NEXT morning everything was in movement early in St Alban’s, E.C. Orders had been sent to the verger to have special sweepings-out and settings in order, a thing which took that functionary much by surprise. For the marriage: but then marriages were not so uncommon at St Alban’s—less uncommon than anything else. Churchings were more rare events, and demanded more consideration: for probably the married pair once united would never trouble St Alban’s more; whereas there was always a chance that babies born in the neighbourhood might grow up in it, and promote the good works of the parish, or be candidates for its charities, which was also very desirable—for the charities were large and the qualified applicants few. But it was for the marriage that all this fuss was to be made. “It must be a swell wedding,” the verger said to his wife. “You had better put on your Sunday bonnet and hang about. Sometimes they want a witness to sign the book, and there’s half-crowns going.” Accordingly all was expectation in the neighbourhood of the church. The best altar-cloth was displayed, and the pinafores taken off the cushions in the pulpit and reading-desk, and the warming apparatus lighted, though this was an expense. Mr Marston felt justly that when there was a possibility of a duke and a certainty of a duke’s daughter, extra preparations were called for. He came over himself early to see that all was ready. There was no concealing his excitement. “Has any one been here?” he asked, almost before he was within hearing of the verger. Simms answered “No”—but added, “Them churchings, Rector. You’ll take ’em after the wedding, sir?” “Oh, the churchings,” said the Rector: “are the women here?—oh, after the wedding, of course.” But then a sudden thought struck him. “Now I think of it, Simms,” he said, “perhaps we’d better have them first—at least, keep them handy, ready to begin, if necessary—for there is some one coming to the marriage who—may be perhaps a little late——” “Oh, if you knows the parties, sir,” said the verger. And just at that moment Mrs Marston came in, in her best bonnet and a white shawl. She came in by the vestry door, which she had a way of doing, though it was uncanonical, and she darted a look at her husband as she passed through and went into her own pew, which was quite in the front, near to the reading-desk. The white shawl convinced Simms without further words. Unless she knew the parties Mrs Marston never would have appeared like this. Respectability was thus given to the whole business, which beforehand had looked, Simms thought, of a doubtful description; for certainly there was nobody in the parish of the name of Winton, even if the bridegroom had not looked “too swell” to suit the locality. But if they were the Rector’s friends!
They arrived a few moments after eleven o’clock, in two very private, quiet-looking carriages, of which nobody could be quite sure whether they were humble broughams, of the kind which can be hired, or private property. The bridegroom was first, with one man accompanying him, who looked even more “swell” than himself. The bride came a little after in the charge of a respectable elderly woman-servant, and one other lady whose dress and looks were such as had never been seen before in St Alban’s. Mrs Simms was not learned in dress, but she knew enough to know that the simplicity of this lady’s costume was a kind of simplicity more costly and grand than the greatest finery that had ever been seen within the parish of St Alban’s. The bride herself was wrapped in a large all-enveloping grey cloak. The maid who was with her even looked like a duchess, and was far above any gossip with Mrs Simms. Altogether it was a mysterious party. There was a little room adjoining the vestry to which the ladies were taken to wait till all was ready, while the gentlemen stood in the church, somewhat impatient, the bridegroom looking anxiously from time to time at his watch. But now came the strangest thing of all. The Rector, who had ordered the church to be warmed and the cushions to be uncovered on purpose for them—he who had known enough about their arrangements to calculate that some one might arrive late—the Rector, now that they were here, took no notice. Simms hurried in to inform him that they had come, but he took no notice; then hurried back a second time to announce that “the gentlemen says as they’re all here and quite ready;” but still Mr Marston never moved. He had his watch on the table, and cast a glance upon it from time to time, and he was pale and nervous sitting there in his surplice. The clergyman all ready and the bridal party all ready, and a quarter after eleven chiming!
“We’ll take the churchings, Simms,” said the Rector, in a voice that was scarcely audible.
“The churchings, sir!” cried the verger, not believing his ears. Of all the things to keep a wedding-party waiting for! But what could Simms do? To obey the Rector was his first duty. He went with his mind in a state of consternation to fetch the two poor women from the pews where they sat waiting, wrapping themselves in their shawls, rather pleased with the idea of seeing a wedding before their own little service. But they, too, were thunderstruck when they heard they were to go up first. “Are you sure you ain’t making a mistake?” one of them said; and as he walked up the aisle, followed by these two humble figures, the elder gentleman, who wore an eyeglass in his eye, almost assaulted Simms. He said, “Holloa! hi! what are you after there?” as if he had been in the street and not in a church.
