Inheritance Feud

Chapter 26

Chapter 26

And then, as if Annabel were not already bowed down with mortification and shame-she liked poor Godfrey, she really did, and found his talk very interesting, only . . . and then, her aunt went on to rail at her, saying the sum that had come out of her own pocket for rearing Annabel suitably could only be repaid by a rich marriage, and Malvie...

A spark of spirit had shown then in Annabel, and she replied with great daring, "Please, aunt, repay yourself for my upbringing with some of the purchase-money from the house. It's mine, you said, and-and I shan't need it for dowry, or a season." The thought of going far away, remote from any news or sight of Morven at all, was hateful to her; but Mrs. Retford's diminutive form rose in a towering rage and Annabel thought she was about to box her ears, as though she were a child again. Her resistance collapsed and she gave way to tears. "I cannot marry Godfrey, please, aunt, not that, I could not, I could not!"

Mrs. Retford, being a woman of great determination, for bore to press her niece on the matter at present; but she made it clear to Annabel later that she and Mrs. Bowes, who as was known greatly hoped for the marriage for her son, had discussed the proposal Godfrey should make and assured one another that, in a little while, with the natural timidity of a young girl perhaps discounted with accustoming, it would be repeated, and in the end accepted. "After all, my dear Anna bel, he is a very eligible bachelor," murmured Mrs. Retford. "Few come to these parts, in any case, and I do not know that I am in health to take you to the capital for a season, to find another husband. I have done a great deal for my brother's child, but gratitude, my dear, is expected, a little, in the event." Mrs. Retford sighed; then her face hardened. "If Godfrey should speak again, my love, as no doubt he will, then pray reconsider, and give him a more courteous answer. I should be loth to be spoken of as a harsh guardian, but I must consider your own best interests as well as mine." And she smiled; Annabel was reminded of a mask over a dead face, hiding all but the eyes.

The memory of how she must have hurt Godfrey stayed on with her, and added to her misery; but the prospect of accepting him as a husband made her tremble. One couldn't dislike or do other than pity poor Godfrey, but the thought of his touching one! She flushed deeply, alone in the dark. The trouble that had come over her mind lately had found no assuaging; she still hadn't found anyone with whom to discuss it, or to ask. Annabel knew her upbringing had been so carefully supervised that there were matters she had never been permitted to see or know; there had been a maidservant at Maddon once, she knew, who they said had been in the hay with the stableman, and had had a baby. She hadn't been allowed to hear any more. What had they done together in the hay, the maid and stableman? What was marriage, and how were babies made? Her own mind, like her body, was virgin; she was beginning to find it a little ridiculous, as though she ought, even as an unmarried girl, to know more than she did.

Something caused her thoughts to switch to the maid, Livia or Mary. She hadn't been as friendly of late, even rather sullen, coming in with the chocolate; yesterday she hadn't said a word, and Annabel noticed her eyes were swollen, as though she'd been crying. Perhaps she'd been in love with poor Bart Judd, whose funeral was so lately over. For Annabel was blind as regarded Morven, as regarded even the fact that Livia might have met Morven at all. Like many women, the fact that she loved a man sealed him off in her mind from the access of any other love, as though he were in some way marked as hers, inviolate.

Morven. Morven. Where was he now, her cousin who should by now have been her bridegroom, if Papa had only lived? Had Morven a bed to sleep in? Had he enough food, enough money?

The wind had risen. Later there came the rain, swelling to storm and hurling itself, at last, against the roof and walls. The patter of the great drops against the glass of her case ment was like gravel, thrown up from below. . . strange that raindrops seemed to be falling upwards...

It was gravel. It wasn't rain. Annabel threw back the bed-covers. She flung back her hair and ran to the window barefoot, as she was, in her shift. She flung open the casement with fingers that trembled, fingers that were clumsy and let in the hurricane, tearing at her linen and hair; the cold rain soaked and chilled her body through the shift. But she wasn't chilled in her heart; a great warm rush of blood came, making it pound, making her live again. Morven was waiting below the pear tree, whose branches reached up like arms to embrace the sky and storm. Seting her, he prepared to climb it: and she watched him come.

It was hoped that the weather, which had proved itself stormy of late, would have considered the matter of Sir Hubert's wedding to Miss Cecily Bowes, but it did not; on the day, as for the past week, high wind drove the rain in sheets about the walls of Malvie, flattening the new trees Godfrey had had planted against their stakes, and breaking off the branch of a great old elm; this fact was suppressed, as it had injured no one and it was thought the bride might fancy that such a happening meant ill-luck on her wedding day. Other wise she was happy. The guests began to arrive at about four o'clock, and the ceremony was to take place in the evening. It had been decided to hold it in the larger withdrawing-room instead of going down to church, because of the invalid state of the bride's brother, who would give her away. Afterwards there would be supper and dancing in the great hall, and on the morrow the bridal couple would depart for Maddon.

