 | CHAPTER XLII.
THE WEDDING AND THE TALK OVER THE PRAYER-BOOK. My wife and I, or, Harry Henderson's history |  |
42. CHAPTER XLII.
THE WEDDING AND THE TALK OVER THE PRAYER-BOOK.
IF novels are to be considered true pictures of real
life we must believe that the fall from wealth to
poverty is a less serious evil in America than in
any other known quarter of the world.
In English novels the failure of a millionaire is represented
as bringing results much the same as the commission
of an infamous crime. Poor old Mr. Sedley fails and
forthwith all his acquaintances cut him; nobody calls on
his wife or knows her in the street; the family who have
all along been courting his daughter for their son and kissing
the ground at her feet, now command the son to break
with her, and turn him out of doors for marrying her.
In America it is quite otherwise. A man fails without
losing friends, neighbors, and the consideration of society.
He moves into a modest house, finds some means of honest
livelihood, and everybody calls on his wife as before.
Friends and neighbors as they have opportunity are glad
to stretch forth a helping hand, and a young fellow who
should break his engagement with the daughter at such
a crisis would simply be scouted as infamous.
Americans have been called worshipers of the almighty
dollar, and they certainly are not backward in that species
of devotion, but still these well-known facts show that our
worship is not, after all, so absolute as that of other quarters
of the world.
Mr. Van Arsdel commanded the respect and sympathy
of the influential men of New York. The inflexible honesty
and honor with which he gave up all things to his
creditors won sympathy, and there was a united effort
House, which would give him a comfortable income. In
short, by the time that my wedding-day arrived, the family
might be held as having fallen from wealth into competence.
The splendid establishment on Fifth Avenue was
to be sold. It was, in fact, already advertised, and our
wedding was to be the last act of the family drama in it.
After that we were to go to my mother's, in the mountains
of New Hampshire, and Mr. Van Arsdel's family
were to spend the summer at the old farm-homestead
where his aged parents yet kept house.
Our wedding preparations therefore went forward with
a good degree of geniality on the part of the family, and
with many demonstrations of sympathy and interest on
the part of friends and relations. A genuine love-marriage
always and everywhere evokes a sort of instinctive
warmth and sympathy. The most worldly are fond
of patronizing it as a delightful folly, and as Eva had
been one of the most popular girls of her set she was
flooded with presents.
And now the day of days was at hand, and for the last
time I went up the steps of the Van Arsdel mansion to
spend a last evening with Eva Van Arsdel.
She met me at the door of her boudoir: “Harry, here
you are! oh, I have no end of things to tell you!—the
door bell has been ringing all day, and a perfect storm
of presents. We have duplicates of all the things that
nobody can do without. I believe we have six pie-knives
and four sugar-sifters and three egg-boilers and three
china hens to sit on eggs, and a perfect meteoric shower
of salt-cellars. I couldn't even count them.”
“Oh well! Salt is the symbol of hospitality,” said I,
“so we can't have too many.”
“And look here, Harry, the wedding-dress has come
home. Think of the unheard-of incomprehensible virtue
of Tullegig! I don't think she ever had a thing done in
time before in her life. Behold now!”
Sure enough! before me, arranged on a chair was a
satin.
“All this is Ida's gift. She insisted that she alone would
dress me for my wedding, and poor Tullegig actually has
outdone herself and worked over it with tears in her
eyes. Good soul! she has a heart behind all her finery,
and really seems to take to me especially, perhaps because
I've been such a model of patience in waiting at
her doors, and never scolded her for any of her tricks.
In fact, we girls have been as good as an annuity to
Tullegig; no wonder she mourns over us. Do you know,
Harry, the poor old thing actually kissed me!”
“I'm not in the least surprised at her wanting that
privilege,” said I.
“Well, I felt rather tender toward her. I believe it's
Dr. Johnson or somebody else who says there are few
things, not purely evil, of which we can say without emotion,
`This is the last!' And Tullegig is by no means a
pure evil. This is probably the last of her—with me. But
come, you don't say what you think of it. What is it
like?”
“Like a vision, like the clouds of morning, like the translation
robes of saints, like impossible undreamed mysteries
of bliss. I feel as if they might all dissolve away and be
gone before to-morrow.”
