West Lorraine Church had been honoured, that day, by the attendance of several people entitled to as handsome monuments as could be found inside it. For instance, there was Sir Remnant Chapman (for whom even an epitaph must strain its elastic charity); Stephen, his son—who had spent his harm, without having much to show for it; Colonel Clumps, who would rise and fight, if the resurrection restored his legs; a squire of high degree (a distant and vague cousin of the true Lorraines), who wanted to know what was going on, having great hopes through the Woeburn, but sworn to stick (whatever might happen) to his own surname, which was “Bloggs;” and last, and best of all, Joyce Aylmer, Viscount Aylmer’s only son, of a true old English family, but not a very wealthy one.
“A merry Christmas to you all!” cried Mr. Hales, as they stood in the porch. “A merry Christmas, gentlemen! But, my certy, we shall have a queer one. How keen the air is getting!”
They all shook hands with the parson, and thanked him, after the good old fashion, “for his learned and edifying discourse;” and they asked what he meant about the weather; but he was too deep to tell them. Even he had been wrong upon that matter, and had grown too wise to commit himself. Then Cecil, who followed her father of course, made the proper curtseys, as the men made bows to her; and Major Aylmer’s horse was brought, and a carriage for the rest of them.
“Are you coming with us, Rector? We dine early,” said Sir Remnant, with a hungry squeak. “You can’t have another service, can you? God knows, you have done enough for one day.”
“Enough to satisfy you, at any rate,” the Rector answered, smiling: “but I should have my house about my ears, if I dined outside of it on a Christmas-day. Plain and wholesome and juicy fare, sir—none of your foreign poisons. Well, good-bye, gentlemen; I shall hope to see all of you again to-morrow, if the snow is not too deep.” The Rector knew that a very little snow would be quite enough to stop them, on the morning of the morrow—the Sunday.
“Snow, indeed! No sign of snow!” Sir Remnant answered sharply; he had an inborn hate of snow, and he wanted to be at home on the Monday. “But I say, Missie, remember one thing. Tuesday fortnight is the day. Have all your fal-lals ready. Blushing bridesmaids—ah! fine creatures! I shall claim a score of busses, mind. Don’t you wish it was your own turn, eh?”
The old rogue, with a hearty smack, blew a kiss to Cecil Hales, who blushed and shivered, and then tried to smile, for fear of losing her locket; for it had been whispered that Sir Remnant Chapman had ordered a ten-guinea locket in London for each of the six bridesmaids. So checking the pert reply, which trembled on the tip of her tongue, she made them a pretty curtsey, as they drove away.
“Now, did you observe, papa,” she asked, as she took her father’s arm, bent fully to gossip with him up the street, “how terribly pale Major Aylmer turned, when he heard about the bridesmaids? I thought he was going to drop; as they say he used to do, when he first came home from America. I am sure I was right, papa; I am sure I was, in what I told you the other day.”
“Nonsense, fiddlesticks, romantic flummery! You girls are never content without rivalry, jealousy, love and despair.”