How totally wrong he was, and how nearly his absurd confidence came to absolutely ruining us all, will clearly appear as this work goes on and readers are taken to Monte Carlo.
At last, as I continued to reproach him, he took refuge in saying, “Well, it’s done, and there’s an end to it; give over talking through your hat!” A vulgar Americanism which much offended me, and caused us to drive up to “The French Horn” in somewhat sulky silence.
It was the 23d of December, and we found Mr. Thatcher ready for us. I at once left him to show Brentin over the house, the great hall decorated with holly and cotton-wool mottoes, and to his room, while I went in immediate search of Lucy.
Over that tender meeting I draw the sacred veil of reticence. The dear girl was soon in my arms, soft and palpitating, full of forgiveness and love. We spent the afternoon together in a long walk across the links and down to the coast-guards’ cottages, where we had tea; returning only in time for dinner, through the dark and starry evening of that singularly mild December.
The result of our walk was that we made up our minds to be married shortly before Easter—so soon, in fact, as I could get back from abroad and settle my affairs. About Monte Carlo, I told her nothing further than that my sister was not well, and I had undertaken to escort her there, and see after her for a time—a fib, which, knowing Lucy’s apprehensive nature, I judged to be necessary, and for which I trust one day to be forgiven.
Mr. Brentin and I dined together, partly in silence, partly snapping at each other. On Christmas Eve our party was complete, with the exception of Harold Forsyth, who came over next morning from Colchester. On Christmas Day, “What’s the matter with our all going to Church?” said Mr. Brentin.
“Nothing particularly the matter,” Bob Hines replied, rather gruffly, “except that some of us are probably unaccustomed to it.”
However, Brentin insisted, and to Church, accordingly, we all went, as meek as bleating lambs.
Now in the Wharton Park pew was sitting Mr. Crage. The pew is so sheltered with its high partition and curtain-rods, I didn’t see him till he stood up; nor did I know there was any one else there till the parson glared down straight into the pew from the clerk’s ancient seat under the pulpit, whence he read the lessons, and said he really must beg chance members of the congregation to observe the proper reverential attitude, and not be continually seated.
Whereupon a deep voice replied, amid considerable sensation, from the bowels of the pew, “Sir, you are in error. I always rise as the rubric directs, but having no advantage of height—” the rest of the speech being lost in the irreverent titters of our party.