Chapter V: Part II: The Marriage Morning

The roofless building where Phyllida had desired our marriage to be solemnised lies in the outermost corner of the Colmer estate. I had only seen it once before; on a spring twilight when, reckless with undeclared passion, neither knowing nor caring whither I went, I had stumbled into the enclosure, where the scent of withering snowdrops filled the air.

Dreams that were beautified by traditions half understood before swept through my brain in the short disturbed sleep of the marriage morning. I saw Patrick Drassington killing the last wolf in England on the Wyke Quicksand, saw him staggering homeward to the manor-house with the monstrous head in his arms, and the wound in his side vomiting life-blood. Legends I had gleaned from the Colmer records came on in rapid succession:--I traced the histories of the Princess Ursula from Ravenna, who married Elizabeth’s favourite, and slew herself so that on her death-bed she might hear her husband declare his love revived; of Margot Colmer, who laid down her life for Charles the Second; of faithful Driden, the steward, who, like Catherine Douglas, strove to save his master at the cost of his right arm. A thousand other pictures followed. Indeed, I was just in the act of mounting a pillion to ride before a woman in sea-green paduasoy when I woke to find the sun risen, and the clock in the house-place striking four.

My wedding clothes lay beside the bed; I gazed at them for some time ere I rose, scarcely believing my own happiness; then, when I sprang to the floor, I drew aside the window curtain and looked down into the orchard. The cherries had ripened in the night; they were large and lush, with wasps a-grovel in the bursting sweetness of their sides.

Never before had I been so slow or so proud about my toilet. The waistcoat my father had worn at his own nuptials was held up to the light at least twelve times so that I might catch the scintillations of the diamond buttons, and admire the white roses my mother had embroidered. There was a shade of vanity in my eyes as I stood before the mirror. After all, I was not ugly; for something in my face relieved its grotesque outline, and the change that had come of late--the flush that breathed in my cheeks, and the glad dilation of the eyes--charmed me almost into egotism.

I had no friends to attend me to the chapel, for years ago I had broken with all the country gentry, and had lived like a recluse in Drassington Manor. Sometimes, but always vainly, I asked myself the true cause of this isolation; for the charge of infidelity was not of itself sufficient, and my writings, if they corrupted, corrupted out of the reader’s wickedness. God knows that I wrote with a pure mind.

The world was glad, but drowsy withal; the songs of the birds were deadened, the chirpings of the grasshoppers less shrill, and even the shallow canal in the Pleasaunce (the canal I had planted with willows, in imitation of the Dean’s work at Laracor) exhaled a sleepy odour. The path lay across ripening cornfields. Poppies were full-blown. I gathered a great bunch, for Phyllida loved them, and I fastened them in my waistcoat, intending to weave them in her hair.

She met me at the east entrance of Colmer Park. I ran open-armed to embrace her, but she drew back coldly.

‘What do you mean?’ she asked, looking into my face.

‘How?’ I cried. ‘I am not late. I am here at the very moment!’

‘You know what I speak of,’ she replied coldly. ‘What do you mean by _being_ at all? I was contented, happy even, before you came. The past had died and you have revived it. I am going to break the most sacred vows.’

‘Phyllida!’ I exclaimed in amazement. ‘What vows? I know that you have a past. Let us forget all our unhappiness----’

At this she raised her arm swiftly, as though she would strike me, then with a dull, heartless laugh she came nearer and caught my hand.

‘Sometimes,’ she said, ‘I am as mad as you. It is well to be mad: we can suffer and enjoy a thousand times more keenly. Yes, Rupert, dear Rupert, lover, husband, mournful already, I can tell of what you are thinking. You are white now--there are red circles round your eyes.’

‘Hush!’ I faltered. ‘If you read me well you will be silent. This morning I cannot endure at once to see your beauty and to hear your words!’

