The young people were to be married “properly” on Monday morning, at nine o’clock. This early hour was fixed that the people at Updown might not get scent of the proceedings. Curling, in my presence, had protested against the ceremony, as superfluous. But my uncle was firm.
“I shall never consider my daughter your wife, sir,” he exclaimed with some heat, “until the service as directed by the Church of England has been read over you.”
“But we are married!” urged Curling. “Thoroughly married.”
“I say you are not!” shouted my uncle. “You dare not disobey me, sir!”
“I’ll do anything you want,” replied Curling: “but I shall go to my grave protesting against this second ceremony.”
I looked forward to the ceremony with many misgivings, having no doubt that my aunt would misconduct herself. When Monday morning came we all rose very early, and supplied, at the breakfast table, such an assemblage of dolorous faces, that more dejection could not have been expressed, had we been going to escort some favourite relation to the gallows. My uncle proposed that Theresa and I should walk to the church in advance of him and his wife, lest, should we go in a body, the attention of the people might be drawn, and a procession follow us to the altar.
“Anything to keep this matter secret,” said he.
So Theresa and I started alone.
It was a bright, fresh morning, so gay and sunny that all depression was out of the question.
“I know it is proper to look wretched on these occasions,” said I. “But what is a man to do if he can’t cry?”