“It is so—a passing drift of vapour. He’s all right. It will cool him. Now, Lydia, this won’t do. You’ll fret yourself into a brain-fever if you look at him even between the interstices of sweetie-bottles and biscuit-tins. I must convey you where you cannot see him at all; and there’s no place better than inside the church. And, by ginger! there goes the parson. I’ll call him; he will let us in. And—Lydia, I took the precaution to have a license; it cost me half-a-guinea—here it is. You’d never be so unreasonable as to have that chucked away, so come along.”
“O Jack! I wouldn’t do anything as wasn’t right and honourable. He, up there”—with her chin she indicated the top of the spire, then enveloped in fog—“he’ll expect to have me if he brings down the stag.”
“Not a bit, my dear. Nothing was set down in writing, but I call you to witness—he who had the choice was to go up the spire and leave the coast clear for the other to propose, and to offer no just cause or impediment. Was it not so?”
“I did not quite understand it in that light.”
“But I did.”
“Will Mr. Newbold, though?”
“My dear Lydia, he is up in a fog. England expects every man to do his dooty. Here’s the license. Come along.”
Two hours later, with a triumphant air and firm stride, the builder entered the shop, dragging along an immense battered weathercock detached from the spindle. It had once been gilt, it was now in a rusty, measly condition. Within he saw the widow and sailor side by side.