The gas leaping up dazzled them for a moment, and then Mr Marston opened his book and pointed his finger to the entry. “Look here, Mary—look at that; did you ever see a name like that before? What do you suppose it can mean?”
Mrs Marston had to put on her spectacles first, and they had always to be looked for before they could be put on. She had just adopted spectacles, and did not like them, nor to have to make, even to herself, the confession that she wanted them: and they were always out of the way. The Rector was short-sighted, and had the exemption which such persons enjoy. He looked upon the magnifying spectacles of his wife with contempt, and it was always irritating to him to see her hunting about, saying, “Where have I put my glasses?” as was her wont. “Can’t you tie them round your neck,” he said, “or keep them in your pocket—or something?” When, however, they were found at last, he spread the book out upon the table and, with his finger on the place, waited while she read. Their two heads stooping over the book under the gas, with the pale sky looking in at the window, made a curious picture, he eager, she still fumbling a little to get on her spectacles without further comment. “‘Reginald Winton,’” she read hesitating, “‘bachelor, of this parish.’ I never certainly heard of any one of that name in this parish: stay, it might be the new care-taker perhaps at Mullins and Makings—or——”
“That’s not the name,” cried the Rector. He would have liked to pinch her, but refrained. “This is no care-taker, you may be sure; but it is the other name—look at the other name. Where have you seen it before? and what is the meaning of it?” Mr Marston cried with excitement. He had worked himself up to this pitch, and he forgot that she was quite unprepared. She read, stumbling a little, for the handwriting was crabbed, “‘Jane Angela Pendragon Plantagenet Fitz-Merlin Altamont, spinster, of the parish of Billings.’ Dear, dear,” was good Mrs Marston’s first comment—“I hope she has names enough and syllables enough for one person.”
“And is that all that strikes you?” her husband said.
“Well—it is an odd name—is that what you mean, William? Very silly, I think, to give a girl all that to sign. I suppose if she uses it all, it will be only in initials. She will sign, you know, Jane Angela, or very likely only Angela, which is much prettier than Jane; Angela P. P. F.—or F. M.—Altamont, that is how it will be. Angela Altamont; it is like a name in a novel.”
“Ah, now we are coming to it at last!” cried the Rector; “names in novels, when they are founded on anything, generally follow the names of the aristocracy. Now here’s the question: Is this a secret marriage, and the bride some poor young lady who doesn’t know what she is doing, some girl running away with her brother’s tutor or some fiddler or other, to her own ruin, poor thing, without knowing what she is about?”
“Dear me, William! what an imagination you have got!” said Mrs Marston, and she sat down in her surprise and drew the book towards her; but then she added, “Why should they come to St Alban’s in that case? There are no musicians living in this parish. And poor people do give their children such grand names nowadays. That poor shirtmaker in Cotton Lane, don’t you remember? her baby is Ethel Sybil Celestine Constantia—you recollect how we laughed?”
“Family Herald,” said the Rector with a careless wave of his hand, “and all Christian names, which makes a great difference. It was her last batch of heroines, poor soul; but do you think a poor needlewoman would think of Pendragon and Plantagenet? No; mark my words, Mary, this is some great person; this is some poor deceived girl, throwing away everything for what she thinks love. Poor thing, poor thing! and all the formalities complied with, so that I have no right to stop it. Sayers is an idiot!” cried Mr Marston. “I should have inquired into it at once had I been at home, with a name before my eyes like that.”
“Dear me!” said Mrs Marston; there is not much in it, but she repeated the exclamation several times. “After all,” she said, “it must be true love, or she would not go that length; and who knows, William, whether that is not better than all their grandeur? Dear, dear me! I wish we knew a little about the circumstances. If the gentleman is of this parish couldn’t you send for him and inquire into it?” The Rector was pacing up and down the room in very unusual agitation. It was such a crisis as in his peaceful clerical life had never happened to him before.
“You know very well he is not of this parish,” Mr Marston said. “I suppose he must have slept here the requisite number of nights; and besides, he knows I have no right to interfere. The banns are all in order. I can’t refuse to marry them, and what right have I to send for the man or to question him? No doubt he would have some plausible story. It is not to be expected, especially if it is the sort of thing I think it is, that he should tell me.”