The Tin Honeymoon

by Louise Closser Hale

At the Sign of the "Swan," Pangbourne

The Tin Honeymoon

BY LOUISE CLOSSER HALE

IT was just such a morning ten years ago when they took the river road for Pangbourne: there was a remarkable amount of blue sky and yet no sun, a way the English weather has of accommodating itself to the color-loving American guest and its master, the more sombrely inclined Briton.

Albeit there are many such days in summer, the middle-aged couple felt in their middle-aged bones that all signs were auspicious, and that this tin- wedding trip, from the fleecy cloud arrangement of the heavens to the bounding of their middle-aged hearts, would be a repetition of their first bashful attempt at journeying together.

The couple in no ways looked upon themselves as middle-aged. Her hair was only "prematurely " gray, and what the vulgar might call "bald" was kindly admitted by his friends to be but the necessary expansion of a high forehead—to make room for higher thoughts. Once upon a time, when they were twenty-five—or thereabouts,—they admitted that thirty-five—or thereabouts—was far from an agreeable age; a decade earlier it had seemed much older, and earlier yet, thirty-five was, it goes without saying, quite synonymous for senility.

There was nothing in the attitude, at least, of this gay pair in middle life suggestive to the outsider that they had reached the stage when birthdays are not things to bruit about—no, not even with the balm of gifts ensuing. Occasionally they were heard to assert, with a touch of defiance, that a woman was as old as she looked, a man as he felt, and this trite boast evidently gave them new confidence in the possibility of being what they wished, and they would go about sternly keeping very young and very prankish.

The Cleeve Mill, near Streatley-on-Thames

It was at Pangbourne that the first blow fell. The hour preceding had been one of recollections and recognitions. Heads were wagged over the rows of stiff brick houses that were filling the valley of the Thames, but, even so, one stile was discoverable where they had rested, one great chestnut that had sheltered them from rain, and one tiny garden where they could pick an armful for twopence.In excitement he dug her affectionately in the ribs, and for just an instant she remembered that in other days he had leaned over from his machine to hers and pressed her hand. But in other days they were pedalling on their way. To-day he kept his hands on the steering-wheel of a motor car.

If this difference had not occurred to the owners of the car, so gently had been their graduation from two wheels to four, the landlord of the "Swan" took in the situation at a glance. Bang! went the taproom door, there was a scurry of skirts, and a becapped maid opened up the parlor and beckoned in the lordly guests. This was a mournful proceeding; for, since it is forbidden in America, there is no greater joy to her womankind than to sip a cup o' kindness in the bar of pub or inn, unquestioned—more, unnoticed—one of the privileges of a country whose watchword is not Freedom.

There was a large manufactured perch, glass encased, in the parlor, as an intimation that there are as many good fish in the Thames as ever were made out of papier-maché; also the date of the catching of that fish, and the announcement that tackle could be rented. The middle-aged couple laughed, for once the perch had hung in the common room, and, seeing it, they had fished an idle blissful day. Not till sundown did they discover the sophistication of the fry they sought, every one of which knows well the difference between the tea-time crumbs of a rich punt's table and the hooked worm.

The becapped maid was politely interested when the couple told her they had been there ten years before. She was but a little girl then, she said (this, tight lipped, they refused to entertain), but she hoped the lady and the gentleman noticed the great changes. The couple across the best mahogany sighed at this, looked longingly into the cheerful tap-room, and replied that they believed they were beginning to. Pleased at their powers of observation, she went on to boast of the new American porch on the Thames side; some day the master would run it all around the inn—it would be fine for tea, as so many "trippers" on bicycles came there Sundays.

Now the word "tripper" should not have frightened the tin bridegroom into diving hastily for change and driving on with his tin bride. Ten years ago these two were trippers also. Yet so inconsistent were the creatures that they would have their low estate of other days remain, as indeed an ideal should, in far perspective, even while they stretched greedily for all the joy of it.

