The Rector made short work of these arguments. He pooh-poohed the real attachment in a way which made Mrs Marston angry. What could she know of poverty? he asked; and how was a duke’s daughter to scramble for herself in the world? As for love, it was great nonsense in most cases. The French system was just as good as the English. People got to like each other by living together, and by having the same tastes and habits. How could a fiddler or a tutor have the same habits as Lady Jane, “or Lady Angela, if you like it better?” He went on, as Mrs Marston said, like this, till she could have boxed his ears for him. And the fact was that he had to pay an extra penny on each of his letters to get them off by the post; for he wrote several letters—to Billings, to Hungerford, and to Grosvenor Square. Scotland and Wales were hopeless; there was no chance whatever that from either of these places his Grace could arrive in time. Indeed, it would be something very like a miracle if he arrived now. But the Rector felt that he had done his duty, which is always a consolation. He retired to rest late and full of excitement, feeling that no one could tell what the morrow might bring forth—a sentiment, no doubt, which is always true, but which commends itself more to the mind in a season when out-of-the-way events are likely. Mrs Marston had been a little cool towards him all the evening, resenting much that he had said. But it was not till all modes of communicating with the outer world were hopeless that she took her revenge and planted a thorn in his pillow. “If you had not been so disagreeable,” she said, “I would have advised you not to trust to the post, but to telegraph. I dare say the Duke would have paid you back the few shillings; then he would have been sure to get the news in time. At present I think it very unlikely. And I am sure, for the young people’s sake, I should be sorry. But I should have telegraphed,” Mrs Marston said. And the Rector, strange to say, had never thought of that.
CHAPTER XII.
HALF-MARRIED.
Next morning everything was in movement early in St Alban’s, E.C. Orders had been sent to the verger to have special sweepings-out and settings in order, a thing which took that functionary much by surprise. For the marriage: but then marriages were not so uncommon at St Alban’s—less uncommon than anything else. Churchings were more rare events, and demanded more consideration: for probably the married pair once united would never trouble St Alban’s more; whereas there was always a chance that babies born in the neighbourhood might grow up in it, and promote the good works of the parish, or be candidates for its charities, which was also very desirable—for the charities were large and the qualified applicants few. But it was for the marriage that all this fuss was to be made. “It must be a swell wedding,” the verger said to his wife. “You had better put on your Sunday bonnet and hang about. Sometimes they want a witness to sign the book, and there’s half-crowns going.” Accordingly all was expectation in the neighbourhood of the church. The best altar-cloth was displayed, and the pinafores taken off the cushions in the pulpit and reading-desk, and the warming apparatus lighted, though this was an expense. Mr Marston felt justly that when there was a possibility of a duke and a certainty of a duke’s daughter, extra preparations were called for. He came over himself early to see that all was ready. There was no concealing his excitement. “Has any one been here?” he asked, almost before he was within hearing of the verger. Simms answered “No”—but added, “Them churchings, Rector. You’ll take ’em after the wedding, sir?” “Oh, the churchings,” said the Rector: “are the women here?—oh, after the wedding, of course.” But then a sudden thought struck him. “Now I think of it, Simms,” he said, “perhaps we’d better have them first—at least, keep them handy, ready to begin, if necessary—for there is some one coming to the marriage who—may be perhaps a little late——” “Oh, if you knows the parties, sir,” said the verger. And just at that moment Mrs Marston came in, in her best bonnet and a white shawl. She came in by the vestry door, which she had a way of doing, though it was uncanonical, and she darted a look at her husband as she passed through and went into her own pew, which was quite in the front, near to the reading-desk. The white shawl convinced Simms without further words. Unless she knew the parties Mrs Marston never would have appeared like this. Respectability was thus given to the whole business, which beforehand had looked, Simms thought, of a doubtful description; for certainly there was nobody in the parish of the name of Winton, even if the bridegroom had not looked “too swell” to suit the locality. But if they were the Rector’s friends!
They arrived a few moments after eleven o’clock, in two very private, quiet-looking carriages, of which nobody could be quite sure whether they were humble broughams, of the kind which can be hired, or private property. The bridegroom was first, with one man accompanying him, who looked even more “swell” than himself. The bride came a little after in the charge of a respectable elderly woman-servant, and one other lady whose dress and looks were such as had never been seen before in St Alban’s. Mrs Simms was not learned in dress, but she knew enough to know that the simplicity of this lady’s costume was a kind of simplicity more costly and grand than the greatest finery that had ever been seen within the parish of St Alban’s. The bride herself was wrapped in a large all-enveloping grey cloak. The maid who was with her even looked like a duchess, and was far above any gossip with Mrs Simms. Altogether it was a mysterious party. There was a little room adjoining the vestry to which the ladies were taken to wait till all was ready, while the gentlemen stood in the church, somewhat impatient, the bridegroom looking anxiously from time to time at his watch. But now came the strangest thing of all. The Rector, who had ordered the church to be warmed and the cushions to be uncovered on purpose for them—he who had known enough about their arrangements to calculate that some one might arrive late—the Rector, now that they were here, took no notice. Simms hurried in to inform him that they had come, but he took no notice; then hurried back a second time to announce that “the gentlemen says as they’re all here and quite ready;” but still Mr Marston never moved. He had his watch on the table, and cast a glance upon it from time to time, and he was pale and nervous sitting there in his surplice. The clergyman all ready and the bridal party all ready, and a quarter after eleven chiming!
“We’ll take the churchings, Simms,” said the Rector, in a voice that was scarcely audible.
“The churchings, sir!” cried the verger, not believing his ears. Of all the things to keep a wedding-party waiting for! But what could Simms do? To obey the Rector was his first duty. He went with his mind in a state of consternation to fetch the two poor women from the pews where they sat waiting, wrapping themselves in their shawls, rather pleased with the idea of seeing a wedding before their own little service. But they, too, were thunderstruck when they heard they were to go up first. “Are you sure you ain’t making a mistake?” one of them said; and as he walked up the aisle, followed by these two humble figures, the elder gentleman, who wore an eyeglass in his eye, almost assaulted Simms. He said, “Holloa! hi! what are you after there?” as if he had been in the street and not in a church.
Simms paused, and came closer than Lord Germaine, who was Winton’s attendant, thought agreeable. He curved his hand round one side of his mouth, and under its shelter whispered, “Two ladies, sir, to be churched——”
“Churched! what’s that?” cried Lord Germaine, with a sort of fright—and then he recollected himself, and laughed. “But, my good fellow,” he said, “not before the marriage. Take my compliments to the clergyman—Lord Ger—— I mean just my compliments, you know,” he added hurriedly, “and tell him that we are all waiting, really all here and waiting. He can’t keep a bride and bridegroom waiting for—two ladies”—and then he glanced through his eyeglass at the two poor women, who dropped a humble curtsey without meaning it—“who can be churched, you know quite well, my good fellow, after twelve o’clock.”
“I’ll tell the Rector, sir,” said Simms—but he took his charges to the altar-steps all the same, for the Rector was a man who liked to be obeyed. Then he went in and delivered his message.
The Rector was sitting gazing at his watch with a very anxious and troubled face. “Has any one come?” he said.