THE WEDDING.
"Papa, will you come to breakfast? Oh dear! what is the matter?"
Edina might well ask. She had opened the door of the small
consulting-room as the clock was chiming eight--the knell of Frank
Raynor's bachelorhood--to tell her father that the meal was waiting,
when she saw not only the hearth and the hearthrug, but the doctor
himself enveloped in a cloud of soot, and looking as black as Erebus.
"I said yesterday the chimney wanted sweeping, Edina."
"Yes, papa, and it was going to be done next week. Have you been
burning more paper in the chimney?"
"Only just a letter: but the wind carried it up. Well, this is a
pretty pickle!"
"The room shall be done to-day, papa. It will be all right and ready
for you again by night."
Dr. Raynor took off his coat and shook it, and then went up to his
room to get the soot out of his whiskers. The fact was, seeing the
letter go roaring up the chimney, he stooped hastily to try to get it
back again, remembering what a recent blazing piece of paper had done;
when at that moment down came a shower of soot, and enveloped him.
As he was descending the stairs again, the front-door was opened with
a burst and a bang (no other words are so fitting to express the mad
way in which excited messengers did enter), and told the doctor that
he was wanted there and then by some one who was taken ill and
appeared to be dying. Drinking a cup of coffee standing, the doctor
followed the messenger. It had all passed so rapidly that Edina had
not yet commenced her own breakfast.
"Hester," she said, calling to the maid-servant, "papa has had to go
out, and Mr. Frank is not yet in. You shall keep the coffee warm, and
I will run at once to Mrs. Trim and see if she can come to-day. We
must breakfast later this morning."
Hastily putting on her bonnet and mantle, Edina went down the street
towards the churchyard. The entrance to the church was at the other
end, facing the open country, the parsonage was there also: on this
side, near to her, stood the clerk's house. She could go to it without
entering the graveyard; and did so. Trying the door, she found it
fastened, which was unusual at that hour of the morning. It was
nothing for the door to be fastened later, when the clerk and his wife
were both abroad; the one on matters connected with his post, the
other doing errands in the village, or perhaps at some house helping
to clean. Edina gave a sharp knock with the handle of her umbrella,
which she had brought with her; for dark clouds, threatening rain,
were coursing through the sky. But the knock brought forth no
response.
"Now I do hope she is not out at work to-day!" ejaculated Edina,
referring to Mrs. Trim. "The sweep _must_ come to the room; and Hester
cannot well clean up after him with all her other work. There's the
ironing about. If she has to do the cleaning to-day, I must do that."
Another knock brought forth the same result--nothing. Edina turned to
face the churchyard, and stood thinking. The goat was browsing on the
green patch close by.
"If I could find Trim, he would tell me at once whether she's away at
work or not. She may have only run out on an errand. It is curious he
should be out: this is their breakfast-time."
Suddenly, as she stood there in indecision, an idea struck Edina: Mrs.
Trim was no doubt dusting the church. She generally did it on
Saturday, and this was Thursday: but, as Edina knew, if the woman was
likely to be occupied on the Saturday, she took an earlier day for the
duty.
Lightly crossing the stile, Edina went through the churchyard and
round the church to the entrance-porch. Her quick eyes saw that,
though apparently shut, the door was not latched; and she pushed it
open.
"Yes, of course: Mary Trim expects to be busy to-morrow and Saturday,
and is doing the dusting to-day," soliloquized Edina, deeming the
appearances conclusive. "Well, she will have to make haste here, and
come to us as soon as she can."
But it was no Mrs. Trim with her gown turned up, and a huge black
bonnet perched forward on her head, that Edina saw as she went gently
through the inner green-baize door. A very different sight met her
eyes; a soft murmur of reading broke upon her ears. The church was not
large, as compared with some churches, though of fairly good size for
a country parish: and she seemed to come direct upon the solemn scene
that was being enacted. At the other end, before the altar, stood,
side by side, Frank Raynor and Margaret St. Clare: facing them was the
new clergyman, Mr. Backup, book in hand.
