Murray and Basil were married in All Souls by the Rev. Collinson Farley; Miss Ley gave away the bride, and in the church, besides, were only the verger and Frank Hurrell. Afterward, in the vestry, Miss Ley shook the Vicar’s hand.
“I think it went off very nicely. It was charming of you to offer to marry them.”
“The bride is a very dear friend of mine; I was anxious to give her this proof of my goodwill at the beginning of her new life.” He paused and smiled benignly, so that Miss Ley, who knew something of his old attachment to Hilda, wondered at his good spirits; she had never seen him more trim and imposing—he looked already every inch a bishop. “Shall I tell you a great secret?” he added blandly. “I am about to contract an alliance with Florence, Lady Newhaven. We shall be married at the end of the season.”
“My dear Mr. Farley, I congratulate you with all my heart. I see already these shapely calves encased in the gaiters episcopal.”
Mr. Farley smiled pleasantly, for he made a practice of appreciating the jests of elderly maiden ladies with ample means, and he could boast that to his sense of humour was due the luxurious appointing of his church; for no place of worship in the West End had more beautiful altar-cloths, handsomer ornaments; nowhere could be seen smarter hassocks for the knees of the devout, or hymn-books in a more excellent state of preservation.
The newly married couple meant to spend their honeymoon on the river, and, having lunched in Charles Street, started immediately.
“I’m thankful they don’t want us to see them off at Paddington,” said Frank, when he walked with Miss Ley toward the park.
“Why are you in such an abominable temper?” she asked, smiling. “During luncheon, I was twice on the point of reminding you that marriage is an event at which a certain degree of hilarity is not indecorous.”
Frank did not answer, and now they turned into one of the park gates: in that gay June weather, the place was crowded; though the hour was early still, motors tore along with hurried panting, carriages passed tranquil and dignified; the well-dressed London throng sat about idly on chairs or lounged up and down looking at their neighbours, talking light-heartedly of the topics of the hour. Frank’s eyes travelled over them slowly, and shuddering a little, his brow grew strangely dark.
“During that ceremony and afterward I could think of nothing but Jenny. It’s only eighteen months since I signed my name for Basil’s first marriage in a dingy registry office. You don’t know how beautiful the girl was on that day—full of love and gratitude and happiness; she looked forward to the future with such eager longing! And now she’s rotting underground, and the woman she hated and the man she adored are married, and they haven’t a thought for all her misery. I hated Basil in his new frock coat, and Hilda Murray, and you: I can’t imagine why a sensible woman like you should overdress ridiculously for such a function.”
Miss Ley, conscious of the entire success of her costume, could afford to smile at this.
“I have observed that, whenever you’re out of humour with yourself, you insult me,” she murmured.
Frank went on, his face hard and set, his dark eyes glowering fiercely.
“It all seemed so useless. It seemed that the wretched girl had to undergo such frightful torture merely to bring these two commonplace creatures together. They must have no imagination, or no shame—how could they marry with that unhappy death between them? For, after all, it was they who killed her. And d’you think Basil is grateful because Jenny gave him her youth and her love, her wonderful beauty and at last her life? He doesn’t think of her. And you, too, because she was a barmaid, are convinced that it’s a very good thing she’s out of the way. The only excuse I can see for them is that they’re blind instruments of fate: nature was working through them, obscurely—working to join them together for her own purposes, and, because Jenny came between, she crushed her ruthlessly.”
“I can find a better excuse for them than that,” answered Miss Ley, looking gravely at Frank; “I forgive them because they’re human and weak. The longer I live, the more I am overwhelmed by the utter, utter weakness of men; they do try to do their duty, they do their best honestly, they seek straight ways—but they’re dreadfully weak. And so I think one ought to be sorry for them and make all possible allowances—I’m afraid it sounds rather idiotic, but I find the words now most frequently on my lips are: forgive them, for they know not what they do.”
They walked silently, and after a while Frank stopped on a sudden and faced Miss Ley. He pulled out his watch.
“It’s quite early yet, and we have the afternoon before us. Will you come with me to the cemetery where Jenny is buried?”
“Why not let the dead lie? Let us think of life, rather than of death.”
Frank shook his head.
“I must go. I couldn’t rest otherwise. I can’t bear that, on this day, she should be entirely forgotten.”
“Very well. I will come with you.”
They turned round and came out of the park; Frank hailed a cab, and they started. They passed the pompous mansions of the great, sedate, and magnificent, and, driving north, traversed long streets of smaller dwellings, dingy and gray notwithstanding the brightness of the sky; they went on, it seemed, interminably, and each street strangely, awfully, resembled its predecessor; they came to roads where each house was separate and had its garden, and there were trees and flowers—they were the habitations of merchants and stock-brokers, and had a trim, respectable look, self-satisfied and smug; but these they left behind for more crowded parts; and now it seemed a different London, more vivacious, more noisy; the way was thronged with trams and ’buses, and there were coster-barrows along the pavements; the shops were gaudy and cheap, and the houses mean; they drove through slums, with children playing merrily on the curb and women in dirty aprons, blousy and dishevelled, lounging about their doorsteps. At length they reached a broad, straight road, white and dusty and unshaded, and knew their destination was at hand, for occasionally they passed a shop where grave-stones were made; and an empty hearse trundled by, the mutes huddled on the box, laughing loudly, smoking after the fatigue of their accustomed work. The cemetery came in sight, and they stopped at iron gates and walked in: it was a vast place, crowded with every imaginable kind of funeral ornament which glistened white and cold in the sun; it was hideous, vulgar, and sordid, and one shuddered to think of the rude material minds of those who could bury folk they loved in that restless ground wherein was neither peace nor silence; they might prate of the soul’s immortality, but surely in their hearts they looked upon the dead as common clay, or they would never have borne that they should lie till the Day of Judgment in that unhallowed spot. There was about it a gross, businesslike air that was infinitely depressing. Frank and Miss Ley walked through, passing a knot of persons, black-robed, about an open grave, where a curate uttered hastily, with the boredom of long habit, the most solemn words that man has ever penned:
“Man that is born of a woman hath but a short time to live and is full of misery. He cometh up and is cut down, like a flower; he fleeth as it were a shadow, and never continueth in one stay.”
Miss Ley, pale of face, took Frank’s arm and hurried on. Here and there dead flowers were piled upon new graves; here and there the earth was but freshly turned. They came at last to where Jenny lay—an oblong stone of granite whereon was cut a simple cross; and Frank gave a sudden cry, for it was covered at that moment, so that only the cross was outlined, with red roses. For a while they stared in silence, amazed.
“They’re quite fresh,” said Miss Ley; “they were put here this morning.” She turned to Frank and looked at
