The time is morning; the date
is early in the month of November.
The place is a church, in a poor
and populous parish in the undiscovered
regions of London, eastward of
the Tower, and hard
by the river-side.
A marriage procession of five
approaches the altar The bridegroom
is pale, and the bride is frightened.
The bride's friend (a resolute-looking
little lady) encourages her in
whispers. The two respectable
persons, apparently man and wife,
who complete the procession,
seem to be not quite clear as
to the position which they occupy
at the ceremony. The beadle,
as he marshals them before the
altar, sees something under the
surface in this wedding-party.
Marriages in the lower ranks
of life are the only marriages
celebrated here. Is this a runaway
match? The beadle anticipates
something out of the common in
the shape of a fee.
The clergyman
(the junior curate) appears
from the vestry in his
robes. The clerk takes his place.
The clergyman's eye rests with
a sudden interest and curiosity
on the bride and bridegroom,
and on the bride's friend; notices
the absence of elderly relatives;
remarks, in the two ladies especially,
evidences of refinement and breeding
entirely unparalleled in his
professional experience of brides
and brides' friends standing
before the altar of that church;
questions, silently and quickly,
the eye of the clerk, occupied
also in observing the strangers
with interest "Jenkinson" (the
clergyman's look asks), "is this
all right?" "Sir" (the clerk's
look answers), "a marriage by
banns; all the formalities have
been observed." The clergyman
opens his book. The formalities
have been observed; his duty
lies plainly before him. Attention,
Launcelot! Courage, Natalie!
The service begins.
Launce casts
a last furtive look round the
church. Will Sir
Joseph Graybrooke start up and
stop it from one of the empty
pews? Is Richard Turlington lurking
in the organ-loft, and only waiting
till the words of the service
appeal to him to prohibit the
marriage, or "else hereafter
forever to hold his peace?" No.
The clergyman proceeds steadily,
and nothing happens. Natalie's
charming face grows paler and
paler, Natalie's heart throbs
faster and faster, as the time
comes nearer for reading the
words which unite them for life.
Lady Winwood herself feels an
unaccustomed fluttering in the
region of the bosom. Her ladyship's
thoughts revert, not altogether
pleasantly, to her own marriage: "Ah
me! what was I thinking of when
I was in this position? Of the
bride's beautiful dress, and
of Lady Winwood's coming presentation
at court!"
The service advances to the
words in which they plight their
troth. Launce has put the ring
on her finger. Launce has repeated
the words after the clergyman.
Launce has married her! Done!
Come what may of it, done!
The service ends. Bridegroom,
bride, and witnesses go into
the vestry to sign the book.
The signing, like the service,
is serious. No trifling with
the truth is possible here. When
it comes to Lady Winwood's turn,
Lady Winwood must write her name.
She does it, but without her
usual grace and decision. She
drops her handkerchief. The clerk
picks it up for her, and notices
that a coronet is embroidered
in one corner.
The fees are paid. They leave
the vestry. Other couples, when
it is over, are talkative and
happy. These two are more silent
and more embarrassed than ever.
Stranger still, while other couples
go off with relatives and friends,
all socially united in honor
of the occasion, these two and
their friends part at the church
door. The respectable man and
his wife go their way on foot.
The little lady with the coronet
on her handkerchief puts the
bride into a cab, gets in herself,
and directs the driver to close
the door, while the bridegroom
is standing on the church steps!
The bridegroom's face is clouded,
as well it may be. He puts his
head in at the window of the
cab; he possesses himself of
the bride's hand; he speaks in
a whisper; he is apparently not
to be shaken off. The little
lady exerts her authority, separates
the clasped hands, pushes the
bridegroom away, and cries peremptorily
to the driver to go on. The cab
starts; the deserted husband
drifts desolately anyhow down
the street. The clerk, who has
seen it all, goes back to the
vestry and reports what has happened.
The rector
(with his wife on his arm)
has just dropped into
the vestry on business in passing.
He and the curate are talking
about the strange marriage. The
rector, gravely bent on ascertaining
that no blame rests with the
church, interrogates, and is
satisfied. The rector's wife
is not so easy to deal with.
She has looked at the signatures
in the book. One of the names
is familiar to her. She cross-examines
the clerk as soon as her husband
is done with him. When she hears
of the coronet on the handkerchief
she points to the signature of "Louisa
Winwood," and says to the rector, "I
know who it is! Lord Winwood's
second wife. I went to school
with his lordship's daughters
by his first marriage. We occasionally
meet at the Sacred Concerts (on
the 'Ladies' Committee'); I shall
find an opportunity of speaking
to them. One moment, Mr. Jenkinson,
I will write down the names before
you put away the book. 'Launcelot
Linzie,' 'Natalie Graybrooke.'
Very pretty names; quite romantic.
I do delight in a romance. Good-morning."
She gives the curate a parting
smile, and the clerk a parting
nod, and sails out of the vestry.
Natalie, silently returning in
Lady Winwood's company to Muswell
Hill; and Launce, cursing the
law of Abduction as he roams
the streets--little think that
the ground is already mined under
their feet. Richard Turlington
may hear of it now, or may hear
of it later. The discovery of
the marriage depends entirely
on a chance meeting between the
lord's daughters and the rector's
wife.
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