The Secret Power by Marie Corelli (the reading strategies book txt) 📕

CHAPTER XXII

Of all the vagaries and humours of humanity when considered in crowds, there is nothing which appears more senseless and objectless than the way in which it congregates outside the door of a church at a fashionable or “society” wedding. The massed people pushing and shoving each other about have nothing whatever to do with either bride or bridegroom, the ceremony inside the sacred edifice has in most cases ceased to be a “sacrament”—and has become a mere show of dressed-up manikins and womenkins, many of the latter being mere OBJECT D’ART,—stands for the display of millinery. And yet—the crowds fight and jostle,—women scramble and scream,—all to catch a glimpse of the woman who is to be given to the man, and the man who has agreed to accept the woman. The wealthier the pair the wilder the frenzy to gaze upon them. Savages performing a crazy war-dance are decorous of behaviour in contrast with these “civilised” folk who tramp on each other’s feet and are ready to squeeze each other into pulp for the chance of staring at two persons whom the majority of them have never seen before and are not likely to see again. The wedding of Miss Lydia Herbert with her “ancient mariner,” a seventy- year-old millionaire reputed to be as wealthy as Rockefeller,—was one of these “sensations”—chiefly on account of the fact that every unmarried woman young and old, and every widow, had been hunting him in vain for fully five years. Miss Herbert had been voted “no chance,” because she made no secret of her extravagant tastes in dress and jewels,—yet despite society croakers she had won the game. This in itself was interesting,—as the millionaire she had secured was known to be particularly close-fisted and parsimonious. Nevertheless he had shown remarkable signs of relaxing these tendencies; for he had literally showered jewels on his chosen bride, leaving no door open for any complaint in that quarter. Her diamonds were the talk of New York, and on the day of her wedding her gowns literally flashed like a firework with numerous dazzling points of light. “The Voice that breathed o’er Eden” had little to do with the magnificence of her attire, or with the brilliancy of the rose-wreathed bridesmaids, young girls of specially selected beauty and elegance who were all more or less disappointed in failing to win the millionaire themselves. For these youthful persons in their ‘teens had social ambitions hidden in hearts harder than steel—“a good time” of self-indulgence and luxury was all they sought for in life—in fact, they had no conception of any higher ideal. The millionaire himself, though old, maintained a fairly middle-aged appearance—he was a thin, wiry, well-preserved man, his wizened and furrowed countenance chiefly showing the marks of Time’s ploughshare. It would have been difficult to say why, out of all the feminine butterflies hovering around him, he had chosen Lydia Herbert,—but he was a shrewd judge of character in his way, and he had decided that as she was not in her first youth it would be more worth her while to conduct herself decorously as wife and housekeeper, and generally look after his health and comfort, than it would be for a less responsible woman. Then, she had “manner,”— her appearance was attractive and she wore her clothes well and stylishly. All this was enough for a man who wanted some one to attend to his house and entertain his friends, and he was perfectly satisfied with himself as he repeated after the clergyman the words, “With my body I thee worship, and with all my worldly goods I thee endow,” knowing that “with his body” he had never worshipped anything, and that the “endowment” of his worldly goods was strictly limited to certain settlements. He felt himself to be superior to his old bachelor friend Sam Gwent, who supported him as “best man” at the ceremony, and who, as he stood, stiffly upright in immaculate “afternoon visiting attire” among the restlessly swaying, semi- whispering throng, was all the time thinking of the dusky night- gloom in the garden of the “Plaza” far away in California and a beautiful face set against the dark background of myrtle bushes exhaling rich perfume.

“What a startling contrast she would be to these dolls of fashion!” he thought—“What a sensation she would make! There’s not a woman here who can compare with her! If I were only a bit younger I’d try my luck!—anyway I’m younger than to-day’s bridegroom!—but she— Manella—would never look at any other man than Seaton, who doesn’t care a rap for her or any other woman!” Here his thoughts took another turn.

“No,” he repeated inwardly—“He doesn’t care a rap for her or any other woman—except—perhaps—Morgana! And even if it were Morgana, it would be for himself and himself alone! While she—ah!—it would be a clever brain indeed that could worry out what SHE cares for! Nothing in this world, so far as I can see!”

Here the organ poured the rich strains of a soft and solemn prelude through the crowded church—the “sacred” part of the ceremony was over, and bride and bridegroom made their way to the vestry, there to sign the register in the presence of a selected group of friends. Sam Gwent was one of these,—and though he had attended many such functions before, he was more curiously impressed than usual by the unctuous and barefaced hypocrisy of the whole thing—the smiling humbug of the officiating clergy,—the affected delight of the “society” toadies fluttering like wasps round bride and bride-groom as though they were sweet dishes specially for stinging insects to feed upon, and in his mind he seemed to hear the warm, passionate voice of Manella in frank admission of her love for Seaton.

