"Oh, I nearly forgot. I _have_ written, Ronald."
"You have?" I cried. "Then, my dear, what else matters? It's a perfect spot." I lay back in relief. "And there, thank 'evings, is another thing settled. Bless you."
"Yes. And, by the way, there _is_ golf quite close too. But that," she smiled, "needn't prevent us going there."
"Of course not. We shall just ignore the course."
"Perhaps, so as to be on the safe side, you'd better leave your clubs behind."
"Perhaps I'd better," I said carelessly.
All the same I don't think I will. One never knows what may happen ...
and at the outset of one's matrimonial career to have to go to the expense of an entirely new set of clubs would be a most regrettable business.
IV.--SEASONABLE PRESENTS
"I suppose," I said, "it's too late to cancel this wedding now?"
"Well," said Celia, "the invitations are out, and the presents are pouring in, and mother's just ordered the most melting dress for herself that you ever saw. Besides, who's to live in the flat if we don't?"
"There's a good deal in what you say. Still, I am alarmed, seriously alarmed. Look here." I drew out a printed slip and flourished it before her.
"Not a writ? My poor Ronald!"
"Worse than that. This is the St. Miriam's bill of fare for weddings.
Celia, I had no idea marriage was so expensive. I thought one rolled-gold ring would practically see it."
It was a formidable document. Starting with "full choir and organ" which came to a million pounds, and working down through "boys' voices only,"
and "red carpet" to "policemen for controlling traffic--per policeman, 5s.," it included altogether some two dozen ways of disposing of my savings.
"If we have the whole _menu_," I said, "I shall be ruined. You wouldn't like to have a ruined husband."
Celia took the list and went through it carefully.
"I might say 'Season,'" I suggested, "or 'Press.'"
"Well, to begin with," said Celia, "we needn't have a full choir."
"Need we have an organ or a choir at all? In thanking people for their kind presents you might add, 'By the way, do you sing?' Then we could arrange to have all the warblers in the front. My best man or my solicitor could give the note."
"Boys' voices only," decided Celia. "Then what about bells?"
"I should like some nice bells. If the price is 'per bell' we might give an order for five good ones."
"Let's do without bells. You see, they don't begin to ring till we've left the church, so they won't be any good to _us_."
This seemed to me an extraordinary line to take.
"My dear child," I remonstrated, "the whole thing is being got up not for ourselves, but for our guests. We shall be much too preoccupied to appreciate any of the good things we provide--the texture of the red carpet or the quality of the singing. I dreamt last night that I quite forgot about the wedding-ring till 1.30 on the actual day, and the only cab I could find to take me to a jeweller's was drawn by a camel. Of course, it may not turn out to be as bad as that, but it will certainly be an anxious afternoon for both of us. And so we must consider the entertainment entirely from the point of view of our guests. Whether their craving is for champagne or bells, it must be satisfied."
"I'm sure they'll be better without bells. Because when the policemen call out 'Mr. Spifkins' carriage,' Mr. Spifkins mightn't hear if there were a lot of bells clashing about."
"Very well, no bells. But, mind you," I said sternly, "I shall insist on a clergyman."
We went through the rest of the _menu_, course by course.
"I know what I shall do," I said at last. "I shall call on my friend the Clerk again, and I shall speak to him quite frankly. I shall say, 'Here is a cheque for a thousand pounds. It is all I can afford--and, by the way, you'd better pay it in quickly or it will be dishonoured. Can you do us up a nice wedding for a thousand inclusive?'"
"Like the Christmas hampers at the stores."
"Exactly. A dozen boys' voices, a half-dozen of bells, ten yards of awning, and twenty-four oranges, or vergers, or whatever it is. We ought to get a nice parcel for a thousand pounds."
"Or," said Celia, "we might send the list round to our friends as suggestions for wedding presents. I'm sure Jane would love to give us a couple of policemen."
"We'd much better leave the whole thing to your father. I incline more and more to the opinion that it is _his_ business to provide the wedding. I must ask my solicitor about it."
"He's providing the bride."
"Yes, but I think he might go further. I can't help feeling that the bells would come very well from him. 'Bride's father to bridegroom--A peal of bells.' People would think it was something in silver for the hall. It would do him a lot of good in business circles."
"And that reminds me," smiled Celia, "there's been some talk about a present from Miss Popley."
I have come to the conclusion that it is impossible to get married decently unless one's life is ordered on some sort of system. Mine never has been; and the result is that I make terrible mistakes--particularly in the case of Miss Popley. At the beginning of the business, when the news got round to Miss Popley, I received from her a sweet letter of congratulation. Knowing that she was rather particular in these matters I braced myself up and thanked her heartily by return of post. Three days later, when looking for a cheque I had lost, I accidentally came across her letter. "Help, help!" I cried. "This came days ago, and I haven't answered yet." I sat down at once and thanked her enthusiastically. Another week passed and I began to feel that I must really make an effort to catch my correspondence up; so I got out all my letters of congratulation of the last ten days and devoted an afternoon to answering them. I used much the same form of thanks in all of them ... with the exception of Miss Popley's, which was phrased particularly warmly.
So much for that. But Miss Popley is Celia's dear friend also. When I made out my list of guests I included Miss Popley; so, in her list, did Celia. The result was that Miss Popley received two invitations to the wedding.... Sometimes I fear she must think we are pursuing her.
"What does she say about a present?" I asked.
"She wants us to tell her what we want."
"What _are_ we to say? If we said an elephant----"
"With a small card tied on to his ear, and 'Best wishes from Miss Popley' on it. It would look heavenly among the other presents."
"You see what I mean, Celia. Are we to suggest something worth a thousand pounds, or something worth ninepence? It's awfully kind of her, but it makes it jolly difficult for us."
"Something that might cost anything from ninepence to a thousand pounds," suggested Celia.
"Then that washes out the elephant."
"Can't you get the ninepenny ones now?"
"I suppose," I said, reverting to the subject which most weighed on me, "she wouldn't like to give the men's voices for the choir?"
"No, I think a clock," said Celia. "A clock can cost anything you like--or don't like."
"Right-o. And perhaps we'd better settle now. When it comes, how many times shall we write and thank her for it?"