Mr. Jericho, as in gratitude bound, was proud of the friendship of
the Duke of St. George. If, at any time, Solomon thought of the
peerage—and we cannot deny that his soul did now and then hover about
the House of Lords—it was his belief that to the high party interest
of the duke he should owe the strawberry leaves. Besides, Jericho had
his own personal claims. He was religiously observant of the wishes
of the Minister, and—if a dog could vote—not even that grateful
animal would have barked aye or no with better docility; or even
with quicker intelligence. Again, it was only too plain to Jericho’s
intimate friends that he was dying for his country. “Parliament
is killing that dear man,” was the frequent cry of Candituft.
“He is wasting piecemeal,” was the complaint of Mizzlemist. “All
his flesh,” cried Mrs. Jericho, the tears peeping from her eyes,
“all his flesh goes into those filthy blue books.” And this belief
became a very popular superstition among the crowd of folks who
visited the Man of Money. His blood and brain, aye the marrow of the
senator, all was consumed to reappear in statistical details: yes,
his very soul might be recognised by friendship, sympathetic and
imaginative, sacrificed to printer’s ink. And—as Colonel Bones would
ask—“What cared the people of Toadsham for the devotion of their
member?” Whilst Commissioner Thrush declared that to stick by his
seat with the tenacity of Jericho, was not to sit leisurely and like
a gentleman for a borough, but to be impaled in Parliament. To be
sure, Mrs. Jericho was again and again promised by sanguine friends
that “Mr. Jericho must some day have a coronet.” But the wife,
loath to be comforted, would again fall upon her husband’s daily
waste. “A coronet! Yes; a coronet is all very well, but if the dear
fellow dwindles and dwindles in Parliament as he has done, why—poor
creature—when the coronet comes, he’ll have no head to put in it.”
An impossible case, of course; and only to be received as the morbid
apprehension of conjugal affection.
It was a great pity that Jericho’s intimacy with the Duke did not
begin in early youth. His Grace himself sweetly confounded Jericho by
more than once protesting such regret. “My dear Solomon,” his Grace
would say, and at first all the blood in Jericho’s body seemed turned
into ichor by the condescension, “My dear Solomon; I only wish we
had met at College. However,” the Duke would add with fortitude, “we
must make the best of the time that remains to us.” And certainly,
Jericho might take to himself this comfort: at no period of his
life could his friendship have been so useful to St. George as at
the very moment of his acquaintance. The fact is, the Duke was in
debt. Debt, indeed, was his family distinction. All his ancestors,
from Hugh de Gorge—who, to give the slip to his Norman tailor, came
with William to Hastings, and cut for himself a good slice of land
with his carving sword—all St. George’s ancestors were in debt. They
were all born to prodigious bills, just as other high families are
born to thick lips and elliptic noses. Therefore, we say, Jericho
was now a cherished guest at Red Dragon House. Two days before the
marriage of Agatha, the Man of Money passed the greater part of the
night there: it was four in the morning when he returned home. Of
course, Mrs. Jericho thought him in Parliament; wasting himself, in
her own impatient words, upon those wretches of Toadsham. “And what
would they care if he killed himself outright in their service? Why,
they’d erect nothing to his memory. Not so much as his statue in gilt
gingerbread.” At this Mr. Jericho would smile incredulously; and in
his bitter way, declare a female patriot to be the rarest of animals.
It was late, very late when Jericho appeared in his library. The
servant, waiting at the breakfast-table, eyed his master with looks
of dismay. The honest fellow’s teeth chattered as though he was
compelled to wait upon a ghost. Jericho observed the condition of the
lacquey, and, affronted by his terror, ordered him to quit the room.
And the man, it was afterwards discovered, rushed to his bedchamber,
skinned himself of his livery; scratched on his old plain clothes,
and—as though he was making off with the silver tea-pot—sneaked
stealthily from the house. (That man—if we may quit our story to say
as much—that man is now in Bedlam; his hopeless madness a belief
that his own face is nothing more than a razor blade. Poor fellow!
Evidently possessed by the sharpened visage of Jericho, as it cruelly
gleamed upon him from the breakfast-table.)
And there was good reason for this new keenness of the face divine.
Ere Jericho quitted Red Dragon House, he had lent upon the most
satisfactory mortgage—so any way there was land for his money—no less
than five-and-forty thousand pounds to his Grace of St. George. It
was a great sacrifice; but the Man of Money could not withstand it.
Truly an enormous sacrifice; but it should be the last—the last—the
very last. And there was no doubt that the money, lent at such a
season, and to such a man, with parliamentary service and the fame
of wealth, would bring the peerage: a baronetcy Jericho had already
refused. A peerage! Nevertheless, how he had shrunk—how horribly
he had dwindled—how wretchedly small he had become to purchase it.
