I did not look at anybody, but I saw Martin's mother at the back, and she was wiping her eyes and saying to some one by her side—it must have been the doctor—
"God bless her for the sweet child veen she always was, anyway."
The storm had increased during the service; and the sacristan, who was opening the door for us, had as much as he could do to hold it against the wind, which came with such a rush upon us when we stepped into the porch that my veil and the coronal of myrtle and orange blossoms were torn off my head and blown back into the church.
"God bless my sowl," said somebody—it was Tommy's friend, Johnny Christopher—"there's some ones would he calling that bad luck, though."
A band of village musicians, who were ranged up in the road, struck up "The Black and Grey" as we stepped out of the churchyard, and the next thing I knew was that my husband and I were in the carriage going home.
He had so far recovered from the frightening effects of the marriage service that he was making light of it, and saying:
"When will this mummery come to an end, I wonder?"
The windows of the carriage were rattling with the wind, and my husband had begun to talk of the storm when we came upon the trunk of a young tree which had been torn up by the roots and was lying across the road, so that our coachman had to get down and remove it.
"Beastly bad crossing, I'm afraid. Hope you're a good sailor. Must be in London to-morrow morning, you know."
The band was playing behind us. The leafless trees were beating their bare boughs in front. The wedding bells were pealing. The storm was thundering through the running sky. The sea was very loud.