“Now, you are upon your honour,” said I to her. “You must be careful to retain all those articles for an hour or so, for I am sorry to inform you I must take them from you.”
“And can it be possible!” she exclaimed, no doubt with reference to the guilt of her industrious protegé; and then relaxing into a kind of smile, “Surely, surely you’re no to act the animal we were speaking of. The bride’s dressed, the bridegroom is up, the minister is waited for, and the crowd is at the door. Poor Lizzy, poor Lizzy, could ever I have thought this of you!”
“Well, I admit that I intend to be at the marriage anyhow,” said I. “They have not had the grace to invite me; but I am often obliged to overlook slights from my friends.”
And leaving my honest broker in the very height of her wonder—if not with uplifted hands and open mouth—I made my way to the house of rejoicing, shaded as all such are with that quiet decorum, if not solemnity, which the black coat and white cravat have such a power of casting over leaping hearts and winged hopes. The crowd had by this time increased; and among the rest was my assistant waiting for me—though ostensibly there to overawe the noisy assemblage. The Irish boys and girls were predominant, shouting their cries, among which “The snab and the hawker, hurra,” would not sound as an honour up-stairs. When I say Irish boys and girls, I mean to include adults of sixty, grim and shrivelled enough in all save the heart, which is ever as young and green as an urchin’s. Then who does not feel an interest in the evergreen of marriage, albeit its red berries are often full of bitterness and death? The young look forward to it, and the old back upon it—the one with a laugh, the other with a sigh; but the interest is ever the same. Nay, I’m not sure if the sigh has not a little hope in it, even to that last dripping of the sands, when even all other “pleasure has ceased to please.” Excuse me, it is not often I have to sermonise on marriage, except those between the law and vice, where the yoke is not a pleasant one, and yet perhaps less unpleasant than many of those beginning with love on the one side, and affection on the other. And now I am the detective again.
“Are the constables ready?” I whispered to my assistant.
“Yes; they’re in the stair-foot beyond the meal-shop on the other side.”
“Then keep your post, and have an eye to the window.”
“For ha’pennies?” said he, with a laugh.
“I’m just afraid I may reduce the happiness,” replied I, not to be outdone in Irish wit on a marriage occasion, however bad at it.
And pushing my way among the noisy crowd, whose cry was now “M‘Levy!” “He’s to run awa’ wi’ the bride!” “The snab has stown his varnished boots!” “The bride is to sleep in a police cell!” and so forth, I mounted the stair till I came to the marriage-hall. Uninvited as I was, I made “no gobs,” as they say, at entering, but, opening the door, stood there among the best of them. A more mysterious guest perhaps never appeared at a marriage before since the time of the famous visitor at Jedburgh, where the king danced; but I had no attention to bestow on expressions of wonder. The scene was of a character to be interesting enough to any one. To me the chief object of attention was the head of the bride, where the orange blossom ought to be; and there to be sure it was, set off, as it ought to have been, with green myrtle. With this I was so much occupied, that I cannot say it was just then that I scanned Elizabeth’s dress—a fine lavender glacé silk, adorned with as many knots as would have bound all the lovers in the room in silken bands; collar and sleeve of lace, of what kind goes beyond my knowledge; grey boots, necklace, and armlets; white kid gloves, with no doubt a good many rings under them. These notices came rather afterwards, my practical eye ranging meanwhile—the party being dead silent as yet—round the room, where, according to my recollection of my list, I saw a perfect heaping up of all manner of things collected from the sixteen opened houses, which the pretty bride had so industriously entered.