Simms paused, and came closer than Lord Germaine, who was Winton’s attendant, thought agreeable. He curved his hand round one side of his mouth, and under its shelter whispered, “Two ladies, sir, to be churched——”
“Churched! what’s that?” cried Lord Germaine, with a sort of fright—and then he recollected himself, and laughed. “But, my good fellow,” he said, “not before the marriage. Take my compliments to the clergyman—Lord Ger—— I mean just my compliments, you know,” he added hurriedly, “and tell him that we are all waiting, really all here and waiting. He can’t keep a bride and bridegroom waiting for—two ladies”—and then he glanced through his eyeglass at the two poor women, who dropped a humble curtsey without meaning it—“who can be churched, you know quite well, my good fellow, after twelve o’clock.”
“I’ll tell the Rector, sir,” said Simms—but he took his charges to the altar-steps all the same, for the Rector was a man who liked to be obeyed. Then he went in and delivered his message.
The Rector was sitting gazing at his watch with a very anxious and troubled face. “Has any one come?” he said.
“Please, sir, they be all here,” said Simms. “You’ll not keep the bride and bridegroom waiting, surely, the gentleman says.”
“I hope I am a better judge as to my duty than the gentleman,” said the Rector, tartly; and without another word he marched into the chancel, and advancing to the altar-rails, signed to the two women to take their places. During the interval the bride had been brought from the waiting-room and divested of her cloak. She was dressed simply in white, with a large veil over her little bonnet. Lord Germaine had given her his arm and was leading her to her place, when the voice of the Rector announced that the other service had begun. The bridal party looked at each other in consternation, but what could they do? Lord Germaine, though he was one of the careless, had not courage enough to interrupt a service in church. They stood waiting, the strangest group. Lady Jane, when she divined what it was, did her best to pay a little attention, to follow the prayers and lessons, which were so curiously out of keeping with the circumstances. Winton, standing by her, crimson with anger and impatience, could scarcely keep still. He held his watch in his hand with feverish anxiety. Lord Germaine, adjusting his glass more firmly in his eye, regarded the Rector as if he was a curious animal. Lady Germaine, after carefully examining the whole group for a moment, fell, as it was evident to see, into convulsions of secret laughter. If it had not been so serious, it would have been highly comic. And as for the poor women kneeling at the altar, the service so far did them very little good. They were shocked to the very soul to think of standing in the way of a bride; they could not resist giving little glances from the corners of their eyes to see her, or at least the white train of her dress falling upon the carpet on the altar-steps, which was all that was within their range of vision as they knelt with their hands over their faces. They were very well meaning, both of them, and had really intended to do their religious duty—but there are some things which are too great a trial for even flesh and blood.
All this time was Mrs Marston’s opportunity if she could have availed herself of it. She sat in her place in her front pew, in a tremble, meaning every moment to put force upon herself to do her duty. All the time she was reminding herself that she was a clergyman’s wife; that she ought not to be timid; that it was her duty to speak. But how much easier it had been last night in intention than it was to-day in reality! For one thing, she had not foreseen the presence of Lady Germaine. She had thought only of the poor girl, who probably had no mother, to whom it would make all the difference in the world to have a woman to speak to. But the presence of the other lady confounded the Rector’s wife. She sat and looked on in a tremor of anxiety and timidity, unable to move, yet with her heart pricking and urging her. And so pretty and modest as the bride looked, poor thing; and surely he was fond of her. He would not look at her like that if it was an interested marriage. But when she saw the laughter which “the other lady” could not suppress, horror overcame all other sentiments in Mrs Marston’s mind. To laugh in church; to laugh at one of the church services! She had gone down on her knees, but neither did she, it is to be feared, give very much attention to the prayers. And even the Rector’s mind was disturbed. He stumbled twice in what he was saying; his eyes were not upon the book, but upon the door, watching for some one to come; and, good heavens! how slowly the time went! After all, it was not much more than the half-hour when the two poor women, scarcely knowing what had passed, got up from their knees. He had read more quickly instead of more slowly in the confusion of his mind. Twenty minutes yet! and the two poor mothers going down the altar-steps, stealing into the first vacant seat to sate their eyes with the ceremony to follow, and the other little group ranged before him, Simms putting them in their places very officiously, and no help for it, and no sign of any one coming. Well, a man can do no more than his duty! The Rector came forward with the sentiments of a martyr, and opened his book and cleared his voice. He was so much excited and nervous that he could hardly keep his articulation clear. He had to clear his voice a great many times in the first address; the figures before him swam in his eyes. He had an impression of a sweet but pale face, very solemn and tremulous, yet calm, and of a man who did not look like an adventurer. It occurred to him, even as he read, that if he had not known anything about them, he would have been interested in this young pair. Was no one coming, then? He hardly knew how he began. Three-quarters chiming, and nothing more that he could do to gain time! He went on, stumbling, partly from agitation, partly for delay, lifting his eyes between every two words, committing more indecorum in the course of five minutes than he had done before in all his clerical life. When he came to the words “if any man can show any just cause,” it came into his head what a mockery it was. He made almost a dead stop, and looked round in a sort of anguish—“any man!”