Hephzy nodded. “Oh, yes, she would,” she said. “She is thinkin' of it now. She and I have just had a long talk. She's a sensible girl, Hosy, and she listened to reason. If she was sure that you wanted to marry her so soon she—”
“Wanted to!” I cried. “Hephzy!”
Hephzy nodded again. “Then that's settled,” she said. “It's a big disappointment to me, I give in. I'd set my heart on your bein' married at our meetin'-house in Bayport, with Mr. Partridge to do the marryin', and a weddin' reception at our house and—and everything. But I guess this is the best, and I know it's the most sensible. But, Oh Hosy, there's one thing I can't give up. I want you to be married at the American Ambassador's or somewhere like it and by an American minister. I sha'n't feel safe if it's done anywhere else and by a foreigner, even if he's English, which don't seem foreign to me at all any more. No, he's got to be an American and—and, Oh, Hosy! DO try to get a Methodist.”
I couldn't get a Methodist, but by consulting the hotel register I found an American clergyman, a Congregationalist, who was a fine fellow and consented to perform the ceremony. And, if we were not married at the American Embassy, we were at the rooms of the London consul, whom Matthews, at the Camford Street office, knew and who was another splendid chap and glad to oblige a fellow-countryman, particularly after seeing the lady he was to marry.
The consul and his wife and Hephzy were our only witnesses. Frances' wedding gown was not new, but it was very becoming—the consul's wife said so, and she should know. Also she said she had never seen a sweeter or more beautiful bride. No one said anything concerning the bridegroom's appearance, but he did not care. It was a drizzly, foggy day, but that made no difference. A Kansas cyclone and a Bayport no'theaster combined could not have cast a damper on that day.
When it was over, Hephzy, who had been heroically struggling to keep her vow not to shed another tear during our pilgrimage, hugged us both.
“I—I—” she faltered, “I—I can't say it, but you know how I feel. There's nothin' I sha'n't believe after this. I used to believe I'd never travel, but I have. And there in Mayberry I believed I'd never be happy again, but I am. HAPPY! hap—hap—Oh dear! WHAT a fool I am! I ca—I can't help it! I expect I look like the most miserable thing on earth, but that's because I AM so happy. God bless you both! Now—now don't so much as look at me for a few minutes.”
That afternoon she left for Mayberry to do the “packing up” and my wife and I were alone—and together.
I saw London again during the next few days. We rode on the tops of busses, we visited Kew Gardens and Hampton Court and Windsor. We took long trips up and down the Thames on the little steamers. Frances called them our honeymoon trips. The time flew by. Then I received a note from Hephzy that the “packing up” was finished at last and that she was returning to London.
It was raining hard, the morning of her arrival, and I went alone to meet her at the railway station. I was early there and, as I was walking up, awaiting the train, I heard someone speak my name. I turned and there, immaculate, serene and debonair as ever, was A. Carleton Heathcroft.