The Duke's Daughter; and, The Fugitives; vol. 2/3

by Mrs. Oliphant

“Please, sir, they be all here,” said Simms. “You’ll not keep the bride and bridegroom waiting, surely, the gentleman says.”

“I hope I am a better judge as to my duty than the gentleman,” said the Rector, tartly; and without another word he marched into the chancel, and advancing to the altar-rails, signed to the two women to take their places. During the interval the bride had been brought from the waiting-room and divested of her cloak. She was dressed simply in white, with a large veil over her little bonnet. Lord Germaine had given her his arm and was leading her to her place, when the voice of the Rector announced that the other service had begun. The bridal party looked at each other in consternation, but what could they do? Lord Germaine, though he was one of the careless, had not courage enough to interrupt a service in church. They stood waiting, the strangest group. Lady Jane, when she divined what it was, did her best to pay a little attention, to follow the prayers and lessons, which were so curiously out of keeping with the circumstances. Winton, standing by her, crimson with anger and impatience, could scarcely keep still. He held his watch in his hand with feverish anxiety. Lord Germaine, adjusting his glass more firmly in his eye, regarded the Rector as if he was a curious animal. Lady Germaine, after carefully examining the whole group for a moment, fell, as it was evident to see, into convulsions of secret laughter. If it had not been so serious, it would have been highly comic. And as for the poor women kneeling at the altar, the service so far did them very little good. They were shocked to the very soul to think of standing in the way of a bride; they could not resist giving little glances from the corners of their eyes to see her, or at least the white train of her dress falling upon the carpet on the altar-steps, which was all that was within their range of vision as they knelt with their hands over their faces. They were very well meaning, both of them, and had really intended to do their religious duty—but there are some things which are too great a trial for even flesh and blood.

All this time was Mrs Marston’s opportunity if she could have availed herself of it. She sat in her place in her front pew, in a tremble, meaning every moment to put force upon herself to do her duty. All the time she was reminding herself that she was a clergyman’s wife; that she ought not to be timid; that it was her duty to speak. But how much easier it had been last night in intention than it was to-day in reality! For one thing, she had not foreseen the presence of Lady Germaine. She had thought only of the poor girl, who probably had no mother, to whom it would make all the difference in the world to have a woman to speak to. But the presence of the other lady confounded the Rector’s wife. She sat and looked on in a tremor of anxiety and timidity, unable to move, yet with her heart pricking and urging her. And so pretty and modest as the bride looked, poor thing; and surely he was fond of her. He would not look at her like that if it was an interested marriage. But when she saw the laughter which “the other lady” could not suppress, horror overcame all other sentiments in Mrs Marston’s mind. To laugh in church; to laugh at one of the church services! She had gone down on her knees, but neither did she, it is to be feared, give very much attention to the prayers. And even the Rector’s mind was disturbed. He stumbled twice in what he was saying; his eyes were not upon the book, but upon the door, watching for some one to come; and, good heavens! how slowly the time went! After all, it was not much more than the half-hour when the two poor women, scarcely knowing what had passed, got up from their knees. He had read more quickly instead of more slowly in the confusion of his mind. Twenty minutes yet! and the two poor mothers going down the altar-steps, stealing into the first vacant seat to sate their eyes with the ceremony to follow, and the other little group ranged before him, Simms putting them in their places very officiously, and no help for it, and no sign of any one coming. Well, a man can do no more than his duty! The Rector came forward with the sentiments of a martyr, and opened his book and cleared his voice. He was so much excited and nervous that he could hardly keep his articulation clear. He had to clear his voice a great many times in the first address; the figures before him swam in his eyes. He had an impression of a sweet but pale face, very solemn and tremulous, yet calm, and of a man who did not look like an adventurer. It occurred to him, even as he read, that if he had not known anything about them, he would have been interested in this young pair. Was no one coming, then? He hardly knew how he began. Three-quarters chiming, and nothing more that he could do to gain time! He went on, stumbling, partly from agitation, partly for delay, lifting his eyes between every two words, committing more indecorum in the course of five minutes than he had done before in all his clerical life. When he came to the words “if any man can show any just cause,” it came into his head what a mockery it was. He made almost a dead stop, and looked round in a sort of anguish—“any man!”—why, there was not a creature—there was nobody but Simms, waiting behind obsequious, thoughtful of the half-crowns, and Mrs Simms staring, and the two poor women who had been churched. Who of all these was likely to make any objection? And everything perfectly quiet; not a sound outside except the ordinary din. Then he put on his most solemn aspect and looked fully, severely, in the face of the bridal pair. “I require—and charge you both—as ye will answer—at the dreadful day of judgment.” Tremendous words; and he gave them forth one by one, pausing at every breathing-place. Surely there never was such an officiating clergyman. Lord Germaine kept that eyeglass full upon him, gravely studying the unknown phenomena of a new species. Lady Germaine, entirely overmastered by the fou rire which had seized her during the churching, and fully believing that it was all eccentricity of the most novel kind, crushed her handkerchief into her mouth, and stood behind Winton that her half-hysterical seizure of mirth might not be perceived. And now even that adjuration was over. Slow as you can say the words, there are still but a few of them to say. The Rector was in despair. A little more, and they would be bound beyond any man’s power to unloose them. He had to begin, “Wilt thou have this woman——” At this point he stopped short altogether; his eager ears became conscious of something strange among the outside noises with which he was so familiar. He made a sign to Simms, an angry, anxious gesture, pointing to the door. Lady Germaine was almost beside herself; the little handkerchief now was not enough; a moment more, she felt, and her laugh must peal through the church.