The bridegroom arrived with the minister and friends, and everything went as expected, with the bride's party decorously making its way at last between the standing rows of guests, along the first-floor corridor, which had been already lit with many sconces and hung this morning with flowers, and into the drawing-room. The short journey across the silken carpet Godfrey's papa had bought afforded many a clear view of the bride, with her golden hair and pink cheeks, the latter en hanced by the warmth from the candles and the crowd. Wagers were laid that in a year, there would be a son born with the same golden hair, to resemble poor Peter Melrose; it was well known that Sir Hubert had chosen a fair-haired lady for this very reason. Little Paul, the remaining Melrose son, accompanied the bride-party to bow it through doors; he was just eleven, and his suit was of pale yellow satin, to echo that of the attendants.

It was these, or one of them, who attracted far more atten tion and wagers than the bride. Annabel Doon had never been seen in greater beauty. She seemed to eclipse both Miss Cecily and her sister, Miss Clairette, who also carried the train; both girls were in the buttercup-yellow creations of the Dowager's modiste, which hung gracefully, rustled richly, and enhanced the complexions of the two young ladies with their trimmings of soft dark fur. But it was not a matter of attire which beautified Miss Annabel; she seemed to glow from within. Whispers were passed, and nudges made, about the hardship to poor Godfrey Devenham it must be, seeing her approach, but not yet as his own bride. However time would remedy that. Mrs. Retford, who was of course among the throng, and Mrs. Bowes had let it be discreetly circulated that the betrothal-announcement had been delayed a little, on account of Godfrey's health. Everyone wished them very happy, or would do shortly. Then they turned to witness the ceremony, which took place among more flowers, at the head of the drawing-room.

Annabel did not hear the exchanged vows between Sir Hubert and his bride. Her mind was in retrospect; in a vague, stimulated happiness that was purely physical. She knew now, none better, what married people did...

And she was married. She was married to Morven. He'd said so, adding in the low voice they had both used, so that aunt Retford through the wall shouldn't hear, that in Scotland a handfast-ceremony was law, and all one said was "I take thee..." and "I take thee."

"I take thee, Cecily, to be my wedded wife." I take thee, Morven, to be my husband...

Where was he now? Where did he hide, by day, after dawn had come to reveal him catlike climbing down the tree beyond her window, as he'd climbed up? And tomorrow, for it wouldn't be tonight, he would come again.

Delight recaptured Annabel. It had hurt, of course, at first; Morven had had to put his mouth over hers, to prevent her foolish outcry, then, once it was over, there was such bliss as no one had ever known; she still couldn't describe it in words. And it would happen often. It would happen again tomorrow night, when he came up. She was his wife, and-and when he could make arrangements, he'd take her away with him, once she was of age. It would have to be somewhere abroad. They could live on the Malvie money.

Uncle Hubert and Cecily were married now, till death did them part. It was queer and unlikely to think of their being as happy, in the same way, as Morven and herself had been, would be again. Would be again! It was possible to smile at poor Godfrey, now, as she turned after the bride, and they made ready to go out of the room and then back again among the guests for polite smalltalk and cake and wine. She wouldn't hear or taste any of it, although it was pleasant to receive so many compliments on her appearance; radiant, one old gentleman said she looked. The radiance was all, she knew, for Morven. She wished he could see her in her grand yellow dress, with her hair in side-curls in the new fashion.

He did see her. She happened afterwards to look up above the long trestle tables, packed with delicacies on silver and crystal, and the rows of seated guests. A fiddler had struck up and the sad, nostalgic sound-why was fiddle-music always sad even when he played a merry tune?-vied with the howl ing of the wind outside; every now and again the massed candles would gutter, like an obedient flock of yellow-skirted ladies curtsying.

They'd placed her, of course, beside Godfrey. She'd felt a slight, shameful irritation rise as they led her to her place; certainly she was a bridal-attendant, certainly everyone who had been in the bride-party sat together, Uncle Hubert, the bride, Clairette, Godfrey, herself and little Paul. But she was so placed that it looked, to all these seated rows of curious guests it must surely look, as if she and Godfrey were-well, almost betrothed; and it was no help that he couldn't take his eyes off her. She tried to be civil, however; talked to him gently, because she knew he must have a headache, with the heat and crowd and bright lights. "You like the flowers?" she said once. "Clairette chose them, and told us what to do, and we all helped to make the swags." Blooms had been picked from the new garden here, and from Uncle Hubert's place at Maddon, and sent over. It hadn't been difficut to make a show with the splendid, well-nourished blossoms with their waxy leaves. But, she thought, she must earn some praise for Clairette. The girl was sulking, as she often did, because no body had praised her gown or said she looked radiant, because she didn't; she had, Annabel guessed, no reason. Annabel smiled to herself.