Aye,—how small? He would again measure himself: he would know the
exact waste. Whereupon Jericho took the silken cord, and passed it
round his breast. Why, it would twice encircle him—twice, and a piece
to spare. With horror and loathing, Jericho flung the cord in the
fire: he would never again take damning evidence against himself.
Yet, why should he fear? He lost no strength. On the contrary, as his
flesh wasted, his spirit became stronger—his passions fiercer. He
had waxed in dignity of soul—in might and vigour of self-assertion.
He had wholly lost the weak, easy-tempered part of himself, and was
a man of iron will; of all-subduing energy. And perhaps this was
the tenor of the compact; the condition of his wealth; that, as he
sloughed the fleshy weakness of human nature, his spirit should be
strengthened, sublimated to the temper of the diviner creature.
His very soul glowed and chuckled at the thought; and thus priding
himself, in the triumph of his folly he sat and smiled a ghastly
smile, and rubbed together his long, thin, bloodless hands.
“Why, what’s the matter, woman?” suddenly cried the Man of Money.
Mrs. Jericho had abruptly entered the room, and shouted astonishment
at the spectre of her husband. “What’s the matter?” The woman could
not answer; she trembled; yet with a frosty smile tried to overcome
her look of apprehension. Somehow, too, the strange manner of the
man—his eye and voice terrified and thrilled her. “I ask, what’s the
matter?”
“Nothing, my dear; nothing,” stammered the wife; “nothing if you—you
are well.”
“And why should I not be well? What ails me?” and Jericho frowned and
rose erect.
“You were so late at the House, I thought, my love, you must be
tired; that is all,” murmured Mrs. Jericho. “But my love, here is
Sir Arthur,” and Sir Arthur Hodmadod—the bridegroom of to-morrow
with the happy Agatha—came smiling into the room. Instantly, the
smile was struck from his face; he let fall his cane, and as though
he had looked upon Gorgon, stood with fixed eyes, dropt jaw, and
face of whitest stone. His bride, with instinctive trust, alarmed at
the spectre, clutched the coat skirt of her betrothed. Mrs. Jericho
trembled anew at this new display of terror; and with heroic effort,
tried to rattle the baronet back to himself.
“Well, my dear Sir Arthur; here are you and Agatha, like coupled
doves. Well, bless ye both,” and the gallant woman affectionately
patted the cheek of her future son, and gave an affectionate, but
sharpish pinch to her daughter’s cheek, possibly to bring back the
blood. “I only hope, my loves, that this time twenty years you’ll
keep as close together. But I have no doubt of it, none;” and she
violently shook Hodmadod’s hand, and gave another pinch to the other
cheek of Agatha.
“No doubt of it,” stammered Hodmadod. “Always domestic and always
together, like knife and fork; when I say knife and fork, of course I
mean cup-and-saucer.”
“To be sure,” cried Mrs. Jericho very cordially.
“My dear sir,” and Hodmadod looked anxiously, warily at Jericho;
“heavy debate last night; when I say heavy, I mean, you spoke of
course. What a shame it is, Mr. Jericho, that they never print your
speeches. Shameful. They print much worse, I’m sure. Didn’t divide
till three, I perceive. And with committees and all, it’s butchering
work. When I say butchering work, I mean that I look upon the House
of Commons as quite a slaughter-house. Best lives of the country
sacrificed there. Why, now, how ill you look!”
“Do you think so?” growled Jericho.
“Shocking ill. If I were you, I should take the Chiltern Hundreds.
When I say, Chiltern Hundreds, I mean medical advice; if not,
Parliament will kill you. Kill a bullock; when I say a bullock, I
don’t mean that you’re a”—
“Sir Arthur Hodmadod,” roared Jericho; and the baronet was in a
tremor, for he had not, though he had industriously essayed, talked
himself into courage. “Sir Arthur!” Mrs. Jericho was in new twitters,
and Agatha, about to faint, crept closer to her love—“Sir Arthur, I
say.”
“Well, sir,” answered the baronet very tremulously.
“I believe you marry that young lady to-morrow?”
“It is my rapturous destiny,” said Hodmadod, affecting a smile.—“When
I say rapturous”—
“I know,” roared the Man of Money, with his best brutality. “Now,
understand, once and for all, if I permit a jackass to marry into my
family, I do not suffer him always to bray to me.” And with this Mr.
Jericho stalked from the room.