It is possible that there was more joy in the retrospect than in the actual occurrence, but the couple did not know this, and the gratifying of a ten-year-old wish is surely more satisfying than to supply hurriedly a momentary want. At Streatley, for instance, they motored straight to the inn on the river without discussion, for ten years ago they had longed to have a luncheon there, but knowing the cost of a river hotel, they could only look at it wistfully from the bridge, conjecture what the proud ones were eating, then trundle their wheels through the village until a Cyclists' Rest, quite full of trippers, came to view.

The most beautiful of Hostelries—the "Lygon Arms"

And so this day, as they sat at the best table overlooking the water, they asked that the extra covers be not removed, and while there were two visible guests, four portions were devoured; "for we are very hungry," said the middle-aged couple to the astonished butler; "we have been waiting ten long years to eat this luncheon."

A little girl by the river's edge was feeding the swans. From the bridge they had seen just such a child once before. Of course she was not the same little girl; the maid at Pangbourne had taught them that; but she brought back the memory of the first shy jesting as to their own probable family, and whether they would or they would not call their first little girl Felicia or Dulcinea. Douglas, naturally, would be the first boy (one could see they did not intend to stint themselves on children, whatever other luxuries must be denied), and afterwards would come a Peter and a Jane to save the family honor; but not the first-born boy and girl—they were to be the children of romance. A few years passed, and the jesting ceased, for there was no humor in the Douglas and the Dulcinea who were not. Then passed a few more years, and the deep-felt loss for what had never been ceased to be a poignant grief, and they laughed again over their family, while in some subtle, unadmitted way she became to him the Dulcinea, he to her was the small boy Douglas.

Courtyard of the "Golden Cross," Oxford

On the way to Oxford they missed several landmarks, or came upon them suddenly as though the objects had run down the road to welcome their return; but when the spires of Oxford shot into view a full four hours earlier than they had once before, the couple realized that this rushing age had very little time for roadside acquaintance, and that the horizon was the only bit of scenery a motor car could not devour in its mad haste.

If this tin honeymoon is ever touched upon by the two most vitally concerned, they will slur over Oxford, the reason being that beyond a cup of tea in the yard of the "Golden Cross" they never left their engine. Once upon a time they lazed in the meadow, and looked with half-closed eyes from the young green of the grass to the old gray of the buildings, and, like Hardy's Jude, the bridegroom sighed (quite secretly) that the outside of the walls only would be his. Then, immediately conscience-stricken, smiled at the bride entirely, reproving himself that he could waver for a moment in the perfect wisdom of his choice.

Merton College, Oxford

To-day, as she nicely discriminated between the tools in the motor chest, he felt himself all-wise. With gleaming eyes they hung over the exquisite adjustment of the tremblers, and, conquering the difficulty, drove on to Broadway—classics, culture, Cupid, crowded out of their exultant mechanical hearts.

The hills are immutable even in crowded Britain, and the sun sets in the same place beyond the vale of Evesham, as though refuting the charge that times are changing. This is a comforting thought to a tin bride and bridegroom, grown a little anxious. From the Cotswold Range across the valley is a view that brings a pain to one's nose if he attempts to hide his emotions, and forces the tears down one's throat in a surprising manner. But the middle-aged couple, remembering the days when they were unashamed, bathed in the flood of sentiment.

The Shakespeare Hotel, Stratford

"We can't grow old," he cried to her, "so long as we can feel so."

"And look so;" she responded, fluffing up her hair.

Yet half an hour afterwards that middle-aged couple, installed in the most beautiful of all hostelries, the Lygon. Arms, were complaining bitterly that they perforce must feast a second time on the cold meat of an English Sunday. This was a transition too delicate for a bridegroom, real, tin, silver, or gold, ever to perceive: but the tin bride, even as she gazed reproachfully at her well-done beef, was conscious that the finger of time was laid most heavily of all upon the menu. She felt the weight of it as the two politely sniffed at boiled potatoes and pleaded for a touch of garlic in the salad dressing. With all the bright memories of that other night in Broadway so clearly in their minds, there was no recollection of the meal they ate beyond that, hot or cold, it had been quite perfect.

It would have been a tragedy otherwise; for how well did they remember the halt at the top of the long, wide street, and the careful going over of their funds to determine if they really could afford the Lygon Arms! In little piles of silver they apportioned off the dinner and the lodging and the breakfast—yes, and a little more even than the red book said; for one could never know the vagaries of a stylish inn. Then there was a fourth pile of small change for the tips. "If we do the thing at all, we ought to do it well," the bridegroom had commented, and the bride nodded acquiescently.

