"Oh, certainly, certainly," replied Doctor Thickett. "Let me look at that paper again. I want to see how the case stands."
Pushing the punch away from him, he examined the paper accurately, and at length, lifting his eyes, said:
"You are, then, the Earl of Eskdale?"
"He is none other, upon my say-so," chimed in Van Noost; "and, as we cannot cast many men out of one mould, as we cast statues, I will answer for it that there is not a copy of him extant."
The priest, however, was deeply cogitating the contents of the paper.
"This does not exactly say you are to marry her," he observed at length; "but, as it tells the young lady that, in perfect confidence of your honour and integrity, she is to do whatever you direct, I suppose we must take the consent for implied. Well, that is got over. Now then, the thing is, how to manage it. I don't care a rush for Sir John Newark; but I think you will find him difficult to manage. How will you ever smuggle her out of the house, and up here to the church, between the hours of eight and twelve?"
"I am afraid," replied Smeaton, "that the church must not be the place, and the hour somewhat different."
"But, my good Lord, my good Lord," said Parson Thickett, "the canon. You forget the canon. Canon one hundred and four. Why, I should be punished, and you might be punished, too, by the act affecting clandestine marriages."
"Which take place every day notwithstanding," added Smeaton.
"Ay, ay, by Hedge parsons, Mayfair parsons, and Fleet parsons, but not by a regular Doctor of Divinity. Why, I might be suspended for six months from the execution of my office, and I am not sure that they would not touch the temporalities. As for the office, deuce take it. I don't care much for that. I want a trip to London, and that would give me a holiday."