“Why, a private marriage in an inn, without banns, license, or publication of any kind, the ceremony performed by a fellow I suspect is a degraded parson,—at least, I used to hear he was 'scratched' years ago,—Classon.”
“Paul Classon,—Holy Paul?—clever fellow, very ingenious. Tried to walk into me once for a subscription to convert the Mandans Indians,—did n't succeed,—what fun!”
“Surely no ministration of his can mean much, eh?”
“Afraid it does, my Lord; as your late brother used to observe, marriage is one of those bonds in which even a rotten string is enough to bind us. Otherwise, I half suspect some of us would try to slip our cables,—slip our cables and get away! What fun, my Lord,—what fun!”
“I don't believe such a marriage is worth a rush,” went on Beecher, in that tone of affirmation by which he often stimulated his craven heart to feel a mock confidence. “At least, of this I am certain, there are five hundred fellows in England would find out a way to smash it.”
“And do you want to 'cryoff my Lord?” asked Twining, abruptly.
“I might, or I might not; that depends. You see, Twining, there's rather a wide line of country between Annesley Beecher with nothing, and Viscount Lackington with a snug little estate; and if I had only known, last Sunday morning, that I was qualified to run for a cup I'd scarcely have entered for a hack stakes.”
“But then, you are to remember her connections.”
“Connections!” laughed out Beecher, scornfully.
“Well, family,—friends; in short, she may have brothers,—a father?”