“Jackass!” exclaimed Hodmadod—“I must have this explained. When he
says jackass of course he means”—
“Oh, dear no!” cried Mrs. Jericho, crushing the inference in its
shell—its goose-shell.
“Not for a moment, Arthur; don’t believe it,” interposed Agatha; and,
at the touch of her hand, the lion-hearted Arthur dropt his mane, and
the wrathful fire died in his pacific eyes.
“It’s all the debates,” cried Mrs. Jericho. “They’re wearing
him to a shadow. He’ll never be himself so long as he’s in that
horrid Commons. He _must_ retire into the Upper House. He’s losing
all his substance in Acts of Parliament. And what—what indeed
does anybody care? Except ourselves,” said Mrs. Jericho, with
self-correction—“except ourselves. And, dear Sir Arthur, I know your
friendship—I know your sympathy: that Mr. Jericho, in all his trials,
in all his anxieties for the country, that he may always depend upon.”
“Always,” responded Sir Arthur; with the better alacrity that he
remembered he was about to leave England for a year; or, as his bride
had more prettily expressed it to a friend, “for twelve honeymoons.”
Mrs. Jericho left the lovers to themselves. We shall imitate the
considerate example of Mrs. Jericho. We will not break upon the last
hour of single life left them to enjoy together. The last hour:
for when next they meet, they meet in the very handsome and very
florid structure of St. Shekel’s, there to be made one by the welding
ministration of Doctor Cummin.
About to quit Jericho House, Sir Arthur thought himself especially
favoured by fortune to meet Doctor Stubbs upon the door-step. “Sir
Arthur,” said the courteous physician, “I wish you great joy, though
in advance.”
“You’re a kind creature, Stubbs; when I say kind, I was just thinking
of you. That is, when I say thinking of you, I mean”—
“My dear Sir Arthur,” and Stubbs looked professionally anxious, “what
_is_ the matter?”
“Nothing’s the matter.—When I say nothing, I never felt so odd in my
life. Never was married before you know; and, upon my word, looking
at the church steeple there, it goes up and down, and I feel all over
sea-sick. Did you feel so, eh?” and Hodmadod took the arm of Stubbs,
and turning from the door, the bridegroom and physician walked gently
onward. “Quite sea-sick,” repeated the Baronet.
“It’s nothing;” said the physician, “merely your nerves.”
“That’s what I said to myself; only my nerves. Still, it isn’t
pleasant, is it, going to be married? Not but what I shall be happy.
Eh? Don’t you think I shall be happy?” asked the Baronet; for in all
things he liked to be confirmed by another opinion; he had, perhaps,
so little faith in his own.
“Miss Pennibacker was made to—to—to make you happy: no doubt of it,”
said Stubbs.
“When you say made, of course you mean ordered for me.—And when—but
bless me! how that steeple does go up and down, and how my
nerves—they are my nerves you say!—tingle too.”
“Well, well, we must put that all right,” said Doctor Stubbs. “It
won’t do for you to take nerves with you to the altar, to-morrow.
It’s the bride’s privilege to have nerves. You must be rock.”
“I should like it, above all things,” said Hodmadod. “Ought to be
rock at such a time, eh?”
“A piece of manly adamant,” responded Doctor Stubbs, and his eye
twinkled. “Well, that can be done. That can be done,” repeated the
Doctor slowly, the while he wrote with pencil upon a leaf of his
pocket-book. “Here, Sir Arthur. This will brace you up like a drum,”
and the Doctor, tearing the prescription from his book, handed it to
the tremulous bridegroom.
Sir Arthur cast his eye upon the medicinal Latin; muttered bits of
the written spells—“_Morph: Acetat. Hyoscyami. Digitalis. Ætheris
Sulphuric._ Yes; I see”—and the patient smiled, much comforted. “I
see; quite like a drum. Exactly.”
“There are two doses,” said Stubbs. “You will take one the last thing
to-night; and the other when you wake in the morning. That will, no
doubt, be early,” and Stubbs laughed.
“Oh yes,” cried Hodmadod, with joyous burst. “Oh, yes! Up with the
first chanticleer. When I say the first chanticleer”—
“To be sure,” said Stubbs. “And now, my dear Sir Arthur—why what _is_
the matter?”
“Nothing. When I say nothing, you can’t think how that steeple still
goes up and down. I’m always sick at sea; but never felt so sick as
now in all my life. Up and down!”
“Aye, aye; your nerves. Now, pray listen. You must keep yourself very
quiet. Because to-morrow”—Stubbs was the smallest of a wag—“to-morrow
you have to make a great moral demonstration.”
“Very moral. Marriage, you know. Nothing can be more moral. When I
say”—
“Yes, I apprehend. Therefore, you must be very quiet. Because your
temperament is excitable. You’re very impulsive. Your nerves are most
delicately strung.”
