“It’s quite too bad, you know,” said Mrs. Covill, an iron-grey haired lady of decided presence and possessing a hooked nose. “I can’t understand it in 117 a man of Mr. Grey’s business-like ways. Now he’s just the sort of man whom I should have expected would have been here at least an hour before it was necessary.”
“It is just his sort that fail on these occasions,” put in Mrs. Ganthorn pessimistically. “He’s just too full of business for my fancy. What is the time now, Mr. Danvers?”
“On the stroke of the half-hour,” replied the parson, with a gloomy look. “My eyesight is not very good; can I see anything on the trail, or is that black object a bush?”
“Bush,” said some one shortly.
“Ah,” ejaculated the parson. Then he turned to Mrs. Malling, who stood beside him staring down the trail with unblinking eyes. Her lips were pursed and twitching nervously. “There can have been no mistake about the time, I suppose?”
“Mistake? No,” retorted the good lady with irritation. “Folks don’t make no mistake about the hour of their wedding. Not the bridegroom, anyway. No, it’s an accident, that’s what it is, as sure as my name’s Hephzibah Malling. And that’s what comes of his staying at Ainsley when he ought to have been hereabouts. To think of a man driving forty odd miles to get married. La’ sakes! It just makes me mad with him. There’s my girl there most ready to cry her eyes out on her wedding morning, and small blame to her neither. It’s a shame, and I’m not the one to be likely to forget to tell him so when he comes along. If he were my man he’d better his ways, I know.”
No one replied to the old lady’s heated complaint. 118 They all too cordially agreed with her to defend the recalcitrant bridegroom. Mr. Danvers drew out his watch for at least the twentieth time.
“Five minutes overdue,” he murmured. Then aloud and in a judicial tone: “We must allow him some margin. But, as you say, it certainly was a mistake his remaining at Ainsley.”
“Mistake––mistake, indeed,” Mrs. Malling retorted, with all the scorn she was capable of. “He’s that fool-headed that he won’t listen to no reason. Why couldn’t he have stopped at the farm? Propriety–– fiddlesticks!” Her face was flushed and her brow ominously puckered; she folded her fat hands with no uncertain grip across the slight frontal hollow which answered her purpose for a waist. Her anger was chiefly based upon alarm, and that alarm was not alone for her daughter. She was anxious for the man himself, and her anxiety found vent in that peculiar angry protest which is so little meant by those who resort to it. The good dame was on pins and needles of nervous suspense. Had Grey suddenly appeared upon the scene doubtless her kindly face would have at once wreathed itself into a broad expanse of smiles. But the moments flew by and still the little group waited for the coming which was so long delayed.
Three of the young men approached the agitated mother from the juvenile gathering. Their faces were solemn. Their own optimism had given way before the protracted delay. Tim Gleichen and Peter Furrers came first, Andy, the choreman, brought up the rear.