Phyllis Bottome: The Dark Tower

The night before the wedding, however, Lionel arrived in the midst of an altercation as to who had ordered the motor to meet the wrong train.

This lasted a long time because all the Staines, except Dolores, were gathered together, and it expanded unexpectedly into an attack on Charles, the eldest son, whose name had been coupled with that of a lady whose professional aptitudes were described as those of a manicurist. There was a moment when murder of a particularly atrocious and internecine character seemed the only possible outcome to the discussion – then Charles in a white fury found the door.

Before he had gone out of earshot Sir Peter asked Lionel what his father would do if presented with a possible daughter-in-law so markedly frail? Sir Peter seemed to be laboring under the delusion that he had been weakly favorable to his son’s inclinations, and that any other father would have expressed himself more forcibly. Lionel was saved from the awkwardness of disagreeing with him by an unexpected remark from Lady Staines.

“A girl from some kind of a chemist’s shop,” she observed musingly. “I fancy she’s too good for Charles.”

Sir Peter, who was fond of Charles, said the girl was probably not from a chemist’s shop; and described to the horror of the butler, who had entered to prepare the tea-table, just what kind of a place she probably was from.

Lady Staines looked at Winn, and said she didn’t see that it was much worse to marry a manicure girl than one who looked like a manequin. They were neither of them types likely to do credit to the family. Winn replied that, as far as that went, bad clothes and good morals did not always go together. He was prepared apparently with an apt illustration, when Isabella’s husband, the Rev. Mr. Betchley, asked feebly if he might go up-stairs to rest.

It was quite obvious to everybody that he needed it.

The next morning at breakfast the manicure girl was again discussed, but in a veiled way so as not really to upset Charles before the wedding.

Winn escaped immediately afterwards with Lionel. They went for a walk, most of which was conducted in silence; finally, however, they found a log, took out their pipes, and made themselves comfortable.

Lionel said, “I wish I’d seen Miss Fanshawe; it must be awfully jolly for you, Winn.”

Winn was silent for a minute or two, then he began, slowly gathering impetus as he went on: “Well – yes, of course, in a sense it is. I mean, I know I’m awfully lucky and all that, only – you see, old chap, I’m frightfully ignorant of women. I know one sort of course – a jolly sight better than you do – but girls! Hang it all, I don’t know girls. That’s what worries me – she’s such a little thing.” He paused a moment. “I hope it’s all right,” he said, “marrying her. It seems pretty rough on them sometimes, I think – don’t you – I fancy she’s delicate and all that.” Lionel nodded. “It does seem rather beastly,” he admitted, “their having to have a hard time, I mean – but if they care for you – I suppose it works out all right.” Winn paid no attention to this fruitless optimism. He went on with his study of Estelle. “She’s – she’s religious too, you know, that’s why we’re to have that other service first. Rather nice idea, I think, don’t you, what? Makes it a bit of a strain for her though I’m afraid, but she’d never think of that. I’m sure she’s plucky.” Lionel also was quite sure Estelle must be plucky.

“Fancy you getting married,” Lionel said suddenly. “I can’t see it somehow.”

“I feel it funny myself,” Winn admitted. “You see, it’s so damned long, and I never have seen much of women. I hope she won’t expect me to talk a lot or anything of that kind. Her people, you know, chatter like so many magpies – just oozes out of ’em.”

“We must be off,” Lionel said.

They stood up, knocked the ashes out of their pipes, and prepared to walk on.

It was a mild June day, small vague hills stretched behind them, and before them soft, lawn-like fields fell away to the river’s edge.

Everywhere the green of trees in a hundred tones of color and with delicate, innumerable leaf shadows, laid upon the landscape, the fragrance and lightness of the spring.

They were in a temperate land, every yard of it was cultivated and civilized, immensely lived on and understood. None of it had been neglected or was dangerous or strange to the eye of man.

Simultaneously the thought flashed between them of other lands and of sharper vicissitudes; they saw again bleak passes which were cruel death traps, and above them untrodden alien heights; they felt the solemn vastness of the interminable, flawless snows. They kept their eyes away from each other – but they knew what each other was feeling, adventure and danger were calling to them – the old sting and thrill of an unending trail; and then from a little hollow in the guarded hills rang out the wedding bells.

Lionel looked a little shyly at his chief. “I wonder,” he said, as Winn made no response, “if we can ever do things – things together again, I mean – I should like to think we could.” Winn gave him a quick look and moved hastily ahead over the field path toward the church. “Why the devil shouldn’t we?” he threw back at Lionel over his shoulder.

Estelle’s wedding was a great success, but this was not surprising when one realized how many years had been spent in preparation for it. Estelle was only twenty-three, but for the last ten years she had known that she would marry, and she had thought out every detail of the ceremony except the bridegroom. You could have any kind of a bridegroom – men were essentially imperfect – but you need have only one kind of ceremony, and that could be ideal.

Estelle had visualized everything from the last pot of lilies – always Annunciation ones, not Arum, which look pagan – at the altar to the red cloth at the door. There were to be rose-leaves instead of rice; the wedding was to be in June, with a tent in the garden and strawberries.

If possible, she would be married by a bishop; if not, by a dean. The bishop having proved too remote, the dean had to do. But he was a fine-looking man, and would be made a bishop soon, so Estelle did not really mind. The great thing was to have gaiters on the lawn afterward.

The day was perfect. Estelle woke at her usual hour in the morning, her heart was beating a little faster than it generally did, and then she remembered with a pang of joy the perfect fit of her wedding-gown hanging in the wardrobe. She murmured to herself:

“One love, one life.” She was not thinking of Winn, but she had always meant to say that on her wedding morning.

Then she had early tea. Her mother came in and kissed her, and Estelle implored her not to fuss, and above all not to get red in the face before going to church, where she was to wear a mauve hat.

It was difficult for Mrs. Fanshawe not to fuss, Estelle was the most expensive of her children and in a way the most important; for if she wasn’t pleased it was always so dreadful. There were half a dozen younger children and any of them might do something tiresome.

Estelle arrived at the church five minutes late, on her father’s arm, followed by four little bridesmaids in pink and white, and four little pages in blue and white. The effect was charming.

The village church was comfortably full, and with her eyes modestly cast down Estelle managed to see that all the right people were there, including the clergyman’s daughters, whom she had always hated.

The Fanshawes and her mother’s relations the Arnots had come down from town. They all looked very prosperous people with good dressmakers and tailors, and most of them had given her handsome silver wedding presents or checks.