“Oh, shocking, Harry! you mustn't take such indefinite
cloudy views of things. You must learn to appreciate details.
Open your eyes, and learn now that Tullegig out of
special love and grace has adorned my dress with a new
style of trimming that not one of the girls has ever had
or seen before. It is an original composition of her own.
Isn't it blissful, now?”
“Extremely blissful,” said I, obediently.
“You don't admire,—you are not half awake.”
“I do admire—wonder—adore—anything else that you
like—but I can't help feeling that it is all a vision, and
that when those cloud wreaths float around you, you will
dissolve away and be gone.”
“Poh! poh! You will find me very visible and present,
as a sharp little thorn in your side. Now, see, here are the
slippers!” and therewith she set down before me a pair of
pert little delicious white satin absurdities, with high heels
and tiny toes, and great bows glistening with bugles.
Nothing fascinates a man like a woman's slipper, from its
utter incomprehensibility, its astonishing unlikeness to any
article subserving the same purpose for his own sex. Eva's
slippers always seemed to have a character of their own,—
a prankish elfin grace, and these as they stood there seemed
instinct with life as two white kittens just ready for a
spring.
I put two fingers into each of the little wretches and
made them caper and dance, and we laughed gayly.
“Let me see your boots, Harry?”
“There,” said I, putting best foot forward, a brand new
pair bought for the occasion. “I am wearing them to get
used to them, so as to give my whole mind to the solemn
services to-morrow.”
“Oh, you enormous creature!” she said, “you are a perfect
behemoth. Fancy now my slippers peeping over the
table here and wondering at your boots. I can imagine the
woman question discussed between the slippers and the
boots.”
“And I can fancy,” said I, “the poor, stumping, well-meaning
old boots being utterly perplexed and routed by
the elfin slippers. What can poor boots do? They cannot
follow them, cannot catch or control them, and if they come
down hard on them they ruin them altogether.”
“And the good old boots nevertheless,” said she, “are
worth forty pairs of slippers. They can stamp through
wet and mud and rain, and come out atterward good as
new; and lift the slippers over impossible places. Dear
old patient long-suffering boots, let the slippers respect
them! But come, Harry, this is the last evening now,
and do you know I've some anxiety about our little programme
to-morrow? You were not bred in the Church,
to be well up in your part beforehand.”
“I confess,” said I, “I feel ignorant and a bit nervous.”
“Now, I've been a bridesmaid no end of times, and seen
all the possibles that may happen under those interesting
circumstances, and men are so awkward—their great feet
are always sure to step somewhere where they shouldn't,
and then they thumb and fumble about the ring, and their
gloves always stick to their hands, and it's uncomfortable
generally. Now don't, I beg you, disgrace me by any such
enormities.”
“This is what the slippers say to the boots,” said I.
“Exactly. And here is where the boots do well to take
a lesson of the slippers. They are `on their native heath,'
here.”
“Well, then,” said I, “get down the Prayer-book and
teach me my proprieties. I will learn my lesson thoroughly.”
“Well, now, we have the thing all arranged for tomorrow;
the carriages are to be here at ten; ceremony
at eleven. The procession will form at the church door;
first, Jim Fellows and Alice, then you and mamma, then
papa and me, and when we meet at the altar be sure to
mind where you step, and don't tread on my veil or any
of my tulle clouds, because, though it may look like vapor,
you can't very well set your foot through it; and
be sure you have a well-disciplined glove that you can
slip off without a fuss; and have the ring just where
you can lay your hand on it. And now let's read over
the service and responses and all that.”
We went through them creditably till Eva, putting her
finger on one word, looked me straight in the eye.
“Obey, Harry, isn't that a droll word between you and
me? I can't conceive of it. Now up to this time you
have always obeyed me.”
“And `turn about, is fair play,' the proverb says,” said
I, “you see, Eva, since Adam took the apple from Eve
men have obeyed women nem. con.—there was no need
how to constrain the subtle, imponderable, ethereal essence
of womanhood under some law; so the obey is our
helpless attempt.”
