The History of Mr. Polly

Mr. Polly’s marriage followed with a certain inevitableness.

He tried to assure himself that he was acting upon his own forceful initiative, but at the back of his mind was the completest realisation of his powerlessness to resist the gigantic social forces he had set in motion.  He had got to marry under the will of society, even as in times past it has been appointed for other sunny souls under the will of society that they should be led out by serious and unavoidable fellow-creatures and ceremoniously drowned or burnt or hung.  He would have preferred infinitely a more observant and less conspicuous rôle, but the choice was no longer open to him.  He did his best to play his part, and he procured some particularly neat check trousers to do it in.  The rest of his costume, except for some bright yellow gloves, a grey and blue mixture tie, and that the broad crape hat-band was changed for a livelier piece of silk, were the things he had worn at the funeral of his father.  So nearly akin are human joy and sorrow.

The Larkins sisters had done wonders with grey sateen.  The idea of orange blossom and white veils had been abandoned reluctantly on account of the expense of cabs.  A novelette in which the heroine had stood at the altar in “a modest going-away dress” had materially assisted this decision.  Miriam was frankly tearful, and so indeed was Annie, but with laughter as well to carry it off.  Mr. Polly heard Annie say something vague about never getting a chance because of Miriam always sticking about at home like a cat at a mouse-hole, that became, as people say, food for thought.  Mrs. Larkins was from the first flushed, garrulous, and wet and smeared by copious weeping; an incredibly soaked and crumpled and used-up pocket handkerchief never left the clutch of her plump red hand.  “Goo’ girls, all of them,” she kept on saying in a tremulous voice; “such-goo-goo-goo-girls!” She wetted Mr. Polly dreadfully when she kissed him.  Her emotion affected the buttons down the back of her bodice, and almost the last filial duty Miriam did before entering on her new life was to close that gaping orifice for the eleventh time.  Her bonnet was small and ill-balanced, black adorned with red roses, and first it got over her right eye until Annie told her of it, and then she pushed it over her left eye and looked ferocious for a space, and after that baptismal kissing of Mr. Polly the delicate millinery took fright and climbed right up to the back part of her head and hung on there by a pin, and flapped piteously at all the larger waves of emotion that filled the gathering.  Mr. Polly became more and more aware of that bonnet as time went on, until he felt for it like a thing alive.  Towards the end it had yawning fits.

The company did not include Mrs. Johnson, but Johnson came with a manifest surreptitiousness and backed against walls and watched Mr. Polly with doubt and speculation in his large grey eyes and whistled noiselessly and doubtful on the edge of things.  He was, so to speak, to be best man, sotto voce.  A sprinkling of girls in gay hats from Miriam’s place of business appeared in church, great nudgers all of them, but only two came on afterwards to the house.  Mrs. Punt brought her son with his ever-widening mind, it was his first wedding, and a Larkins uncle, a Mr. Voules, a licenced victualler, very kindly drove over in a gig from Sommershill with a plump, well-dressed wife to give the bride away.  One or two total strangers drifted into the church and sat down observantly far away.

This sprinkling of people seemed only to enhance the cool brown emptiness of the church, the rows and rows of empty pews, disengaged prayerbooks and abandoned hassocks.  It had the effect of a preposterous misfit.  Johnson consulted with a thin-legged, short-skirted verger about the disposition of the party.  The officiating clergy appeared distantly in the doorway of the vestry, putting on his surplice, and relapsed into a contemplative cheek-scratching that was manifestly habitual.  Before the bride arrived Mr. Polly’s sense of the church found an outlet in whispered criticisms of ecclesiastical architecture with Johnson.  “Early Norman arches, eh?” he said, “or Perpendicular.”

“Can’t say,” said Johnson.

“Telessated pavements, all right.”

“It’s well laid anyhow.”

“Can’t say I admire the altar.  Scrappy rather with those flowers.”

He coughed behind his hand and cleared his throat.  At the back of his mind he was speculating whether flight at this eleventh hour would be criminal or merely reprehensible bad taste.  A murmur from the nudgers announced the arrival of the bridal party.

The little procession from a remote door became one of the enduring memories of Mr. Polly’s life.  The little verger had bustled to meet it, and arrange it according to tradition and morality.  In spite of Mrs. Larkins’ “Don’t take her from me yet!” he made Miriam go first with Mr. Voules, the bridesmaids followed and then himself hopelessly unable to disentangle himself from the whispering maternal anguish of Mrs. Larkins.  Mrs. Voules, a compact, rounded woman with a square, expressionless face, imperturbable dignity, and a dress of considerable fashion, completed the procession.

Mr. Polly’s eye fell first upon the bride; the sight of her filled him with a curious stir of emotion.  Alarm, desire, affection, respect—­and a queer element of reluctant dislike all played their part in that complex eddy.  The grey dress made her a stranger to him, made her stiff and commonplace, she was not even the rather drooping form that had caught his facile sense of beauty when he had proposed to her in the Recreation Ground.  There was something too that did not please him in the angle of her hat, it was indeed an ill-conceived hat with large aimless rosettes of pink and grey.  Then his mind passed to Mrs. Larkins and the bonnet that was to gain such a hold upon him; it seemed to be flag-signalling as she advanced, and to the two eager, unrefined sisters he was acquiring.

