'Did I do it by accident, or on purpose?' he asked himself. And he
decided that, according to the vulgar phrase, he had done it
'accidentally on purpose.' He looked round at the hired footman. And
the hired footman came, with a silent step of cold servant-like
disapprobation. Birkin decided that he detested toasts, and footmen,
and assemblies, and mankind altogether, in most of its aspects. Then he
rose to make a speech. But he was somehow disgusted.
At length it was over, the meal. Several men strolled out into the
garden. There was a lawn, and flower-beds, and at the boundary an iron
fence shutting off the little field or park. The view was pleasant; a
highroad curving round the edge of a low lake, under the trees. In the
spring air, the water gleamed and the opposite woods were purplish with
new life. Charming Jersey cattle came to the fence, breathing hoarsely
from their velvet muzzles at the human beings, expecting perhaps a
crust.
Birkin leaned on the fence. A cow was breathing wet hotness on his
hand.
'Pretty cattle, very pretty,' said Marshall, one of the
brothers-in-law. 'They give the best milk you can have.' 'Yes,' said Birkin.
'Eh, my little beauty, eh, my beauty!' said Marshall, in a queer high
falsetto voice, that caused the other man to have convulsions of
laughter in his stomach.
'Who won the race, Lupton?' he called to the bridegroom, to hide the
fact that he was laughing.
The bridegroom took his cigar from his mouth.
'The race?' he exclaimed. Then a rather thin smile came over his face.
He did not want to say anything about the flight to the church door.
'We got there together. At least she touched first, but I had my hand
on her shoulder.' 'What's this?' asked Gerald.
Birkin told him about the race of the bride and the bridegroom.
'H'm!' said Gerald, in disapproval. 'What made you late then?' 'Lupton would talk about the immortality of the soul,' said Birkin,
'and then he hadn't got a button-hook.' 'Oh God!' cried Marshall. 'The immortality of the soul on your wedding
day! Hadn't you got anything better to occupy your mind?' 'What's wrong with it?' asked the bridegroom, a clean-shaven naval man,
flushing sensitively.
'Sounds as if you were going to be executed instead of married. THE
IMMORTALITY OF THE SOUL!' repeated the brother-in-law, with most
killing emphasis.
But he fell quite flat.
'And what did you decide?' asked Gerald, at once pricking up his ears
at the thought of a metaphysical discussion.
'You don't want a soul today, my boy,' said Marshall. 'It'd be in your
road.' 'Christ! Marshall, go and talk to somebody else,' cried Gerald, with
sudden impatience.