she woke up thinking of her marriage, and life called to her as the birds call to one another at waking morn. the virgin angels smiled down tearfully upon her, but the mothers of heaven blessed her and god made her queen in the kingdom of one man.
in the last week of may we were married — in the little chapel on the port road, where for so many years lucy had knelt to pray in her sweet, untroubled maiden days.
she said that after all the time she had been going there, it would be very mean for her to be married anywhere else, and with the love that i saw in her eyes i could refuse her nothing. so i agreed at once, and accordingly it was the noisy pitchfellow who read — or rather shouted — the marriage service over us.
i quite think the reverend gentleman must have had a real bonzer time, and he just swelled over with the importance of it all.
the little chapel was packed full with the notabilities of the city, and in the address that he gave us pitchfellow shouted to his heart’s content. the voice that breathed o’er eden was indeed a strident one on this occasion, and i can recall now the amazement on the faces of some of the congregation when pitchfellow let himself fairly go.
old brickett was intensely proud of all the noise he made, and kept on looking round to see how the people were taking it. i am sure it must have been quite a novelty to them.
lucy was pretty as any bride could be, and i could conceive of nothing sweeter or more entrancing than the gentle face which peeped out shyly from under the bridal veil.
the service was soon over, but the city authorities gave a reception in our honor at the town hall, and it was fully two hours later, before the car set out for victor harbor.
it was in the falling dusk that we reached home.
what can any man write of his honeymoon?
o youth! — o love! — o paradise! in all life’s happenings can there be anything more hallowed than those first memories of wedded days.
the plumbing absolute of the deeps of joy. the full fierce realization of all those hopes and longings that at all times have been at once the goad and ecstacy of humankind. the fulfilment of love’s dream. the heady draught of love’s desire. the trust, the sweetness and the surrender of the bride. the giving up of everything to the man she loves. the fevered placing in his keeping of all that innocence and honour she can never give to anyone again. the whole sacredness and mystery of it all.
surely, never, never, in a man’s life can he climb again so nearly to the great white summit of all earthly joy.
