more or less than nasty rich people.”
To which her mother wisely answered:
“If they’re like himself, Faith, I don’t think you need be afraid of them.”
In accordance with the wish of both the high contracting parties it had been finally arranged that the wedding should take place in London. Mr. Thistleton, senior, therefore went up to town a week or two in advance, “to consult with Sir Paul,” whom he was able to guarantee in his letter to his wife the same evening as “extremely amicable.” But it would be out of the question, the Master Cutler observed, when he saw the Fifteenth Baronet’s present abode, that Miss Gascoyne should be married from her brother’s chambers. (Mr. Thistleton, senior, influenced by somewhat the same motives as Mr. Lionel Solomons, wrote “chambers” in place of “lodgings” even to his wife, because he felt the simplicity of the latter word unsuitable to the Fifteenth Baronet’s exalted dignity.) So he had arranged with Sir Paul — much against Sir Paul’s original wish — to take rooms for the breakfast at a West-End hotel, whither the bridal party would proceed direct from the altar of St. George’s. Of course, the ceremony was to be the simplest possible — only a few very intimate friends of either family; but the Master Cutler couldn’t forbear the pleasure of the breakfast at the hotel, and the display of Sir Paul in the full glory of his Fifteenth Baronetcy, before the admiring eyes of a small but select Sheffield audience. If they smuggled their Baronet away in a corner, why their Charlie might almost as well have married any other girl whose name was not to be found in the pages of the British book of honor. To all these suggestions Paul at last gave way, though very unwillingly, and even consented to invite a few common Oxford friends of his own and Thistleton’s, including, of course, the invaluable Mrs. Douglas.
From the very first moment of Paul’s return from Hillborough, however, it began to strike him with vague surprise and wonder what an immense difference in people’s treatment and conception of him was implied by his possession of that empty little prefix of a barren Sir before the name bestowed upon him by his sponsors at his baptism. When he took the dingy lodgings in the by-way off Gower Street, and handed the landlady’s daughter one of the cards Mr. Solomons had so vainly provided for him, with “Sir Paul Gascoyne” written in very neat copperplate upon their face, he was amused and surprised at the instantaneous impression his title produced upon the manners and address of that glib young lady. The shrill voice in which she had loudly proclaimed to him the advantages of the rooms, the cheap price of coals per scuttle, the immediate proximity of the Wesleyan chapel, and the excellence of the goods purveyed by appointment at the neighboring beef and ham shop, sank down at once to an awe-struck “Yes, Sir; I’m sure we’ll do everything we can to make you comfortable, Sir,” the moment her eyes lighted on the talismanic prefix that adorned his name on that enchanted pasteboard.
A few days later Paul decided with regret, after many observations upon his scanty wardrobe, that he really couldn’t do without a new coat for Faith’s wedding. But when he presented himself in due course at the little tailor’s shop in the city (“specially recommended by Mr. Solomons”), where he had dealt ever since his first appearance at Oxford, he noticed that the news of his acquisition of dignity had already preceded him into the cutting and fitting room by the unwonted obsequiousness of both master and assistants as they displayed their patterns. “Yes, Sir Paul; no, Sir Paul,” greeted every remark that fell from his lips with unvarying servility. It was the same everywhere. Paul was astonished to find in what another world he seemed to live now from that which had voted him a scallywag at Mentone.
To himself he was still the same simple, shy, timid, sensitive person as ever; but to everyone else he appeared suddenly transfigured into the resplendent image of Sir Paul Gascoyne, Fifteenth Baronet.
Strangest of all, a day or two before the date announced for the wedding in the Morning Post (for Mr. Thistleton, senior, had insisted upon conveying information of the forthcoming fashionable event to the world at large through the medium of that highly respected journal), Paul was astonished at receiving a neatly written note on a sheet of paper with the embossed address, “Gascoyne Manor, Haverfordwest, Pembrokeshire.” It was a polite intimation from the present owner of the Gascoyne estates that, having heard of St. Paul’s accession to the baronetcy, and of his sister’s approaching marriage to Mr. G. E. Thistleton of Christ Church, Oxford, he would esteem it a pleasure if he might be permitted to heal the family breach by representing the other branch of the Gascoyne house in his own proper person at the approaching ceremony. Paul looked at the envelope; it had been readdressed from Christ Church. For the first time in his life he smiled to himself a cynical smile. It was evident that Gascoyne of Gascoyne Manor, while indisposed to admit his natural relationship to the Hillborough cabman, was not unalive to the advantages of keeping up his dormant connection with Sir Paul Gascoyne, of Christ Church, Oxford, Fifteenth Baronet.
However, it appeared to Paul on two accounts desirable to accept the olive branch thus tardily held out to him by the other division of the Gascoyne family. In the first place, he did not desire to be on bad terms with anyone, including even his own relations. In the second place, he wished for the Thistletons’ sake that some elder representative of the Gascoyne stock should be present, if possible, at his sister’s wedding. His mother absolutely refused to attend, and neither Paul nor Faith had the courage to urge her to reconsider this determination. Their recent loss was sufficient excuse in itself to explain her absence. But Paul was not sorry that this other Gascoyne should thus luckily interpose to represent before the eyes of assembled Sheffield the senior branches of the bride’s family.