Edina was extremely practical; but at first she really could not
believe her eyesight. She stood perfectly motionless, gazing at them
as one in a trance. They did not see her; could not have seen her
without turning round; and Mr. Backup's eyes were fixed on his
book--which, by the way, seemed to tremble a little in his hands, as
though he were being married himself. Coming to a momentary pause, he
went on again in a raised voice; and the words fell thrillingly on the
ear of Edina.
"I require and charge you both, as ye will answer at the dreadful day
of judgment, when the secrets of all hearts shall be disclosed, that
if either of you know any impediment, why ye may not be lawfully
joined together in Matrimony, ye do now confess it. For be ye well
assured, that so many as are coupled together otherwise than God's
word doth allow are not joined together by God; neither is their
Matrimony lawful."
The words, one by one, fell not only on Edina's ear; they touched her
soul. Oh, was there no impediment? Ought these two silly people,
wedding one another in this stolen fashion, and in defiance of
parental authority--ought they to stand silent under this solemn
exhortation, letting it appear that there was none? Surely this deceit
ought, of itself, to constitute grave impediment! Just for the moment
it crossed Edina's mind to come forward, and beg them to reflect; to
reflect well, ere this ceremony went on to the end. But she remembered
how unfitting it would be: she knew that she possessed no right to
interfere with either the one or the other.
Drawing softly back within the door, she let it close again without
noise, and made her way out of the churchyard. It appeared evident
that neither the clerk nor his wife was in the church: and, if they
had been, Edina could not have attempted then to speak to them.
As one in a dream, went she, up the street again towards home. The
clouds had grown darker, and seemed to chase each other more swiftly
and wildly. But Edina no longer heeded the wind or the weather. They
might, in conjunction with burning paper, send the soot down every
chimney in the house, for all the moment it was to her just now. She
was deeply plunged in a most unpleasant reverie. A reverie which was
showing her many future complications for Frank Raynor.
"Good-morning, Miss Edina! You be abroad early, ma'am."
The voice was Mrs. Trim's: the black bonnet, going down with the rest
of herself in a curtsy, was hers also. She carried a small brown jug
in her hand, and had met Edina close to the doctor's house. Edina came
out of her dream.
"I have been to see after you, Mrs. Trim, and could not get in. The
door was locked."
"Dear now, and I be sorry, Miss Edina! I just went to carry a drop o'
coffee and a morsel of hot toast to poor Granny Sandon: who heve got
nobody much to look after her since Rosaline Bell left. So I just
locked the door, and brought tha key away weth me, as much to keep the
Nanny-goat out as for safety. She heve a way of loosing herself, Miss
Edina, clever as I thinks I ties her, and of coming into the house:
and they goats butts and bites at things, and does no end o'
mischief."
"Your husband is out, then?"
"He heve gone off somewhere by rail, Miss Edina. I could na get out of
him where 'twas, though, nor whaat it were for. They men be closer nor
waax when they want to keep things from ye; and Trim, he be always
close. It strikes me, though, he be went somewhere for Mr. Raynor."
"Why do you think that?" cried Edina, quickly.
"Well, I be sure o' one thing, Miss Edina--Trim had no thought o'
going off anywhere when I come hoam last evening from Pendon; for
after we had had a word or two about his not seeing to tha goat, he
says to I he was going to do our garden up to-day: which would na be
afore it wants it. Mr. Frank, he come in then, and was talking to Trim
in tha kitchen, they two together; and, a-going to bed, Trim asks for
a clean check shirt, and said he was a-staarting out in the morning on
business. And, sure enough, he heve went, Miss Edina, and I found out
as he heve went by one o' they trains."
Edina said no more. She marshalled the chattering woman indoors to
look at the state of the doctor's room, and to tell her it must be
cleaned that day. Mrs. Trim took off her shawl there and then, and
began to prepare for the work.
The doctor had returned, and Hester was carrying the breakfast in.
Edina took her place at the table, and poured out her father's coffee.
"Is Frank not in yet?" he asked, as she handed it to him.
"Not yet, papa."
"Why, where can he be? He had only Williamson to see."
Edina did not answer. She appeared to be intent on her plate. Fresh
and fair and good she looked this morning, but she seemed to be lost
in thought. The doctor observed it.