But it did not—another moment something else pealed through the church, a loud voice calling “Stop!” and Lady Germaine’s disposition to laugh was over in an instant. She gave a little cry instead, and came close to Lady Jane to support her. Lord Germaine dropped his eyeglass from his eye. He said, “Go on, sir; go on, sir; do your duty,” imperatively. As for Winton, he turned half round with a start, then, bewildered, pronounced his assent to the question which had been but half asked him. “I will,” he said, “I will!” “Go on, sir,” cried Lord Germaine: “go on, sir.” In the meantime some one was hurrying up the aisle, pale, breathless, in a whirl of passion. Even in the excitement and horror of the moment Mrs Marston could not help giving a second look to see what like a duke was in the flesh. The new-comer was white with fatigue and fury. He came up to the very altar-steps where those two poor women had been kneeling, and thrust Mrs Simms and the alarmed verger almost violently out of the way. “Stop!” he cried, “stop! I forbid it—stop—Jane!” and clutched his daughter by the arm. Lady Germaine in her excitement gave a loud shriek and grasped the bride tighter, holding her round the waist, while Winton, in a kind of frenzy, seized her ungloved hand, which was ready to be put into his. Lady Jane thus seized on every side awoke only then out of the abstraction of that solemn and prayerful seriousness in which she had been about to perform the greatest act of her life. She had not noted the breaks and pauses in the service, she had not thought of anything extraneous, noises or voices. All that had occupied her was the solemnity of the moment, the great thing she was doing, the oath she was about to take. Even now, when so rudely awakened, she was not sure that the hand of the bridegroom seeking hers was not in the course of the service. She gave it to him, notwithstanding the grasp upon her arm. “Go on, sir!” shouted Lord Germaine; “do your duty.” But the Rector could not help for the moment a little sense of triumph. He made a step backwards and closed his book. And at this moment there was the little rustle in the throat of the church tower, and one, two, three,—noon struck, filling the church with successive waves of sound.

The Duke had begun, “Jane!” and Winton had cried out, echoing his friend, to the Rector to “go on, go on,” when this sound suddenly fell upon them all, ringing slowly, steadily, like a doom bell. Something in the sound stilled every one, even the angry and unhappy young man, who saw his marriage broken and his hopes made an end of in a moment. Lady Germaine took her hand away from Jane’s waist and sank down upon the vacant bench and burst out into sobbing,—she who felt that she must laugh five minutes before; and Mrs Marston cried in her pew, and the two poor women looked on with so much sympathy. The Duke’s hand dropped from his daughter’s arm. The only thing that did not alter was the attitude of the two chief figures. They stood with clasped hands before the altar-rails. Even now Lady Jane only half understood what had happened. It began to dawn upon her as she saw the closed book, and felt the silence and the sound of the clock. She turned round to Winton with a questioning look, then smiled and gave a little, the slightest, pressure of the hand she held. In this way they stood while the clock struck, no one saying a word. Then there arose several voices together.

“I thank heaven I arrived in time!” the Duke exclaimed. “Jane, let there be no further scene, but leave off this silly pantomime, and come home at once with me.”

“Your bishop shall hear of this, sir!” said Lord Germaine, shaking his fist, in spite of himself, at the Rector.

Winton, on his side, was too sick at heart to find any words. He said, “It is over,” with a voice of anguish; then added, “but we are pledged to each other—pledged all the same.”

“Let go my daughter, sir!” cried the Duke.

“We are pledged to each other,” Winton repeated. He took the ring out of his pocket, where it lay ready, and put it on her finger, trembling. “She is my wife,” he said, half turning round, appealing to the group.