“Quite so. Often thought it. Smallest thing sets ’em tingling. I’m
quite like an Eolian harp; played upon by the least breath. When I
say”—
“To be sure. At this crisis you must be particularly careful. Pray
attend to me”—the Doctor looked at his watch—“for I’m past my time.
When you’ve taken the medicine, do not on any account suffer yourself
to be disturbed. Be most particular in this. You will then have a
sweet, refreshing sleep; and you will wake, as I say, like a drum.
God bless you”—and Doctor Stubbs shook the Baronet’s hand—“like a
drum.”
The Doctor returned to make his call at Jericho House, and Hodmadod
took his way to his own abode; resolved to shut himself up until
summoned by the chimes to his happy fate. Still the church steeple,
as he phrased it in his thoughts, went up and down in his head;
and he felt an increased sense of the necessity of quietude. With
strengthened determination to be tranquil, Hodmadod, arrived at
home, summoned his valet to his presence. “Atkins,” said Hodmadod,
and Atkins stared at the soft, subdued manner of his master.
What could ail him? “Atkins, you know what is about to happen
to-morrow.”—Atkins, responding to what he thought the dejection
of the Baronet, looked grave and shook his head. “Now, it is most
necessary to my reputation as a man and a rock, Atkins, that I should
not be disturbed. You understand?”
“Yes, sir; to be sure, sir; not disturbed, sir,” said Atkins.
“Very well. Then you will go yourself, Atkins, and get me that
prescription,” and Hodmadod gave the document to the suspicious
retainer. Yes; suspicious. For Atkins had grave doubts, as he took
his way to the chemist’s; doubts which his fidelity to his master
soon put into language.
“May I be so bold as to ask if there’s anything queer in that
physic?” asked Atkins, with the best unconcern he could assume.
“No; oh no,” said the chemist; and Atkins was greatly relieved.
“Merely soothing—merely soothing.”
And the evening closed in; and Hodmadod—though he would now and then
put his hand to his head, by which it was evident that the steeple
was still there—Hodmadod felt calmer and calmer; indeed, on the
whole, happy and resigned. And then again he felt so dull and lonely,
that he heartily wished the morning was come, and all was well over.
Time never moved so heavily. And now the bridegroom ran his fingers
along the piano—now he corrected his whiskers in the glass—now he
looked at the bracelet that, on the morning, he proposed to clasp
about the wrist of his bride. Still the minutes would lag; time would
limp, as with a thorn in either foot. Nevertheless, Hodmadod did the
best to speed him along. It was the last evening of his celibacy. He
would try a little reading. In his time, the Baronet had been a great
patron of the ring; but that thoughtless time was over. When his
faithful valet appeared with the night-light, Hodmadod was deep in
_Boxiana_.
“Everything’s ready for the morning,” said Atkins, following his
master to the room. “Very handsome, sir,” said Atkins, with the
freedom of an old favourite; “very handsome waistcoat. Must make
the lady quite proud of you;” and Atkins looked admiringly at the
delicate vest. “No lady could refuse a gentleman in such a waistcoat.
Not often, sir, the church sees anything like that.”
“Be silent, Atkins,” said Hodmadod. “Blockhead! When I say blockhead,
I mean ass; and when I say ass, I mean you—Atkins. Do you think
marriage consists in waistcoats? When I say waistcoats, do you think
the holy and blessed state is made up of—of—satin and—and”—
“Not at all, sir,”—said the faithful Atkins.
“Well, then, be silent, and attend to my last words, or
nearly”—Atkins stared—“as a bachelor. I must not be disturbed. I
will ring for you; but on no account, and for no purpose whatever,
break in upon me. You understand me, Atkins. I have my thoughts to
compose—medicine to take—and many things to think of. A great moral
demonstration to make, Atkins; when I say, a moral demonstration, I
have to be a rock to-morrow; adamant—moral adamant, at the altar.”
“Must be staggering, sir; ’specially the first time. But you’ll go
through it, sir,”—said the encouraging Atkins—“go through it, sir;
with credit to yourself, and—and with honour to your country.”
“Blockhead, go. And you hear, if you suffer me to be disturbed,
the world’s before you. When I say, the world’s before you, I mean
my door is for ever behind you. Go,” and Atkins with a bow and a
smile departed. Hodmadod prepared himself for rest. Yet, for a few
minutes, he sat before the glass. He took the miniature of Agatha
in his hand, and kissed it. Then his eye fell upon the soothing
medicine; and as with a new impulse, and pressing the picture,
again and again he saluted it. Then, laying it down, he took up the
anodyne. He read the direction, translated by the chemist—“_Half to
be taken the last thing at night; half the first in the morning._”
The whole was very little. Very little. A smile of self-satisfaction
crept over the face of Hodmadod as his eye rested on the bottle. He
had made a discovery; had achieved a wise thought, and his face was
illuminated in token of the triumph. And still he considered the
bottle; and silent, his mind thus talked.