“It is good to love him!” she had said—“I am happy to love him. I wish only to serve him!”

This was primitive passion,—the passion of primitive woman for her mate whom she admitted to be stronger than herself, to whom she instinctively looked for shelter and protection, and round whose commanding force she sought to rear the lovely fabric of “Home,”—a state of feeling as far removed from the sentiments of modern women as the constellation of Orion is removed from earth. And Sam Gwent’s fragmentary reflections flitting through his brain were more serious—one might say more romantic, than the consideration of dollars, which usually occupied all his faculties. He had always thought that there was a good deal in life which he had missed somehow, and which dollars could not purchase; and a certain irate contempt filled him for the man who, unlike himself, was in the prime of strength, and who, with all the glories of Nature about him and the love and beauty of an exquisite womanhood at his hand for possession, could nevertheless devote his energies to the science of destruction and the compassing of death without compunction, on the lines Roger Seaton had laid down as the remedy against all war.

“The kindest thing to think of him is that he’s not quite sane,”— Gwent mused—“He has been obsessed by the horrible carnage of the Great War, and disgusted by the utter inefficiency of Governments since the armistice, and this appalling invention of his is the result.”

The crashing chords of the Bridal March from “Lohengrin” put an end to his thoughts for the moment,—people began to crush and push out of church, or stand back on each other’s toes to stare at the bride’s diamonds as she moved very slowly and gracefully down the aisle on the arm of her elderly husband. She certainly looked very well,—and her smile suggested entire satisfaction with herself and the world. Press-camera men clambered about wherever they could find a footing, to catch and perpetuate that smile, which when enlarged and reproduced in newspapers would depict the grinning dental display so much associated with Woodrow Wilson and the Prince of Wales,—though more suggestive of a skull than anything else. Skulls invariably show their teeth, we know—but it has been left to the modern press-camera man to insist on the death-grin in faces that yet live. The crowd outside the church was far denser than the crowd within, and the fighting and scrambling for points of view became terrific, especially when the wedding guests’ motor-cars began to make their way, with sundry hoots and snorts, through the densely packed mob. Women screamed,—some fainted—but none thought of giving way to others, or retiring from the wild scene of contest. Gwent judged it wisest to remain within the church portal till the crowd should clear, and there, safely ensconced, he watched the maddened mass of foolish sight-seers, all of whom had plainly left their daily avocations merely to stare at a man and woman wedded, with whom, personally, they had nothing whatever to do.

“People talk about unemployment!” he mused—“There’s enough human material in this one street to make wealth for themselves and the whole community, yet they are idle by their own choice. If they had anything to do they wouldn’t be here!”

He laughed grimly,—the utter stodginess and stupidity of humanity EN MASSE had of late struck him very forcibly, and he found every excuse for the so-called incapacity of Governments, seeing the kind of folk they are called upon to govern. He realised, as we all who read history, must do, that we are no worse and no better than the peoples of the past,—we are just as hypocritical, fraudulent, deceptive and cruel as ever they were in legalised torture-times, and just as ineradicably selfish. The pagans practised a religion which they did not truly believe in, and so do we. All through the ages God has been mocked;—all through the ages Divine vengeance has fallen on the mockers and the mockery.

“And after all,” thought Gwent—“wars are as necessary as plagues to clear out a superabundant population, only most unfortunately Nature adopts such recklessness in her methods that it most often happens the best among us are taken, and the worst left. I tried to impress this on Seaton, whose system of destruction would involve the good as well as the bad—but these intellectual monsters of scientific appetite have no conscience and no sentiment. To prove their theories they would annihilate a continent.”

Here a sudden ugly rush of the crowd, dangerous to both life and limb, pushed him back against the church portal with the force of a tidal wave,—it was not concerned with the bridal pair who had already driven away in their automobile, nor with the wedding guests who were following them to the great hotel where the bride’s reception was held—it was caused by the wild dash of half a dozen or so of unkempt men and boys who tore a passage for themselves through the swaying mob of sightseers, waving newspapers aloft and shouting loudly with voices deep and shrill, clear and hoarse—

“Earthquake in California! Terrible loss of life! Thousands dead! Awful scenes! Earthquake in California!”

The people swayed again—then stopped in massed groups,—some clutching at the newsboys as they ran and buying the papers as fast as they could be sold, while all the time above the muffled roar of the city they sent their cries aloft, echoing near and far—

“Thousands dead! Awful scenes! Towns destroyed! Terrible Earthquake in California!”

Sam Gwent stepped out from the church portal, elbowing his way through the confusion,—the yells of the news vendors rang sharply