“But now, really and truly, Harry I want to talk seriously
about this. The girls are so foolish! Jane Seymour
said she said `be gay' instead of `obey'—and Maria Elmore
said she didn't say it all. But really and truly, that is God's
altar—and it is a religious service, and if I go there at all,
I must understand what I mean, and say it from my heart.”
“My dear, if you have any hesitancy you know that you
can leave it out. In various modern wedding services it is
often omitted. We could easily avoid it.”
“Oh nonsense, Harry! Marry out of the Church! What
are you thinking of? Not I, indeed! I shouldn't think
myself really married.”
“Well, then, my princess, it is your own affair. If you
choose to promise to obey me, I can only be grateful for
the honor; if it gives any power, it is of your giving, not
my seeking.”
“But what does a woman promise when she promises at
the altar to obey?”
“Well, evidently, she promises to obey her husband in
every case where he commands, and a higher duty to God
does not forbid.”
“But does this mean that all through life in every case
where there arises a difference of opinion or taste between
a husband and wife she is to give up to him?”
“If,” said I, “she has been so unwise as to make this
promise to a man without common sense or gentlemanly
honor, who chooses to have his own will prevail in all
cases of differences of taste, I don't see but she must.”
“But between people like you and me, Harry?”
“Between people like you and me, darling, I can't see
that the word can make any earthly difference. There
can be no obeying where there never is any commanding,
and as to commanding you I should as soon think
of commanding the sun and moon.”
“Well; but you know we shall not always think alike or
want the same thing.”
“Then we will talk matters over, and the one that gives
the best reasons shall prevail. You and I will be like any
other two dear friends who agree to carry on any enterprise
together, we shall discuss matters, and sometimes one
and sometimes the other will prevail.”
“But, Harry, this matter puzzles me. Why is there a
command in the Bible that wives should always obey?
Very many times in domestic affairs, certainly, the woman
knows the most and has altogether the best judgment.”
“It appears to me that it is one of those very general
precepts that require to be largely interpreted by common
sense. Taking the whole race of man together, for
all stages of society and all degrees of development, I
suppose it is the safest general direction for the weaker
party. In low stages of society where brute force rules,
man has woman wholly in his power, and she can win
peace and protection only by submission. But where society
rises into those higher forms where husbands and
wives are intelligent companions and equals, the direction
does no harm because it confers a prerogative that
no cultivated man would think of asserting any more
than he would think of using his superior physical strength
to enforce it.”
“I suppose,” said Eva, “it is just like the command that
children should obey parents. When children are grown
up and married and settled, parents never think of it.”
“Precisely,” said I, “and you and I are the grown-up
children of the Christian era—all that talk of obedience
is the old calyx of the perfect flower of love—`when
that which is perfect is come, then that which is in part
shall be done away.”'
“So, then, it appears you and I shall have a free field
of discussion, Harry, and may be I shall croquet your ball
off the ground sometimes, as I did once before, you know.”
“I dare say you will. There was an incipient spice of
that game! In fact, I began to hope I was not indifferent
to you from the zeal with which you pursued and routed
me on that occasion.”
“I must confess it did my heart good to set your ball
spinning,—and that puts me in mind. I have the greatest
piece of news to tell you. If you'll believe me, Sydney and
Sophie are engaged already! She came here this morning
with her present, this lovely amethyst cross—and it seems
funny to me, but she is just as dead in love with Sydney as
she can be, and do you know he is so delighted with the
compliment, that he has informed her that he has made the
discovery that he never was in love before.”
“The scamp! what does he mean?” said I.
“Oh, he said that little witch Eva Van Arsdel had dazzled
him—and he had really supposed himself in love, but
that she never had `excited the profound,' etc., etc., he feels
for Sophie.”
“So `all's well that ends well,”' said I.
“And to show his entire pacification toward me,” said
Eva, “he has sent me this whole set of mantel bronzes—
clock, vases, candlesticks, match-box and all. Aren't they
superb?”
“Magnificent!” said I. “What an air they will give our
room! On the whole, dear, I think rejected lovers are not
so bad an article.”
“Well, here, I must show you Bolton's present, which
came in this afternoon,” with which she led me to a pair
of elegantly carved book-racks enriched with the complete
works of Longfellow, Whittier, Lowell, Holmes, and Hawthorne.