—why, there was not a creature—there was nobody but Simms, waiting behind obsequious, thoughtful of the half-crowns, and Mrs Simms staring, and the two poor women who had been churched. Who of all these was likely to make any objection? And everything perfectly quiet; not a sound outside except the ordinary din. Then he put on his most solemn aspect and looked fully, severely, in the face of the bridal pair. “I require—and charge you both—as ye will answer—at the dreadful day of judgment.” Tremendous words; and he gave them forth one by one, pausing at every breathing-place. Surely there never was such an officiating clergyman. Lord Germaine kept that eyeglass full upon him, gravely studying the unknown phenomena of a new species. Lady Germaine, entirely overmastered by the fou rire which had seized her during the churching, and fully believing that it was all eccentricity of the most novel kind, crushed her handkerchief into her mouth, and stood behind Winton that her half-hysterical seizure of mirth might not be perceived. And now even that adjuration was over. Slow as you can say the words, there are still but a few of them to say. The Rector was in despair. A little more, and they would be bound beyond any man’s power to unloose them. He had to begin, “Wilt thou have this woman——” At this point he stopped short altogether; his eager ears became conscious of something strange among the outside noises with which he was so familiar. He made a sign to Simms, an angry, anxious gesture, pointing to the door. Lady Germaine was almost beside herself; the little handkerchief now was not enough; a moment more, she felt, and her laugh must peal through the church.
But it did not—another moment something else pealed through the church, a loud voice calling “Stop!” and Lady Germaine’s disposition to laugh was over in an instant. She gave a little cry instead, and came close to Lady Jane to support her. Lord Germaine dropped his eyeglass from his eye. He said, “Go on, sir; go on, sir; do your duty,” imperatively. As for Winton, he turned half round with a start, then, bewildered, pronounced his assent to the question which had been but half asked him. “I will,” he said, “I will!” “Go on, sir,” cried Lord Germaine: “go on, sir.” In the meantime some one was hurrying up the aisle, pale, breathless, in a whirl of passion. Even in the excitement and horror of the moment Mrs Marston could not help giving a second look to see what like a duke was in the flesh. The new-comer was white with fatigue and fury. He came up to the very altar-steps where those two poor women had been kneeling, and thrust Mrs Simms and the alarmed verger almost violently out of the way. “Stop!” he cried, “stop! I forbid it—stop—Jane!” and clutched his daughter by the arm. Lady Germaine in her excitement gave a loud shriek and grasped the bride tighter, holding her round the waist, while Winton, in a kind of frenzy, seized her ungloved hand, which was ready to be put into his. Lady Jane thus seized on every side awoke only then out of the abstraction of that solemn and prayerful seriousness in which she had been about to perform the greatest act of her life. She had not noted the breaks and pauses in the service, she had not thought of anything extraneous, noises or voices. All that had occupied her was the solemnity of the moment, the great thing she was doing, the oath she was about to take. Even now, when so rudely awakened, she was not sure that the hand of the bridegroom seeking hers was not in the course of the service. She gave it to him, notwithstanding the grasp upon her arm. “Go on, sir!” shouted Lord Germaine; “do your duty.” But the Rector could not help for the moment a little sense of triumph. He made a step backwards and closed his book. And at this moment there was the little rustle in the throat of the church tower, and one, two, three,—noon struck, filling the church with successive waves of sound.
The Duke had begun, “Jane!” and Winton had cried out, echoing his friend, to the Rector to “go on, go on,” when this sound suddenly fell upon them all, ringing slowly, steadily, like a doom bell. Something in the sound stilled every one, even the angry and unhappy young man, who saw his marriage broken and his hopes made an end of in a moment. Lady Germaine took her hand away from Jane’s waist and sank down upon the vacant bench and burst out into sobbing,—she who felt that she must laugh five minutes before; and Mrs Marston cried in her pew, and the two poor women looked on with so much sympathy. The Duke’s hand dropped from his daughter’s arm. The only thing that did not alter was the attitude of the two chief figures. They stood with clasped hands before the altar-rails. Even now Lady Jane only half understood what had happened. It began to dawn upon her as she saw the closed book, and felt the silence and the sound of the clock. She turned round to Winton with a questioning look, then smiled and gave a little, the slightest, pressure of the hand she held. In this way they stood while the clock struck, no one saying a word. Then there arose several voices together.
