It was arranged, of course, that I should take him back to England, and that our marriage should be celebrated there. Since my mother did not approve of short engagements, we decided to put off the ceremony till October. The Press—what a curious habit the Press has of suddenly waking up and finding that it knew all about you!—gave us an almost royal welcome. I must overcome my blushes, and give you an extract from the _Daily Mail_, if only to let you enjoy the quaint, archaic language of it:
“PEER’S DAUGHTER HITCHES MILLIONAIRE: ANOTHER AMERICAN COUSIN GETS HIS FROM CUPID
“The U.S. citizen is a brainy lad, and it isn’t only for titles he comes over this side: I hardly suppose! Wilse Harkness, anyhow, Lord Porstock as he is since those birthday honours set things buzzing, knew a good thing when he saw one; and pretty Miss Winterhead, daughter of the lamented Lord Blisworth, was too good a thing to miss when he met her flying over Boston. When he found he hadn’t foul-hooked an angel (his first impression) he lost no time in exhorting her to nominate the anniversary. So the red carpets will have to be got out against her return to her charming country seat at Greylands, near West Mill in Herts, and the congregation will have another set of banns to sit out on Sunday. Lord Porstock’s fame as a good sportsman and a charming host has preceded him here, and those who envy him his fortune will not be slow to hold out to him the hand of good-fellowship. The best of luck to him and his winsome lady!”
They are yellow now with age, those lines that once looked fresh and clean in my scrap-book, and their old-world diction falls oddly on the ear, that once sounded so modern and so vivid. Yet they are still fresh to the heart of a sentimental old woman, whose wrinkled features could once justify those sprightly gallantries, and who felt then, with a certainty she has never had reason to regret, that the summer-time of her life was coming and that all was well with her world.
_Mrs. Bilston_: Marriage is a necessary evil; without it, we
should have no divorce.—SHEEPSHANKS: _Love, the Registrar_.
I suppose all of us, except those methodical people who keep all their letters, and those who, yet more cold-blooded, destroy all their letters, find that they have little bundles left about in old drawers containing the correspondence that was addressed to them on such and such an occasion—when they won a prize, when they suffered a bereavement, and so on. I find I have just such a batch of documents relating to my engagement. Some of them are too conventional, some of them too personal to quote, but it can do no harm to give a few of them here, to show how we congratulated one another in those days upon a situation which, however the centuries slip past us, never loses its freshness. Here, then, is Lady Combe: the frigidity of her manner, I must here insist, was due to a natural incapacity to expand even in honour of an occasion, and does not betray any lack of good-will towards her fortunate young tenant: