“Look here! Hamilton! ‘I send this tribute from an old ship-mate. Hamilton!’ Now that’s very kind of Hamilton to remember me.”
They all remembered him. No one forgot him—in his success.
On that first Sunday of their banns they sat in the church side by side; not minding now who saw them together, emancipated, acknowledging a companionship that had lasted during so many years. More than a quarter of a century’s habit had not destroyed its freshness or robbed it of its charm; essentially their feelings at this hour were those of boy and girl lovers. Outwardly old, they were inwardly young.
Mildred Beckett, with her husband, was seated quite near in a side pew a little ahead, and looking round and watching them now and then she saw Emmie find his place for him in the prayer-book and hand him the book. Others too, many others, noticed them; not knowing who they were, failing to recognize Dyke—for, however famous a man is, however frequently photographed, and even filmed, there will still be people who do not know him by sight. But they were struck by the strong note of individuality—a couple that somehow made you think about them—this fine big old chap, with his shock of grey hair, intrepid blue eyes, and queer-coloured beard; and the tall, thin, faded maiden lady.
“I publish the banns of marriage between—” The clergyman had begun it, and Mildred looked round. The clergyman paused, as if startled.
Anthony Dyke was standing up. Emmie gently pulled his coat, and whispered “Sit down, dear.”
“The banns,” he said, in a gruff whisper, and because of his deafness louder than was necessary. “Get up, yourself.”
“No, dear,” she whispered, in a flutter. “It’s not done.”
But he was offering her his hand, as if to assist her, again inviting her to rise. It was the old country custom, still prevalent in the west of England when he was a boy, or at least practised in his father’s church. Gentle and simple, the young squire and the colonel’s daughter, the farm-hand and the dairy-maid, they all used to stand up to hear their banns read out—to let neighbours see who they were, to show that they themselves had nothing to be ashamed of, and that they were proud of each other. Dyke, in the Antarctic and other remote places, had not learnt that the practice was no longer usual and proper.