Night comes to Broadway gently. The after-dinner stroller lifts his chest and sniffs the air with a proprietary manner; for are not many of these great ones who have lived here of his own country? and admitting the appealing beauty of the scene, he is content that they have become expatriates, since his own Broadway offers so little to the artist, save a market for his wares.

Contrary to all expectations, the middle-aged couple slept that night in Stratford. Having traversed the street once in the twilight, once in the moonlight, while still twittering of the joy of it, the welcome simplicity, there came a call to arms from the open courtyard gate. It was but the reflection of a passive moon upon well-polished motor lamps, a silent cry, hut the possibilities of darting through the white lanes once more before they slept laid hold upon this couple who talked of simple living. Within the hour they were in Stratford, somewhat ashamed, laughing a little craftily at that old-fashioned bridal party they had left ten years behind in Broadway.

As the tin bridegroom said in Stratford, there is little profit in growing old unless one's made of china or of some such stuff. In a measure it must placate one to increase in value with one's years. This was as he paid dearly for sleeping in a sixteenth-century bedchamber, where the floor waved like a ship at sea, and the uncurtained, leaden-paned windows admitted twentieth-century sunlight at 4 a.m. We of this generation indulge in these absurdities to feel we are nearer Shakespeare; but beyond a night of some discomfort—the beds of the poet's time were not of roses—we still find a something more than ages in the gap between the bard and us.

Nor did the revisiting of the church, the birthplace, and the cottage of Ann Hathaway lessen the void for the middle-aged couple. They were impatient of the ever-knitting girl, who bade them "look up the fireplace, look out the window, look in the chest." Once before they had looked obediently with the rest; now they fled to the garden, and, comparing fearful notes, discovered that they were nearer Shakespeare, nearer Ann, when they brought to memory the yielding virtues of the two happy lovers. This was an evil state of mind. Ten years before it had been their deep regret that the perfect poet could not be embodied in a perfect man. Now they breathed more freely as they basked in the thought of a fellow creature's peccadilloes.

The Towers of Warwick Castle

Rows OF Thatch-roofed Cottages

In a fit of penitence they dogged the footsteps of the guide at Warwick Castle—a sop to the first bride and bridegroom who had found the fee too large for an hour's wandering. Decorously they traversed eight of the show rooms, an integral part of the mute body of sightseers, who, although of many climes, become an unvarying unit without detached thought when the curator starts them on their rounds. At the ninth door the tin bride and bridegroom were heard to groan, "If we were but poor again," and so startled was the custodian by this departure from the unit that an exit was devised, and the unfortunate incident closed with the shutting of the door of Warwick Castle upon the rebellious pair.

Two hours later, the strength of their convictions reinforced by food and drink at the "Warwick Arms," as they sat among the ruins of Kenilworth the couple admitted stormily that they were individualists—each for the other if could be—but firstly each one for himself.

The far view was beautiful to them for the stretching of their souls; men and women interesting for the purpose of contrast with themselves; the old red walls of Kenilworth, crying of Elizabeth and Leicester, meant less to them as a historical ruin than its present beauty of line and color and sullen power.

The man having confessed his sins aloud, was ready to condone them. The woman sighed for penance. This sinning and confession should not be so pleasant.

"Once we accepted these things for themselves alone," she said, sadly.

"And now we are not content unless we shape them to our own lives," he completed.

"Is it because we are growing old?" inquired the tin bride, still perplexed.

"It certainly is not," replied the tin bridegroom, stoutly. "It is simply this: once we viewed the world from the outside—longingly, you will bear in mind, though half afraid; now we've climbed into the hollow of it and are looking out."

"I think I'm still afraid—of going on," said the tin bride, after a long pause; "couldn't we go back?"

But this time the tin bridegroom did not grasp her meaning.

"Go back?" he echoed. "Why? The road is good. Let us go on."

So the middle-aged couple motored on to Coventry, for that was the end of the tin honeymoon.