Atkins stept stealthily to the bed side. The bridegroom was in such a sweet, deep sleep, it seemed to Atkins a sin and a shame to wake him to be married.
The bridegroom had not arrived. Agatha looked all round the vestry; again and again scrutinised its dimensions; and still refused to believe the juggling evidence of her senses. “Not arrived!” cried Mr. Jericho, looking fiercely at the clerk. “Impossible!” said Mrs. Jericho. “Extremely ungallant,” whispered Monica. “He’ll be here in a minute,” said the Man-Tamer. “Perhaps,” said Miss Candituft, “perhaps he has mistaken the church.” The bride, of course, said nothing. “Here he is,” cried Mizzlemist, the door opening; and the heart of the bride opening with it. A false alarm. It was not the bridegroom: it was the beadle. The clerk was wanted by Doctor Cummin.
Atkins stood at the bedside, and resolving with himself, determined to wake his master. “Sir, sir, it’s late—it’s very late, indeed, sir,” cried Atkins.
“If the bridegroom doesn’t come in five minutes,” said the Man of Money, “I do not think I can permit the bride to stay a moment longer.” “Now, my dear,” said Mrs. Jericho, “you are so impatient. There must be some strange mistake—perhaps, some accident.” “Yes, mamma, I’m sure that’s it—some accident,” said poor Agatha; and then the tears ran freely down her cheeks. Poor little soul; her heart was breaking; nevertheless, Miss Candituft—cruel bridesmaid!—smiled as in revenge and scorn. “This is infamous!” shouted Mr. Jericho, with every moment waxing wrathful.
“You’ll be past the time, sir; you will really,” and Atkins shook his master. “I know all about it,” grunted Hodmadod. “Steeple still up and down—still in my head,” and the bridegroom again lapsed into the depths of sleep. Atkins shook, but shook in vain.