"You are troubling yourself about that mess in my study, child!"
"Oh no, indeed I am not, papa. Mary Trim is already here."
"Are you sure Frank's not in the surgery, Edina?" said Dr. Raynor
again presently.
Knowing where Frank was, and the momentous ceremony he was taking part
in--though by that time it had probably come to an end--Edina might
safely assure the doctor that he was not in the surgery. Dr. Raynor
let the subject drop: Frank had called in to see some other patient,
he supposed, on his way home from Williamson's; and Edina, perhaps
dreading further questions, speedily ended her breakfast, and went to
look after Mrs. Trim and household matters.
When the Reverend Titus Backup awoke from his slumbers that morning,
the unpleasant thought flashed on his mind that he had a marriage
ceremony to perform. Looking at his watch, he found it to be half-past
seven, and up he started in a flurry. Having lain awake half the
night, he had overslept himself.
"Has the clerk been here for the key of the church, Betsy?" he called
to the old servant, just before he went out.
"No, sir."
It wanted only about eight minutes to eight then. Mr. Backup, feeling
somewhat surprised, for he had found Clerk Trim particularly attentive
to his duties, walked along the passage to the kitchen, and took the
church-key from the nail where it was kept. Opening the church
himself, he then went round to the clerk's house, and found it locked
up.
Quite a hot tremor seized him. _Without_ the clerk and his experience,
it would be next door to impossible to get through the service. Alone,
he might break down. He should not know what to say, or where to place
the couple; or when to tell them to kneel down, when to stand up; or
where the ring came in, or anything.
Where _was_ the clerk? Could he have made some mistake as to the hour?
However, it wanted yet some minutes to eight. Crossing the churchyard,
he entered the church, put on his surplice, carried the Prayer-book
into the vestry, and began studying the marriage service as therein
written.
Frank Raynor came up to the church a minute after the clergyman
entered it, and waited in the porch, looking out for his intended
bride. Eight o'clock struck; and she had promised to be there before
eight. Why did she not come? Was her courage failing her? Did the
black clouds, gathering overhead, appal her? Had Mrs. St. Clare
discovered all, and was preventing her? Frank thought it must be one
or other of these calamities.
There he stood, within the shelter of the porch, glancing to the right
and left. He could not go to meet her because he did not know which
way she would come: whether by the sheltered roadway, or across the
Bare Plain. That was one of the minor matters they had forgotten to
settle between themselves.
As Frank was gazing about, and getting into as much of a flurry as was
possible for one of his easy temperament, light, hasty steps were
heard approaching; and Margaret, nervous, panting, agitated, fell into
his arms.
"My darling I thought you must be lost."
"I could not get away before, Frank. Of all mornings, Lydia must needs
choose this one to send Tabitha to my room for some books from the
shelves. Now, these did not do; then, others did not do: the woman did
nothing but run in and out. And the servants were about the passages:
and oh, I thought I should never get away!"
A moment given to soothing her, to stilling her beating heart, and
they entered the church together. Margaret threw off the thin cloak
she had worn over her pretty morning dress of white-and-peach sprigged
muslin, almost as delicate as white. She went up the church, flushing
and paling, on Frank's arm: Mr. Backup came out of the vestry to meet
them. In a few flowing and plausible words, Frank explained that it
was he himself who required the parson's services, handed him the
license, and begged him to get the service over as soon as possible.
"The clerk is not here," answered the bewildered man, doubly
bewildered now.
"Oh, never mind him," said Frank. "We don't want the clerk."
An older and less timid clergyman might have said, I cannot marry you
under these circumstances: all Mr. Backup thought of was, getting
through his own part in it. It certainly did strike him as being
altogether very strange: the question even crossed him whether he was
doing rightly and legally: but the license was in due form, and in his
inexperience and nervousness he did not make inquiries or raise
objections. When he came to the question, Who giveth this Woman to be
married to this Man, and there was no response, no one indeed to
respond, he visibly hesitated; but he did not dare to refuse to go on
with the service. An assumption of authority, such as that, was
utterly beyond the Reverend Titus Backup. He supposed that the clerk
was to have acted in the capacity: but the clerk, from some
inexplicable cause, was not present. Perhaps he had mistaken the hour.
