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like customers. Nor is there compensating influence in the adorable bridesmaids; for, having very little interest in the bride, and none at all in one another, those lovely beings become, each one of her own account, depreciatingly contemplative of the millinery present; while the bridegroom's man, exhausted, in the back of his chair, appears to be improving the occasion by penitentially contemplating all the wrong he has ever done; the difference between him and his friend Eugene, being, that the latter,

       in the back of HIS chair, appears to be contemplating all the wrong he would like to do--particularly to the present company.

       In which state of affairs, the usual ceremonies rather droop and flag, and the splendid cake when cut by the fair hand of the bride has but an indigestible appearance. However, all the things indispensable to be said are said, and all the things indispensable to be done are done (including Lady Tippins's yawning, falling asleep, and waking insensible), and there is hurried preparation for the nuptial journey to the Isle of Wight, and the outer air teems with brass bands and spectators. In full sight of whom, the malignant star

       of the Analytical has pre-ordained that pain and ridicule shall befall him. For he, standing on the doorsteps to grace the departure, is suddenly caught a most prodigious thump on the side of his head with a heavy shoe, which a Buffer in the hall, champagne-flushed and wild of aim, has borrowed on the spur of the moment from the pastrycook's porter, to cast after the departing pair as an auspicious omen.

       So they all go up again into the gorgeous drawing-rooms--all of them flushed with breakfast, as having taken scarlatina sociably-- and there the combined unknowns do malignant things with their legs to ottomans, and take as much as possible out of the splendid furniture. And so, Lady Tippins, quite undetermined whether today is the day before yesterday, or the day after tomorrow, or the week after next, fades away; and Mortimer Lightwood and Eugene fade away, and Twemlow fades away, and the stoney aunt goes

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       away--she declines to fade, proving rock to the last--and even the unknowns are slowly strained off, and it is all over.

       All over, that is to say, for the time being. But, there is another time to come, and it comes in about a fortnight, and it comes to Mr and Mrs Lammle on the sands at Shanklin, in the Isle of Wight.

       Mr and Mrs Lammle have walked for some time on the Shanklin sands, and one may see by their footprints that they have not walked arm in arm, and that they have not walked in a straight track, and that they have walked in a moody humour; for, the lady has prodded little spirting holes in the damp sand before her with her parasol, and the gentleman has trailed his stick after him. As if he were of the Mephistopheles family indeed, and had walked with a drooping tail.

       'Do you mean to tell me, then, Sophronia--'

       Thus he begins after a long silence, when Sophronia flashes fiercely, and turns upon him.

       'Don't put it upon ME, sir. I ask you, do YOU mean to tell me?'

       Mr Lammle falls silent again, and they walk as before. Mrs Lammle opens her nostrils and bites her under-lip; Mr Lammle takes his

       gingerous whiskers in his left hand, and, bringing them together, frowns furtively at his beloved, out of a thick gingerous bush.

       'Do I mean to say!' Mrs Lammle after a time repeats, with indignation. 'Putting it on me! The unmanly disingenuousness!'

       Mr Lammle stops, releases his whiskers, and looks at her. 'The what?'

       Mrs Lammle haughtily replies, without stopping, and without looking back. 'The meanness.'

       He is at her side again in a pace or two, and he retorts, 'That is not what you said. You said disingenuousness.'

       'What if I did?'

       'There is no "if " in the case. You did.'

       'I did, then. And what of it?'

       'What of it?' says Mr Lammle. 'Have you the face to utter the word to me?'

       'The face, too!' replied Mrs Lammle, staring at him with cold scorn. 'Pray, how dare you, sir, utter the word to me?'

       'I never did.'

       As this happens to be true, Mrs Lammle is thrown on the feminine resource of saying, 'I don't care what you uttered or did not ut-ter.'

       After a little more walking and a little more silence, Mr Lammle breaks the latter.

       'You shall proceed in your own way. You claim a right to ask me do I mean to tell you. Do I mean to tell you what?'

       'That you are a man of property?'

       'No.'

       'Then you married me on false pretences?'

       'So be it. Next comes what you mean to say. Do you mean to say you are a woman of property?'

       'No.'

       'Then you married me on false pretences.'

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       'If you were so dull a fortune-hunter that you deceived yourself, or if you were so greedy and grasping that you were over-willing to be deceived by appearances, is it my fault, you adventurer?' the lady demands, with great asperity.

       'I asked Veneering, and he told me you were rich.'

       'Veneering!' with great contempt.' And what does Veneering know about me!'

       'Was he not your trustee?'

       'No. I have no trustee, but the one you saw on the day when you fraudulently married me. And his trust is not a very difficult one, for it is only an annuity of a hundred and fifteen pounds. I think there are some odd shillings or pence, if you are very particular.'

       Mr Lammle bestows a by no means loving look upon the partner of his joys and sorrows, and he mutters something; but checks

       himself.

       'Question for question. It is my turn again, Mrs Lammle. What made you suppose me a man of property?'

       'You made me suppose you so. Perhaps you will deny that you always presented yourself to me in that character?'

       'But you asked somebody, too. Come, Mrs Lammle, admission for admission. You asked somebody?'

       'I asked Veneering.'

       'And Veneering knew as much of me as he knew of you, or as anybody knows of him.'

       After more silent walking, the bride stops short, to say in a passionate manner:

       'I never will forgive the Veneerings for this!'

       'Neither will I,' returns the bridegroom.

       With that, they walk again; she, making those angry spirts in the sand; he, dragging that dejected tail. The tide is low, and seems to have thrown them together high on the bare shore. A gull comes sweeping by their heads and flouts them. There was a golden surface on the brown cliffs but now, and behold they are only damp earth. A taunting roar comes from the sea, and the far-out rollers mount upon one another, to look at the entrapped impostors, and to join in impish and exultant gambols.

       'Do you pretend to believe,' Mrs Lammle resumes, sternly, 'when you talk of my marrying you for worldly advantages, that it was within the bounds of reasonable probability that I would have married you for yourself ?'

       'Again there are two sides to the question, Mrs Lammle. What do you pretend to believe?'

       'So you first deceive me and then insult me!' cries the lady, with a heaving bosom.

       'Not at all. I have originated nothing. The double-edged question was yours.'

       'Was mine!' the bride repeats, and her parasol breaks in her angry hand.

       His colour has turned to a livid white, and ominous marks have come to light about his nose, as if the finger of the very devil himself had, within the last few moments, touched it here and there. But he has repressive power, and she has none.

       'Throw it away,' he coolly recommends as to the parasol; 'you have made it useless; you look ridiculous with it.'

       Whereupon she calls him in her rage, 'A deliberate villain,' and so casts the broken thing from her as that it strikes him in falling. The

      

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