The Bride-groom!
“There’s no time to lose,” cried Hodmadod; “I feel dreadfully stupid with the physic; when I say stupid, I mean I’ll be up, dressed, and ready for church directly.”
“Too late, my dear boy,” said Candituft with touching solemnity. “I came before to seek you—but your valet”—
“Acted according to orders, sir,” said Atkins. “Sir Arthur knows that. He must clear me,” and assured of this, Atkins, with the fullest self-satisfaction, left the room.
“Too late! How do you mean too late?” cried Hodmadod. “Never too late to marry.”
“Too late to-day. We waited for you an hour; a full hour in the church,” said Candituft.
“What a wretch I am!” exclaimed Hodmadod, striking the clothes with his fist—“when I say a wretch, I mean a brute not fit to see the light,” and executing his own sentence, he rolled his head in the blankets. “Not fit to see the light,” he howled through the bed clothes.
“Come, you must be comforted,” said Candituft. “Nevertheless, it was a dreadful sight in the vestry. Enough to melt a heart of stone.” Hodmadod groaned. “Mr. Jericho all colours with rage. Mrs. Jericho still smiling, confident to the last.” Hodmadod, with much emotion, shook his leg; and in smothered voice bellowed—“I don’t deserve it.” Candituft continued. “Monica all tears. My sister—dear girl!—only thoughtful of the happiness of others; regardless of her own sufferings—but I will not dwell upon that—my sister, I say, doing all she could to engage the attention of Agatha.”
“And—and—Agatha?” asked the culprit through the blankets. There was no answer.—“Yes—my dear friend—tell me all her sufferings,” cried Hodmadod in muffled voice—“all.”