They were married in the vestry, and Pelleas and I had the honour of writing our names below theirs, and we both wiped our eyes right through the entire process in a fashion perfectly absurd.
“Parents of the—?” hesitated the curate, regarding us consultingly.
I looked at Pelleas in some embarrassment, and I think we felt that he was concealing something when he said simply: “No.” Perhaps it would not have been legal or churchly had the curate known that we had never seen Cornelia Emmeline until that day and knew nothing of Evan save egg-phosphates.
On the steps of the chapel the two kissed each other with beautiful simplicity, and young Evan shook our hands with tears in his eyes.
“How—how come you to do it?” he asked, this phase of the hour having now first occurred to him.
“Yes,” said Cornelia Emmeline, “I’ve been a-wantin’ to ask.”
Pelleas and I looked at each other somewhat foolishly.
“Bless you!” we mumbled together. “I don’t know!”
Off went young Evan like a god to his star, and Cornelia Emmeline walked back with us, and we all waved our hands at the far end of the street. Then we left her at the door of the Shrewd Benefactress, and with broken words the dear little soul in her best plum-colour’ went blithely to Little Charge and the all-wool elephant, and all the age was gold.
Pelleas and I walked soberly home.