If I were nearly mad before, the sight of Phyllida, as she stood filled with conflicting emotions, was sufficient to blast for ever the few shreds of reason left me. She no longer wore a virginal colour, but a long rippling gown of flame-coloured silk, whose lowest hem was wrought round with yellow tongues. Her face was more tender, her chin trembled, and those eyes, into whose depths I had gazed for hours, and seen no change in their coldness, were filled with warmth and light.

When I had feasted on the sight I leaned forward, and clasping her neck and waist drew her to my bosom. There I held her until she cried out; but even then my arms would not relax, and she was compelled to extricate herself with a charming force. Being my first full embrace it made me delirious. She began to laugh again, childishly, silverily, and taking my hand she paced slowly at my side along the way that led to Stony Mountgrace.

We reached the ruined doorway, and stood beneath its wealth of carved foliage. The sound of boys’ singing came from within. Phyllida herself had arranged everything with the old vicar of Drassington. How she had conquered his scruples against reading the ritual in a roofless building I never knew; but the place was still consecrated, and the altar tomb of Elizabeth Colmer, which in past days had been used as the holy table, still stood in the chancel under the east window, where the stained glass of Saint Anthony, with the human-faced swine crawling up his pastoral staff, cast subtle hues on the broken floor.

The words of the marriage hymn were indistinctly sung: the choristers’ voices sounded cold and sharp, and the vicar looked almost frenzied with impatience.

‘How is this, madam?’ he said, with his bearded face drawn into the severest lines. ‘You beg me to come here as a favour, and when, after the considerations laid before me I agree, you keep me waiting until an hour after the appointed time!’

‘An hour?’ I gasped, looking not at the vicar, but at Phyllida. ‘An hour late! Why we met at the moment----’

Phyllida was triumphant. ‘Silence,’ she whispered. ‘I cannot explain, unless that we have dreamed.’ She turned to the ascetic. ‘I am ready to atone in any way for my fault,’ she said contritely. ‘Forgive me, sir, it was unavoidable.’ And she made her eyes so pleading that he had been no man had he not calmed instantly and forgiven her for her guiltless offence.

‘Enter,’ he said. ‘It is almost too late. Had you been absent five more minutes you would not have found me here.’

As we reached the apse the voices of the choristers swelled loudly, before dying in a long sustained murmur, and the vicar, with his tattered black-letter book held near his eyes, began to read the marriage service. Not a word did I understand: I repeated automatically when I was bidden to repeat, I forced the ring on Phyllida’s finger at the ordained time. But all the while I thought of naught, or spiritual or sensual, save her incarnate loveliness.

Phyllida was mine now! Phyllida was mine now! Daintily I lifted her hand to my arm, and with the echo of the vicar’s shrewish congratulations ringing in our ears we moved into the mid-day sunlight, and began to walk towards Colmer.

‘You are my wife,’ I said. ‘Mistress Drassington, we are out of everybody’s sight--these trees will hide us--you need have no shame in kissing me here.’

She made no reply: I turned towards her, imagining that she was wrought beyond speech. We had reached the Syne Marie Wood, where the great conifers screened off the sun. But one dusky shaft crowned Phyllida, and sliding from her head struck her fingers and danced there. Her face was set, her eyelids had fallen.

‘Tell me, love,’ I murmured. ‘Let me help you: you know you are mine now. One kiss, just one, my meed if I have ever given you an instant’s happiness.’

Neither word nor movement responded. She was impenetrably silent: her flame-coloured gown became a barrier of defence: I dared not touch her.

‘Phyllida,’ I entreated. ‘My wife!’

Those woebegone eyes were raised slowly. ‘Wife,’ she said, like one in a dream, ‘I am no wife. I am true, true as Heaven itself. Do not write again, I will be true.’

Suddenly her face changed terribly, and she drew herself to her full height. ‘For God’s sake, Rupert Drassington!’ she cried, ‘for God’s sake tell me that it is not so!’

‘What, dearest?’ I said.

‘My terror--that we are man and wife.’

‘I am yours and you are mine--my wife--my wife.’ And my tongue dwelt on the words with delight.

But Phyllida left my side, and, sitting on the trunk of a newly-felled tree, wept as her poor heart would break.