So the service proceeded to its close, and Francis Raynor and Margaret
St. Clare were made man and wife.
They proceeded to the vestry; the clergyman leading the way, Frank
conducting his bride, her arm within his, the ring that bound her to
him encircling her finger. After a hunt for the register, for none of
them knew where it was kept, Mr. Backup found it, and entered the
marriage. Frank affixed his signature, Margaret hers; and then the
young clergyman seemed at a standstill, looking about him helplessly.
"I--ah--there are no witnesses to the marriage," said he. "It is
customary----"
"We must do without them in this case," interrupted Frank, as he laid
down a fee of five guineas. "It does not require witnesses to make it
legal."
"Well--no--I--I conclude not," hesitated the clergyman, blushing as he
glanced at the gold and silver, and thinking how greatly too much it
was, and how rich this Mr. Raynor must be.
"And will you do me and my wife a good turn, Mr. Backup," spoke Frank,
ingenuously, as he clasped the clergyman's hand, and an irresistible
smile of entreaty shone on his attractive face. "_Keep it secret_. I
may tell you, now it is over and done, that no one knows of this
marriage. It is, in fact, a stolen one; and just at present we do not
wish it to be disclosed. We have our reasons for this. In a very short
time, it will be openly avowed; but until then, we should be glad for
it not to be spoken about. I know we may depend upon your kindness."
Leaving the utterly bewildered parson to digest the information, to
put off his surplice and to lock up the register, Frank escorted his
bride down the aisle. When she stopped to take up her cloak and
parasol, he, knowing there were no spectators, except the ancient and
empty pews, folded her in his arms and kissed her fervently.
"Oh, Frank! Please!--please don't! We are in church, remember." And
there, what with agitation and nervous fear, the bride burst into a
fit of hysterical tears.
"Daisy! For goodness' sake!--not here. Compose yourself, my love. Oh,
pray do not sob like that!"
A moment or two, and she was tolerably calm again. No wonder she had
given way. She had literally shaken from head to foot throughout the
service. A dread of its being interrupted, a nervous terror at what
she was doing, held possession of her. Now that it was over, she saw
she had done wrong, and wished it undone. Just like all the rest of
us! We do wrong first, and bewail it afterwards.
"You remain in here, please, Frank; let me go out alone," she said,
catching her breath. "It would not do, you know, for us to go out
together, lest we might be seen. Good-bye," she added, timidly holding
up her hand.
They were between the green-baize door now and the outer one. Frank
knew as well as she did that it would be imprudent to leave the church
together. He took her hand and herself once more to him, and kissed
her fifty times.
"God bless and keep you, my darling! I wish I could see you safely
home."
Daisy's suggestion, a night or two ago, of their leaving the church by
different doors, had to turn out merely a pleasant fiction, since the
church possessed but one door. She lightly glided through it when
Frank released her, and went towards home the way she had come, that
of the shady road, her veil drawn over her face, her steps fleet. He
remained where he was, not showing himself until she should be at a
safe distance.
"If I can only get in without being seen!" thought poor Daisy, her
heart beating as she sped along. "Mamma and Lydia will not be
downstairs yet, I know; and all may pass over happily. How high the
wind is!"
The wind was high indeed, carrying Daisy very nearly off her feet. It
took her cloak and whirled it over her head in the air. As ill-luck
had it, terrible ill-luck Daisy thought, who should meet her at that
moment but the Trennach dressmaker. She had been to The Mount to try
dresses on.
"Mrs. St. Clare is quite in a way about you, Miss Margaret," spoke
Mrs. Hunt, who was not pleased at having had her walk partly for
nothing. "They have been searching everywhere for you."
"I did not know you were expected this morning," said poor Daisy,
after murmuring some explanation of having "come out for a walk."
"Well, Miss Margaret, your mamma was good enough to say I might come
whenever it was most convenient to me: and that's early morning, or
late evening, so as not to take me out of my work in the daytime. I
thought I might just catch you and Miss St. Clare when you were
dressing, and could have tried on my bodies without much trouble to
you."
