secret from him and sent him with £10 notes to shabby-genteel back bedrooms in Drury Lane.
There was a short interval between the wedding breakfast and the departure of the bride and groom, and Mr Gresham thought that he ought to occupy the time by addressing at least some words to his daughter. The house at Belgrave Square was in chaos, with servants hastening along the corridors and luggage piled up in the hall – and at first he did not know where to look. In the end, though, he found her in her bedroom, changed out of her wedding finery into a travelling dress, very cool and composed and examining the set of her bonnet with the aid of a looking glass. Mr Gresham saw himself in the mirror as he came towards her and thought that he looked old and worn and dissatisfied. There had been speeches at the wedding breakfast. Mr Caraway had spoken, and been gracious in his compliments. Mr Happerton had spoken, and said that he had been made happy. Mr Gresham had been conscious that his heart was not in it. But he was a conscientious man, and the sight of the mirror and the memory of the speech did not deter him.
‘So, my dear,’ he said, with an attempt at a smile, ‘you are a married woman now.’
‘As to that, Papa, I’m sure a hundred girls in London were married this morning.’
‘They say Rome’ – this was the destination of the wedding tour – ‘is very cold at this time of the year. I hope you won’t find it so.’
‘I daresay we shall find it very comfortable, Papa.’
Mr Gresham looked round the room, trying to find some hook on which to hang the words he had come to say, but found only a little case of books and a reproduction of Mr Frith’s painting of the seaside. He was conscious that his daughter had not been all to him that she should have been, and that he had not been all that he might have been to her. Thinking that the fault was probably his own, he determined to make some reparation.
‘My dear,’ he said again.
‘Yes, Papa.’ He was struck again by her composure. He thought that another girl, about to depart on her wedding tour, might not be so matter-of-fact. He realised that he had often, in the past, thought of this very day, thought, even, of this very conversation, and he was aware of the gap between his imaginings and the reality of the moment. From below he could hear the sound of the hired men crashing among the tables. What he wanted to say was: There is no warmth in you, and little in me. How are we to restore it? Or was it never there? But he knew he could not say it. In another five minutes the carriage requisitioned to take the newly married couple to Charing Cross Station would be at the door.
‘Marriage is a very serious thing, Rebecca. I hope you will be happy.’ What he meant to say was that he hoped she would think of him, and that he would think of her, but somehow he could not. Something of his indecision showed in his face and she looked at him curiously.
‘What is it, Papa?’
‘It is just … I hope you will be happy, Rebecca. And that in your new life, with your husband, you will remember your old life with me.’
‘I am sure I shall, Papa. I believe that’s the carriage at the door.’
Mr Gresham, as he put his arm round his daughter’s shoulders and kissed her forehead, saw himself again in the mirror and thought that he looked very old and worn.
And so the carriage came and took Mr and Mrs Happerton away on the first stage of their journey to Rome. Two things were noticeable about these preliminaries. One was that Mr Happerton was very keen to supply Captain Raff with the means of communicating with him during his absence. The other was that he took with him the picture of Tiberius, had it placed in his travelling bag for the train and seemed far more anxious for its safety than a man setting off on his wedding tour with a newly married wife at his side ought to be.
Scroop Hall
Towards noon we began to pass through some of the villages that
There was a short interval between the wedding breakfast and the departure of the bride and groom, and Mr Gresham thought that he ought to occupy the time by addressing at least some words to his daughter. The house at Belgrave Square was in chaos, with servants hastening along the corridors and luggage piled up in the hall – and at first he did not know where to look. In the end, though, he found her in her bedroom, changed out of her wedding finery into a travelling dress, very cool and composed and examining the set of her bonnet with the aid of a looking glass. Mr Gresham saw himself in the mirror as he came towards her and thought that he looked old and worn and dissatisfied. There had been speeches at the wedding breakfast. Mr Caraway had spoken, and been gracious in his compliments. Mr Happerton had spoken, and said that he had been made happy. Mr Gresham had been conscious that his heart was not in it. But he was a conscientious man, and the sight of the mirror and the memory of the speech did not deter him.
‘So, my dear,’ he said, with an attempt at a smile, ‘you are a married woman now.’
‘As to that, Papa, I’m sure a hundred girls in London were married this morning.’
‘They say Rome’ – this was the destination of the wedding tour – ‘is very cold at this time of the year. I hope you won’t find it so.’
‘I daresay we shall find it very comfortable, Papa.’
Mr Gresham looked round the room, trying to find some hook on which to hang the words he had come to say, but found only a little case of books and a reproduction of Mr Frith’s painting of the seaside. He was conscious that his daughter had not been all to him that she should have been, and that he had not been all that he might have been to her. Thinking that the fault was probably his own, he determined to make some reparation.
‘My dear,’ he said again.
‘Yes, Papa.’ He was struck again by her composure. He thought that another girl, about to depart on her wedding tour, might not be so matter-of-fact. He realised that he had often, in the past, thought of this very day, thought, even, of this very conversation, and he was aware of the gap between his imaginings and the reality of the moment. From below he could hear the sound of the hired men crashing among the tables. What he wanted to say was: There is no warmth in you, and little in me. How are we to restore it? Or was it never there? But he knew he could not say it. In another five minutes the carriage requisitioned to take the newly married couple to Charing Cross Station would be at the door.
‘Marriage is a very serious thing, Rebecca. I hope you will be happy.’ What he meant to say was that he hoped she would think of him, and that he would think of her, but somehow he could not. Something of his indecision showed in his face and she looked at him curiously.
‘What is it, Papa?’
‘It is just … I hope you will be happy, Rebecca. And that in your new life, with your husband, you will remember your old life with me.’
‘I am sure I shall, Papa. I believe that’s the carriage at the door.’
Mr Gresham, as he put his arm round his daughter’s shoulders and kissed her forehead, saw himself again in the mirror and thought that he looked very old and worn.
And so the carriage came and took Mr and Mrs Happerton away on the first stage of their journey to Rome. Two things were noticeable about these preliminaries. One was that Mr Happerton was very keen to supply Captain Raff with the means of communicating with him during his absence. The other was that he took with him the picture of Tiberius, had it placed in his travelling bag for the train and seemed far more anxious for its safety than a man setting off on his wedding tour with a newly married wife at his side ought to be.
Scroop Hall
Towards noon we began to pass through some of the villages that
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