“I thank heaven I arrived in time!” the Duke exclaimed. “Jane, let there be no further scene, but leave off this silly pantomime, and come home at once with me.”
“Your bishop shall hear of this, sir!” said Lord Germaine, shaking his fist, in spite of himself, at the Rector.
Winton, on his side, was too sick at heart to find any words. He said, “It is over,” with a voice of anguish; then added, “but we are pledged to each other—pledged all the same.”
“Let go my daughter, sir!” cried the Duke.
“We are pledged to each other,” Winton repeated. He took the ring out of his pocket, where it lay ready, and put it on her finger, trembling. “She is my wife,” he said, half turning round, appealing to the group.
Lady Jane withdrew her right hand, putting it within his arm. She held up that which had the ring upon it, and put her lips to it. “I don’t know what this means,” she said, tremulous and yet clear, “but I am his wife.”
“Let go my daughter, sir!” cried the Duke. They were all speaking together. The pair who were not wedded turned round arm in arm as they might have done had the ceremony been completed. Once more the Duke caught hold of his daughter roughly. “Jane, leave this man! I command you to leave him! Come home at once!” he cried. “Mr Winton, if you have any sense of honour, you will give her up at once. My God! will you compromise my daughter and pretend to love her? Jane, will you make your family a laughing-stock? Come, come! You will cover us with shame. You will kill your mother.” He condescended to plead with her, so intense was his feeling. “Jane, for the love of heaven——”
Lady Germaine rose up from the bench on which she had flung herself. “Oh, Duke!” she cried, “don’t you see things have gone too far? Leave her with me. She will not be compromised with me. Have pity upon your own child! Don’t you see, don’t you see that it is too late to stop it now?”
“Lady Germaine!” cried the Duke, “I hope you can forgive yourself for your share in this, but I cannot forgive you. Certainly my daughter shall not go with you. There is but one house to which she can go—her father’s.” He tightened his hold on her arm as he spoke. “Jane!—this scene is disgraceful to all of us. Put a stop to it at once. Come home; it is the only place for you now.”
Then there was a pause, and they all looked at each other with a mute consultation. The little ring of spectators stood and listened. Mrs Marston, with the tears scarcely dried from her eyes, watched them with fluttered eagerness, expecting the moment when the Duke should come and thank her for the warning he had received. She was compunctious for the sake of the young people; but yet to have the thanks of the Duke—— The Rector had made haste to get out of his surplice, and now came out with a little importance and the same idea in his mind.
Lady Jane was the first to speak. She said, “It is cruel for us all; but perhaps my father is right, things being as they are. I cannot go with you, Reginald, to our own house.”
Winton’s voice came with a burst, half-groan, half-sob, uncontrollable. “God help us! I don’t suppose you can, my darling—till to-morrow.”
“Till to-morrow! Then I will go home to my father’s now. Oh no,” she said, shrinking back a little, “not with you. Reginald will take me home.”
“Let go my daughter, sir!” the Duke said. “He shall not touch you. He shall not come near you. What! do you persist? Give her up, Winton; do you hear me? She says she will come home.”
“Father,” said Lady Jane very low, “it is you who are forgetting our dignity. I will go home, if Reginald takes me; but not with you. I suppose no one doubts our honour. It is not the time for delay now, after you have done all this. Reginald will take me home.”
What the Duke said further it is scarcely necessary to record. He had to stand by at last, half stupefied, and watch them walk down the aisle arm in arm, bride and bridegroom, to the evidence of everybody’s senses. He followed himself as in a dream, and got in, cowed, but vowing vengeance, into the cab, which was all his Grace could find to reach St Alban’s in from the railway,—and in that followed the brougham which conveyed his daughter and her—not husband, and yet not lover—to Grosvenor Square. But when he had once got her there!
The Rector and his wife stood open-mouthed to see the pageant thus melt away. The Duke, to whom they had done so great a favour, took no more notice of them than of the two poor women, who vaguely felt themselves in fault somehow, and still kept crying, looking after the bride. Not a word to the poor clergyman, who had almost done wrong for his sake—not a look even, not the faintest acknowledgment, any more than if he had nothing to do with it! Simms and his wife stood gaping, too, at the church door, looking after the party which had been far too much preoccupied to think of half-crowns. “This is how people are treated after they have done their best. I always told you not to meddle,” Mrs Marston said, which was very ungenerous, as well as untrue. But the Rector said nothing. He was mortified to the bottom of his heart. But when the excitement had a little died away, he said to himself with vindictive pleasure that he hoped they were having a pleasant day, those fine people in Grosvenor Square.