"What bodies are they?" asked Margaret. "I did not know that anything
was being made."
"They are dresses for travelling, miss. Mrs. St. Clare gave me a
pattern of the material she would like, and I have been getting them.
"Oh, for travelling," repeated Margaret, whose mind, what with one
thing and another, was in a perfect whirl. "Will you like to go back,
and try mine on now."
But the dressmaker declined to turn back. She was nearer Trennach now
than she was to The Mount, and her apprentice had no work to go on
with until she arrived at home to set it for her. Appointing the
following morning, she continued her way.
Daisy continued hers. It was a most unlucky thing that the dressmaker
should have gone to The Mount that morning of all others! What a fuss
there would be! And what excuse could she make for her absence from
home? There was only one, as it seemed to Daisy, that she could
make--she had been out for a walk.
But the shifting clouds had now gathered in a dense mass overhead, and
the rain came pouring down. Daisy had brought no umbrella: nothing but
a fashionable parasol about, large enough for a doll: one cannot be
expected on such an occasion to be as provident as the renowned Mrs.
McStinger. The wind took Daisy's cloak, as before; the drifting
rain-storm half blinded her. Before she reached home, her pretty
muslin dress, and her dainty parasol, and herself also, were wet
through.
"Now where have you been?" demanded Mrs. St. Clare, pouncing upon
Daisy in the hall, and backed by Tabitha; whilst Lydia, who had that
morning risen betimes, thanks to the exacting dressmaker, looked on
from the door of the breakfast-room.
"I went for a walk," gasped Daisy, fully believing all was about to be
discovered. "The rain overtook me."
"What a pickle you are in," commented Lydia.
"_Where_ have you been for a walk?" proceeded Mrs. St. Clare, who was
evidently angry.
"Down the road," said Daisy, in an almost inaudible voice, the result
of fear and emotion. "It--it is pleasant to walk a little before the
heat comes on. I--I did not know it was going to rain."
"Pray, how long is it since you found out that it is pleasant to walk
a little before the heat comes on?" retorted Mrs. St. Clare, with
severe sarcasm. "How many mornings have you tried it?"
"Never before this morning, mamma," replied Daisy, with ready
earnestness, for it was the truth.
"_And pray with whom have you been walking?_" put in Lydia, with
astounding emphasis. "Who brought you home?"
"Not any one," choked Daisy, swallowing down her tears. "I walked home
alone. You can ask Mrs. Hunt, who met me. Mamma, may I go up and
change my things?"
Mrs. St. Clare said neither yes nor no, but gave tacit permission by
stretching out her hand towards the staircase. Daisy ran the gauntlet
of the three faces as she passed on: her mother's was stern, Lydia's
supremely scornful, Tabitha's discreetly prim. The two ladies turned
into the breakfast-room, and the maid retired.
"It is easy enough to divine what Daisy has been up to," spoke Lydia,
whose speech was not always expressed in the most refined terms. She
sat back in an easy-chair, sipping her chocolate, a pink cloak trimmed
with swan's-down drawn over her shoulders; for the rain and the early
rising had made her feel chilly.
"Oh, I don't know," said Mrs. St. Clare, crossly. She detested these
petty annoyances.
"I do, though," returned Lydia. "Daisy has been out to meet Frank
Raynor. Were I you, mamma, I should not allow her so much liberty."
"Give me the sugar, Lydia, and let me take my breakfast in peace."
Daisy, locking her door, burst into a fit of hysterical tears. Her
nerves were utterly unstrung. It was necessary to change her garments,
and she did so, sobbing wofully the while. She wished she had not done
what she had done; she wished that Frank could be by her side to
encourage and shield her. When she had completed her toilet, she took
the wedding-ring from her finger, attached it to a bit of ribbon, and
hid it in her bosom.
"Suppose I should never, never be able to wear it openly?" thought
Daisy, with a sob and a sigh. "Suppose Frank and I should never see
each other again! never be able to be together? If mamma carries me
off abroad, and he remains here, one of us might die before I come
back again."