The Strand Magazine/Volume 3/Issue 18/The Bride of Felix Armstrong
The Bride of Felix Armstrong.
By J. Harwood Panting.
HIS, be it remarked, is an essential feature of your mission in life: whatever you go in for enthusiastically is sure to have a touch of exaggeration. At the stammering age there is exaggeration in your stammers; at the blushing, in your blushes; at the shaving period you not only shave the visible but the invisible; and when inclination is on the other side, where is the elixir you would not purchase to aid and abet your designs?
So it was when Felix Armstrong first of all took to the pen critical; he was critical, with a vengeance. It was Anathema—Maranatha! One of the least assertive men living in the natural flesh, veiled in the imposing anonymity of the critic, he launched thunderbolts and flashed forked lightning like another Jove upon benighted and erring humanity.
Felix and I had been colleagues on a journal in the provinces. He wrote the theatrical criticisms and the facetious paragraphs that set the townsmen by the ears, under the title of "Titillaters." I have reason to remember them, because they provoked three libel suits, one divorce case, two breaches of promise, a challenge to a duel, a wedding, and, it was currently reported, a funeral. That is a record of which any journalist may be proud. I may add that I have another cause to remember my friend's facetiæ, inasmuch as I once fell a victim to it.
"He proved his assertion."
One evening I was violently assaulted by an acrimonious milkman, the quality of whose milk had been tested and found wanting. Felix had referred to him in the "Titillaters" as "a gentleman of the first water"—a eulogistic title which the doughty milkman repudiated, backed up with the pugilistic statemer that he would show my friend that if he was capable of tapping water, he was also acquainted with a method known as "tapping claret." And he proved his assertion. Only he mistook me for Felix, and "tapped" mine instead.
At the important crisis in his history to which I wish more particularly to allude, Felix had grown out of all that. His critical zeal was tempered with discretion, and he would jocularly refer to his past as the "big bow-wow days."
Fate, rather than ability—I speak more for myself—had called us to London, where we became important representatives on the staff of a leading journal. It was in this capacity that Felix fell in with Theresa Meadows, one of the most brilliant actresses on the stage. He admired her from the first, not, mark you, with the admiration of his salad days. That would have counted for little; but with the admiration that comes of ripe experience and judgment. You know what that means when a man has passed the thirties? It means that when he does admire, all his heart and soul are in the admiration. The case, in such circumstances, becomes one for serious consideration.
Theresa Meadows was not, of course, the name she played under. It is not my intention, with all due respect, to tell you that. If I did, every play-goer of ten years' standing would at once recognise it. There is only one actress I know of who could sustain the part of ———. But there; if I mention that character all excuse for concealing her identity would be gone. So kindly brush up your theatrical reminiscences, and solve this little puzzle for yourself.
Was she pretty? Yes, Theresa Meadows was pretty. And, what doesn't often happen, she was prettier off the stage than on. Distance did not do justice to her complexion. In its native state there was no violet powder about it. It had the trick of creating tints of its own, this side of the footlights, though I am not going to perjure myself by saying that Nature's was the sole palette employed on the other side.
"Felix got an introduction."
Well, Felix got an introduction, and he and the actress became very good friends. Her triumph on the stage had not turned her head. There was not the slightest trace of affectation in her manner, and Felix averred that she was even a greater success at the domestic hearth than before the footlights. She appealed as irresistibly to the household gods as to those vehement ones enthroned in the gallery of the Theatre Royal.
There were, of course, many suitors for her hand, and it was currently reported that she had rejected a dozen or so. Felix had not yet ventured on a declaration, and I awaited with some anxiety that psychological moment, for I knew it must come.
One evening Felix turned into my chambers. He was very white, though the hand he gave me was like a burning coal. I wheeled a chair to the fire, and handed him a cigar.
"I see how it is," I said; smoke first—confess after."
We puffed away in silence for ten minutes.
"Refused?" I then remarked.
"Precisely," he replied, just as laconically.
"Without conditions?
"Without conditions."
"Humph! That is a double confession of failure for which I was scarcely prepared."
"Why, pray?"
"Why? Because you have failed as a lover, and, what is much worse in my eyes, as a diplomatist into the bargain."
"Diplomatist! To the deuce with your diplomacy. What part can finesse play with a pulse running to fever heat?"
"That does present a difficulty, certainly. Volcanoes and that sort of thing do not, I admit, permit of calm deliberation. But you're not the man I took you for, if the first refusal is to be considered a defeat. Did she give no reason for her rejection?"
"Oh, yes; she was perfectly frank on that point. She rejected me for reasons which, I must allow, should be convincing."
"Come, that's something."
"Yes, that's something," echoed Felix, with a ghastly attempt at a smile.
"And the reasons, may I ask?"
"Oh, that marriage with her would mean penal servitude for the husband. Simple enough, weren't they?"
I flung my cigar away and listened intently. The case was getting interesting.
"And she made the confession," my friend continued, "with a divine smile, as though it were the most natural thing in the world."