They were elegantly gotten up in a uniform style
of binding.
“Isn't that lovely?” said she, “and so thoughtful! For
how many happy hours he has provided here!”
“Good fellow!” said I, feeling the tears start in my eyes.
“Eva, if there is a mortal absolutely without selfishness, it
is Bolton.”
“Oh, Harry, why couldn't he marry and be as happy
as we are?”
“Perhaps some day he may,” said I, “but dear me! who
gave that comical bronze inkstand? It's enough to make
one laugh to look at it.”
“Don't you know at once? Why, that's Jim Fellows'
present. Isn't it just like him?”
“I might have known it was Jim,” said I, “it's so decidedly
frisky.”
“Well, really, Harry do you know that I am in deadly
fear that that wicked Jim will catch my eye to-morrow
in the ceremony or do something to set me off, and I'm
always perfectly hysterical when I'm excited, and if I
look his way there'll be no hope for me.”
“We must trust to Providence,” said I; “if I should
say a word of remonstrance it would make it ten times
worse. The creature is possessed of a frisky spirit and
can't help it.”
“Alice was lecturing him about it last night, and the
only result was we nearly killed ourselves laughing. After
all, Harry, who can help liking Jim? Since our troubles
he has been the kindest of mortals; so really delicate and
thoughtful in his attentions. It was something I shouldn't
have expected of him. Harry, what do you think? Should
you want Alice to like him, supposing you knew that he
would like her? Is there stability enough in him?”
“Jim is a queer fellow,” said I. “On a slight view he
looks a mere bundle of comicalities and caprices, and he
takes a singular delight in shocking respectable prejudices
and making himself out worse than he is, or ever thinks of
being. But after all, as young men go, Jim is quite free
from bad habits. He does not drink, and he doesn't even
smoke. He is the most faithful assiduous worker in his
line of work among the newspaper-men of New York. He
is a good son; a kind brother.”
“But, somehow, he doesn't seem to me to have real deep
firm principle.”
“Jim is a child of modern New York—an élève of her
school. A good wife and a good home, with good friends,
might do much for him, but he will always be one that will
act more from kindly impulses than from principle. He
will be very apt to go as his friends go.”
“You know,” she said, “in old times, when Alice was
in full career, I never thought of anything serious as possible.
It is only since our trouble and his great kindness
to us that I have thought of the thing as at all likely.”
“We may as well leave it to the good powers,” said I,
“we can't do much to help or hinder, only, if they should
come together I shall be glad for Jim's sake, for I love
him. And now, my dear Eva, have you any more orders,
counsels, or commands for the fateful to-morrow?” said I,
“for it waxes late, and you ought to get a beauty-sleep
to-night.”
“Oh, I forgot to tell you I'm not going to wear either my
new traveling dress or hat, or anything to mark me out as a
bride; and look here, Harry, you must try and study the old
staid married man's demeanor. Don't let's disgrace ourselves
by being discovered at once.”
“Shall I turn my back on you and read the newspaper?
I observe that some married men do that.”
“Yes, and if you could conjugally wipe your boots on my
dress, it would have an extremely old married effect. You
can read the paper first, and then pass it to me—that is another
delicate little point.”
“I'm afraid that in your zeal you will drive me to excesses
of boorishness that will overshoot the mark” said I.
“You wouldn't want me to be so negligent of `that pretty
girl,' that some other gentleman would feel a disposition to
befriend her?”
“Well, dear, but there's a happy medium. We can appear
like two relatives traveling together.”
“I am afraid, said I “after all, we shall be detected; but
if we are, we shall be in good company. Our first day's
journey lies in the regular bridal route, and I expect that
every third or fourth seat will show an enrapture d pair, of
is no sin in being just married.”
“No, only in acting silly about it as I hope we sha'n't. I
want us to be models of rationality and decorum.”
Here the clock striking twelve warned me that the last
day of Eva Van Arsdel's life was numbered.
| CHAPTER XLII.
THE WEDDING AND THE TALK OVER THE PRAYER-BOOK. My wife and I, or, Harry Henderson's history | |