A freak of fancy set him wondering where and when in the future a beautiful girl with red hair might march along some splendid aisle.  Never mind!  He became aware of Mr. Voules.

He became aware of Mr. Voules as a watchful, blue eye of intense forcefulness.  It was the eye of a man who has got hold of a situation.  He was a fat, short, red-faced man clad in a tight-fitting tail coat of black and white check with a coquettish bow tie under the lowest of a number of crisp little red chins.  He held the bride under his arm with an air of invincible championship, and his free arm flourished a grey top hat of an equestrian type.  Mr. Polly instantly learnt from the eye that Mr. Voules knew all about his longing for flight.  Its azure pupil glowed with disciplined resolution.  It said:  “I’ve come to give this girl away, and give her away I will.  I’m here now and things have to go on all right.  So don’t think of it any more”—­and Mr. Polly didn’t.  A faint phantom of a certain “lill’ dog” that had hovered just beneath the threshold of consciousness vanished into black impossibility.  Until the conclusive moment of the service was attained the eye of Mr. Voules watched Mr. Polly relentlessly, and then instantly he relieved guard, and blew his nose into a voluminous and richly patterned handkerchief, and sighed and looked round for the approval and sympathy of Mrs. Voules, and nodded to her brightly like one who has always foretold a successful issue to things.  Mr. Polly felt then like a marionette that has just dropped off its wire.  But it was long before that release arrived.

He became aware of Miriam breathing close to him.

“Hullo!” he said, and feeling that was clumsy and would meet the eye’s disapproval:  “Grey dress—­suits you no end.”

Miriam’s eyes shone under her hat-brim.

“Not reely!” she whispered.

“You’re all right,” he said with the feeling of observation and criticism stiffening his lips.  He cleared his throat.

The verger’s hand pushed at him from behind.  Someone was driving Miriam towards the altar rail and the clergyman.  “We’re in for it,” said Mr. Polly to her sympathetically.  “Where?  Here?  Right O.”  He was interested for a moment or so in something indescribably habitual in the clergyman’s pose.  What a lot of weddings he must have seen!  Sick he must be of them!

“Don’t let your attention wander,” said the eye.

“Got the ring?” whispered Johnson.

“Pawned it yesterday,” answered Mr. Polly and then had a dreadful moment under that pitiless scrutiny while he felt in the wrong waistcoat pocket….

The officiating clergy sighed deeply, began, and married them wearily and without any hitch.

“D’b’loved, we gath’d ‘gether sight o’ Gard ’n face this con’gation join ‘gather Man, Worn’ Holy Mat’my which is on’bl state stooted by Gard in times man’s innocency....”

Mr. Polly’s thoughts wandered wide and far, and once again something like a cold hand touched his heart, and he saw a sweet face in sunshine under the shadow of trees.

Someone was nudging him.  It was Johnson’s finger diverted his eyes to the crucial place in the prayer-book to which they had come.

“Wiltou lover, cumfer, oner, keeper sickness and health…”

“Say ‘I will.’”

Mr. Polly moistened his lips.  “I will,” he said hoarsely.

Miriam, nearly inaudible, answered some similar demand.

Then the clergyman said:  “Who gifs Worn married to this man?”

“Well, I’m doing that,” said Mr. Voules in a refreshingly full voice and looking round the church.  “You see, me and Martha Larkins being cousins—­”

He was silenced by the clergyman’s rapid grip directing the exchange of hands.

“Pete arf me,” said the clergyman to Mr. Polly.  “Take thee Mirum wed wife—­”

“Take thee Mirum wed’ wife,” said Mr. Polly.

“Have hold this day ford.”

“Have hold this day ford.”

“Betworse, richpoo’—­”

“Bet worsh, richpoo’....”

Then came Miriam’s turn.

“Lego hands,” said the clergyman; “got the ring?  No!  On the book.  So!  Here!  Pete arf me, ‘withis ring Ivy wed.’”

“Withis ring Ivy wed—­”

So it went on, blurred and hurried, like the momentary vision of an utterly beautiful thing seen through the smoke of a passing train….

“Now, my boy,” said Mr. Voules at last, gripping Mr. Polly’s elbow tightly, “you’ve got to sign the registry, and there you are!  Done!”

Before him stood Miriam, a little stiffly, the hat with a slight rake across her forehead, and a kind of questioning hesitation in her face.  Mr. Voules urged him past her.

It was astounding.  She was his wife!

And for some reason Miriam and Mrs. Larkins were sobbing, and Annie was looking grave.  Hadn’t they after all wanted him to marry her?  Because if that was the case—!

He became aware for the first time of the presence of Uncle Pentstemon in the background, but approaching, wearing a tie of a light mineral blue colour, and grinning and sucking enigmatically and judiciously round his principal tooth.