Enigmatical, but apparently satisfactory.
So George Benthall and Gertrude Creswell were married at St. James's Church in Piccadilly, by the Reverend John Bontein, a High-Church rector of a Worcestershire parish, and an old college chum of the bridegroom's. A very quiet wedding, with Maude as the sole bridesmaid, and Joyce as best man, and Lady Caroline, and, oddly enough, Lord Hetherington, who had just come up to town from Westhope, and, calling at his sister's, had learned what was going to take place, and thought he should like to see it, don't you know? Had never been at any wedding except his own, and didn't recollect much about that, except that--curious thing, never should forget it--when he went into the vestry to sign his name, or something of that kind, saw surplice hanging up behind the door--thought it was ghost, or something of that kind--give you his word! So the little earl arrived the next morning at eleven at the church, and took his place in a pew near the altar, and propped his ear up with his hand to listen to the marriage service, at which he seemed to be much affected. When the ceremony was over, he joined the party in the vestry, insisted on bestowing a formal salute upon the bride--Lady Hetherington, he knew, was safely moored at Westhope--and, as some recompense for the infliction, he clasped on Gertrude's arm a very handsome bracelet, as his bridal gift. No bells, no bishop, no fashionable journal's chronicler, minutely noting down all that took place, and chronicling the names of "distinguished persons present." Pew-opener and beadle hearing "my lord" and "her ladyship" mentioned, seeing broughams, and cockades, and other signs of aristocracy with which they are familiar, are unable to reconcile the presence of these with absence of outward and visible signs in which great ones of this earth delight; and conclude either that it is a runaway match winked at by a portion only of the family, or some such low affair as the union of the tutor with the governess, kindly patronised by their employers. A happy wedding, though--happier far than most which are made up in that same temple--love-match founded on long knowledge of each other, not hurried, not forced, not mercenary; no question of love in a cottage either, and the flight of Amor through the window concurrently with the entrance of the wicked man of the drama--one Turpis Egestas--through the door.
Such a marriage promised to prove a happy one. In its early days, of course, everything was rose-coloured--those days when Maude went down to stay with George and Gertrude at the school, and when, a little later, Walter Joyce ran down for the Easter holidays to his old quarters. He was glad of the chance of seeing them once again, he said, and determined to avail himself of it; and then George Benthall looked in his face and smiled knowingly. Walter returned the grin, and added: "For it's a chance that may not happen to me again." And when his friend looked rather blank at this, and asked him what he meant, Joyce laughed again, and finally told him that Lord Hetherington had just had a piece of patronage fall to his share--the rectory of Newmanton-by-Perringden, a lovely place in the Isle of Wight, where the stipend was not sufficiently great to allow a man with a large family to live on it, but the exact place for a parson with a little money of his own. And Lord Hetherington had inquired of Joyce whether his friend, that remarkably pleasant fellow,--bless my soul, forget my own name next! him we saw married, don't you know?--whether he was not exactly the sort of fellow for this place, and would he like it? Walter thought that he was and he would; and Lord Hetherington, knowing Joyce was going down to see his friend, bid him inquire, and if all were straight, assure Mr. Benthall that the living was his.
And this was how Walter Joyce executed his commission, and this was how George Benthall heard this most acceptable news.
"By the way, what made you grin, Benthall, when I said I had come down here for my holiday to look at my old quarters?" asked Walter.
"Because I thought there might be yet another reason which you had not stated. Anxiety to see some one here!"
"Anxiety is the wrong word. Strong wish to see you and your wife again, and----"
"My wife and I are out of the affair! Come, confess!"
"I give you my honour I don't know what you mean."
"Likely enough; but I'm older than you, and, parson though I am, I declare I think I've seen more of the world. Shall I tell you what brought you down here? I shall!--then I will!--to see Maude Creswell."