"I take it all back about your diplomacy, Felix. I see that the thing is impossible. Married already, eh?—though even in that case I can't see how the penalty you mention would attach to husband No. 2."
"Married, no!" he thundered. "She is not married; never has been."
"Pardon me," I said, "this is getting too bewildering. I give it up, as I presume you will," and I smoked again.
"Neither is that my intention. I will not give it up. I'm convinced there is something more in this than appears upon the surface, and I'm determined to fathom it."
"Very well; I wish you good luck in your endeavours, and an easy time when it comes to the oakum. If I can get a remission in the sentence, you may count upon my services."
Though I spoke thus cynically to my friend, I was really very sorry for him. I was well aware of the strength of his attachment to Theresa Meadows, and I had imagined that she also regarded him with some favour. I could not make out the meaning of this remarkable confession of hers-whether it had been adopted as a drastic expedient for cutting off Felix from all hope of her hand, or whether there was some mystery connected with her past life which really made union with her criminal. Her confession was the more astounding in that her life had been regarded as a perfectly spotless one, spite of the Bohemian circle in which she moved, and of which she was the admired queen. I awaited, therefore, with some curiosity, further developments. I knew that Felix would be true to his word, and would leave no stone unturned to fathom the mystery.
"'Accepted?'"
A fortnight later Felix again called upon me. He was more feverishly excited than before but his eyes, formerly dull with the ashes of dejection, were now aglow with the fire of hope.
"Ah, the auguries are a little more favourable this time," I remarked. "Accepted?"
"My dear fellow, you have missed your vocation. Give up journalism for prophecy. You speak with greater regard for precision in the one character than the other."
"A propos of oakum, eh?"
"Oh, that was in your journalistic vein."
But my friend moved a bit nervously in his chair.
"Then I'm to congratulate you?"
"If you please."
"As the accepted husband of Miss Meadows?"
"Again, if you please."
"No, I don't please, until I hear what all this humbug means."
"Upon my word, I scarcely know myself, old fellow. I only know that I've been accepted. That knowledge is sufficient."
"Felix Armstrong, have you parted with your senses? Do you mean to tell me that you are going voluntarily to put your neck into a noose without a moment's thought as to possibilities of———"
"Strangulation! Say it. I know that's what you imply. Yes, I mean to tell you that. See here, old fellow, you are the best friend I have in the world. If you were to tell me that you required this hand to-morrow I would give it you."
"Thank you; I was never an advocate of vivisection, and I wouldn't accept your present, especially as it seems you require it for another service." I spoke with a tinge of bitterness, because I felt that Felix was rushing heedlessly into an equivocal position.
"Well, will you shake it in the cause of friendship?" That was the lovable side of Felix. I took it, and held it for a moment, until I saw a tear glistening in his eye. I veritably believe there was one in mine also.
"But have you fathomed all that about the prospects of penal servitude?"
"No, I confess I haven't. That's what I was leading up to a moment since. There are cases where we may be called upon to act in a spirit of self-sacrifice. I would do anything for you, old fellow. My love for her— though I've struggled against it—is no less sacred."
"But has she offered no further explanation?"
"No; on the contrary, she asked me, if she consented, whether I was willing to accept all risks."
"And you replied—"
"Yes."
"This is absurd. Still, I know from experience that it's useless trying to turn you from your purpose. When is it to be?"
"In four weeks' time."
"Where?"
"At Bath."
"Why are you going that deuce of a journey?"
"She wishes it."
"Humph! Quite in keeping with other eccentricities. May I come to see you—"
"Executed! Oh, yes; it's the favour I was about to ask."
"Very well, I'll accompany you. She's agreeable?"
"Perfectly."
Then we discussed other matters; but I could see all the time that he was thinking of her. I could see, too, that, though his passion for this woman was so strong, there still remained the slightest tinge of suspicion. Mingled with it was the ingredient of pride—pride that he was about to carry off a prize which many others had sought for in vain.
As a man I admired his tenacity of purpose, and the confidence he was prepared to repose, spite of all risks, in one he loved; as a friend I had misgivings—who would not have had?—as to whether that confidence was worthily reposed. It has always been my policy in life, however, never to resist the inevitable. That simply means butting your head against a brick wall, and is a diversion which the wall only reciprocates with headaches.
The four weeks soon slipped away, and on a dull morning in February we found ourselves—Felix and I—the solitary occupants, if I may except the verger, of St. Mary's Church, Bath. The wedding was to be a quiet one. There were to be no bridesmaids. An uncle of Theresa—a Mr. Steadman—was to give her away, and we were to drive to his house afterwards for the wedding breakfast.
We had arrived punctually at eleven. At a quarter past, one or two stragglers entered the church, but no bride. At half-past the verger came to us and said the clergyman was in attendance, and waiting to proceed with the ceremony—a delicate hint to which Felix sarcastically retorted by asking if it were a usual thing for the rev. gentleman to perform the marriage ceremony in the absence of the bride?