Nay, what was even more remarkable, Paul fancied the very editors themselves were more polite in their demeanor, and more ready to accept his proffered manuscripts, now that the perfect purity of his English style was further guaranteed by his accession to the baronetcy. Who, indeed, when one comes to consider seriously, should write our mother-tongue with elegance and correctness if not the hereditary guardians of the Queen’s English? And was it astonishing, therefore, if even the stern editorial mouth relaxed slightly when office-boys brought up the modest pasteboard which announced that Sir Paul Gascoyne, Baronet, desired the honor of a ten minutes’ interview? It sounds well in conversation, you know, “Sir Paul Gascoyne, one of our younger contributors — he writes those crisp little occasional reviews on the fourth page upon books of travel.” For the wise editor, who knows the world he lives in, will not despise such minor methods of indirectly establishing public confidence in the “good form” and thorough society tone of his own particular bantling of a journal.
Well, at last the wedding-day itself arrived, and Faith, who had come up from Hillborough the night before to stop at Paul’s lodgings, set out with her brother from that humble street, in the regulation coach, looking as pretty and dainty in her simple white dress as even Thistleton himself had ever seen her. They drove alone as far as the church; but when they entered, Paul was immensely surprised to see how large a crowd of acquaintances and friends the announcement in the papers had gathered together. Armitage was there, fresh back from Italy, where he had been spending the winter at Florence in the pursuit of Art; and Paul couldn’t help noticing the friendly way in which that arbiter of reputations nodded and smiled as Faith and he walked, tremulous, up the aisle together. The Douglases from Oxford were there, of course, and a dozen or two of undergraduates or contemporaries of Paul’s, who had rather despised the scallywag, than otherwise, while they were at college in his company. Isabel Boyton and her mamma occupied front seats, and smiled benignly upon poor trembling Faith as she entered. The kinsman Gascoyne, of Gascoyne Manor, met them in the chancel, and shook hands warmly — a large-built, well-dressed man of military bearing and most squirearchical proportions, sufficient to strike awe by his frock-coat alone into the admiring breasts of all beholders. The Sheffield detachment was well to the fore, also strong and eager; a throng of wealthy folk, with the cutlery stamp on face and figure, craning anxiously forward when the bride appeared, and whispering loud to one another in theatrical undertones, “That’s Sir Paul that’s leading her; oh, isn’t he just nice-looking!” Thistleton himself was there before them, very manly and modest in his wedding garment, and regarding Faith, as she faltered up the aisle, with a profound gaze of most unfeigned admiration. And everybody was pleased and good-humored and satisfied, even Mrs. Thistleton, senior, being fully set at rest, the moment she set eyes on Paul’s slim figure, as to the Fifteenth Baronet’s perfect affability.
It is much more important in life always what you’re called than what you are. He was just the very selfsame Paul Gascoyne as ever, but how differently now all the world regarded him!
As for Faith, when she saw the simple eager curiosity of the Sheffield folk, and their evident anxiety to catch her eye and attract her attention, her heart melted toward them at once within her. She saw in a moment they were not “nasty rich people,” but good honest kindly folk like herself, with real human hearts beating hard in their bosoms.
So Faith and Thistleton were duly proclaimed man and wife by the Reverend the Rector, assisted in his arduous task by the Reverend Henry Edward Thistleton, cousin of the bridegroom. And after the ceremony was finally finished, and the books signed, and the signatures witnessed, the bridal party drove away to the hotel where Mr. Thistleton, senior, had commanded lunch; and there they all fraternized in unwonted style, the Master Cutler proposing the bride’s health in a speech of the usual neatness and appropriateness, while Mr. Gascoyne, of Gascoyne Manor, performed the same good office for the bridegroom’s constitution. And the elder Thistletons rejoiced exceedingly in the quiet dignity of the whole proceedings; and even Faith (for a woman will always be a woman still) was glad in her heart that Mr. Gascoyne, of Gascoyne Manor, had lent them for the day the countenance of his greatness, and not left them to bear alone in their orphaned poverty the burden of the baronetcy. And in the afternoon, as the Morning Post next day succinctly remarked, “the bride and bridegroom left for Dover, en route for Paris, Rome, and Naples,” while Sir Paul Gascoyne, Fifteenth Baronet, returned by himself, feeling lonely indeed, to his solitary little lodgings in the road off Gower Street.
But it had been a very bright and happy day on the whole for the national schoolmistress. And when Mrs. Douglas kissed her on both her cheeks, and whispered, “My dear, I’m so glad you’ve married him!” Faith felt she had never before been so proud, and that Charlie was a man any girl in the world might well be proud of.