Even as he spoke a strange couple entered the church. One was an elderly gentleman, erect and smiling; the other, an old lady closely veiled, attired in a red cotton gown, a small shawl, and coal-scuttle bonnet.
I was too much astonished at first to notice my friend. That he was greatly agitated I could tell by the quivering hand he laid upon my shoulder. He walked down the aisle, and met the curious pair half-way. There was some whispering between them, and then I saw my friend deliberately take the old lady's arm, and walk towards the communion rails.
I stood as one petrified. What did it all mean? Who was this old woman? Where was Theresa? Was this her substitute, and was my friend mad enough to accept it? Apparently that was the case, for before I had recovered from my stupor the clergyman had entered, and was proceeding with the marriage service.
"He walked down the aisle, and met the curious pair."
"Wilt thou have this woman to thy wedded wife?" and so on throughout the solemn charge; and Felix answered as in a dream—
"I will."
"Wilt thou have this man to thy wedded husband?" and the old woman at the altar echoed the affirmation in a singularly sweet and youthful voice. Surely I had heard it before? The hands might be the hands of another, but the voice was the voice of Theresa Meadows. Yet, though the name was shortly after repeated, I could scarcely accept the evidence of my ears. I followed the newly-married couple into the vestry, was called upon to append my name as witness, and there saw unmistakably the signature of Theresa Meadows.
Then there was no mistake? This was really she—in masquerade. What was the meaning of it? It lent darker colour to my sombre forebodings. I looked at Felix. He was pale to the lips. He spoke no word. He was evidently as much in the dark as myself. She had called upon him, in that hurried conference in the aisle, to accept or reject her. Felix had kept to his word—had carried out his compact—and, having done so, maintained an ominous silence, as though in scorn of the woman who had now the right to call him husband. The minister apparently regarded him with pity.
"Poor young man; thrown away upon so old a woman! Married her for her money, I suppose!" was evidently his mental comment.
A couple of poorly-clad women who stood at the church door gave more audible expression to their opinion.
"What d'ye think of that, 'Becca?" said one. "'Ere's a chap as 'as married his grandmother!"
"Well, I never!" said the other. "I thought as the marriage service was agen it. I knows it was when I was tied to my old man."
And still Felix did not speak; only pressed his lips the closer.
The drive to Mr. Steadman's house was the most sombre I have ever had. It was more like the return from a funeral than a wedding. Not a word was spoken.
When we reached the house we found a benevolent-looking, middle-aged lady, and a bevy of tittering girls (whom I afterwards discovered to be Theresa's aunt and cousins) awaiting our arrival. Theresa was about to introduce us.
"Not yet, please," said Felix, sternly. "I am first entitled to an explanation. You are not now upon the stage, remember."
The young ladies drew back in some affright at his tragic demeanour.
Theresa beckoned us into an ante-room, took from her pocket an old newspaper cutting, and said softly—
"There, Felix dear, is my explanation."
Then she slipped out of the room.
My friend read the extract eagerly, I was watching him closely. He read it once, twice; then he broke out into a loud laugh, and capered about the room like one demented. I began to think his mind was seriously affected.
"Very good, Felix, as a pas seul—very good, indeed. But now, my friend, I think it's my turn for an explanation."
For response he handed me the newspaper cutting. It was a criticism on the performance of "The Ticket-of-Leave Man,' played at the Theatre Royal, Bath, some years back. In the course of it, I read:—
"The part of Mrs. Willoughby was sustained by Miss ——— metioning the name under which Theresa Meadows played at that time). Her acting was crude in the extreme, though it must be admitted that she rolled off her sentences with a volubility that required no assistance from the prompter. 'Ticket-of-Leave,' forsooth! We can imagine no greater calamity in life than penal servitude with such a character as portrayed by Miss ———. This lady has decidedly mistaken her vocation as an actress."
I handed back the cutting.
"Smart, Felix—very."
"You see it all."
"Oh, yes, I recognise the Roman hand. That is one of your astonishing criticisms of years ago, and she has to-day again played the part of old Mrs. Willoughby for your especial benefit."
"Just so."
"It was at this town you rounded off that sentence, and it is here that she has contrived for you to commence a second sentence—of another kind. Your criticism was smart, old boy; hers is smarter."
"Agreed, agreed!" cried Felix. "What a sweet revenge! Who would have associated the brilliant London actress of to-day with old Mrs. Willoughby of that time?"
"Well, I must confess that it says more for her ability as an actress than for your acumen as a critic. Who is to wear the prophet's mantle now?"
We turned round at that moment and saw a figure standing in the doorway clad in white. Exit Mrs. Willoughby; enter a charming bride.
"Am I forgiven, dear?" she asked, turning her face appealingly to his.
Felix's sole response was to open his arms. With a joyful little cry, half sob, she crept into them.
And I crept out, to see how the wedding breakfast was getting on. It turned out the most successful repast
I ever remember, though I did make an ass of myself in proposing the toast of "The Bridesmaids!"
Felix is uncertain to this day as to whether he married Theresa or Mrs. Willoughby; but the point is never likely to be legally contested.