“Very little in the bottle. When I say little, ’twould all go in a
wine-glass. Half now, half in the morning! Why shouldn’t it be all
taken now—all swallowed at once, and be done with? Why make two bites
of a cherry? When I say a cherry, I mean physic. It must come to the
same thing; must do the same work with the nerves, whether swallowed
at once, or at twice. Then, why shouldn’t it do double work? Why not
do all the bracing now, and have it over? To be sure. Why, what a
fool that Doctor Stubbs must be—and after all, he doesn’t look so
very wise—what a fool he must be to divide the stuff into two. No,
no; I shall not separate them;” and Hodmadod, with a laugh, shook
the medicine—“I shall not separate ’em,” talked his mind—“what the
chemist has mixed together, let no man separate;” and, tickled by
this timely joke, as he thought it, Hodmadod, with a nod at the
miniature, swallowed all the anodyne, and made the best of his way
to that bed, which he was to leave on the morning a rock—a piece of
adamant—moral adamant.
Magnificently rose the sun, and with the sun rose Agatha.
“Uprose the sun, and uprose Emily.”
At earliest dawn, all Jericho’s house was astir; every
servant—especially the maids—from the housekeeper to the smallest
maid of the kitchen looking upon the day as a day in which she had
some most especial interest. Every female heart beat churchwards. We
will not dwell upon the thoughts of Agatha; how, when she awoke she
already pictured to herself Arthur animated and hopeful; his face
beaming with the like happiness that, she felt it, lightened her
own; how she endeavoured to anticipate the hours, to see through the
future; to look to eleven o’clock, and behold her bridegroom in the
vestry of St. Shekels; the appointed place of rendezvous, within a
few steps—and all a path of flowers—to the altar.
And, we regret to be compelled to confess it, that at the time the
bridegroom was fast asleep; not even dreaming of the bride that was
up and fluttering from lace to lace—from silk to silk.
Time wore on, and the family of Jericho were assembled—all but Basil.
Agatha sighed as she marked his absence; two or three tears came to
her eyes; and then she thought of Arthur and the cruelty of Basil
was, on the moment, forgiven and forgotten. Mr. Jericho put his best
face upon the day. He looked shining and as full as he well could be,
of content. If his face was sharp, it was—for the occasion—polished.
Mrs. Jericho had resolved to part with her daughter with dignified
fortitude. Monica was all resignation to her own disappointment, and
her sister bridesmaid, the Hon. Miss Candituft, pensive but proud;
with a furtive look of mischief in her eye, as it fell upon the
unconscious Agatha. And all the party were prepared for church.
* * * * *
Atkins had twice or thrice listened at his master’s door; and still
his master slept. Atkins looked at his watch, and was astounded at
the hour. Still the bridegroom slept. Atkins thought he would rouse
his master; and then he thought of his master’s stern command and
threat; thought too of the profits of his place, and therefore let
the bridegroom sleep.
* * * * *
The carriages rolled from Jericho House on their way to the church.
The white bows shone on the servants; the lily for a minute
triumphed in the face of the bride. St. Shekels opened on the bridal
company. The heart of Agatha beat thicker at the church-door.
* * * * *
Atkins again listened at the chamber, again and again; not a sound.
The medicine—the drugs! A horrid suspicion—despite of the warranty of
the chemist—shot all through the valet. Along every nerve, throughout
every bone of his body—as he afterwards declared—a dreadful doubt of
double-dealing; of cowardly evasion of the hymeneal engagement by
means of poison. Atkins entered the chamber.
* * * * *
The bridal party ascended the steps of St. Shekels. The looks of
Agatha hungered for her love: hungered, though bent upon the church
stones. Expectation, to the tips of Agatha’s fingers, awaited the
hand of Arthur to press _her_ hand. The bridal party entered the
vestry.
* * * * *
Atkins stept stealthily to the bed side. The bridegroom was in such a
sweet, deep sleep, it seemed to Atkins a sin and a shame to wake him
to be married.
* * * * *
The bridegroom had not arrived. Agatha looked all round the vestry;
again and again scrutinised its dimensions; and still refused to
believe the juggling evidence of her senses. “Not arrived!” cried
Mr. Jericho, looking fiercely at the clerk. “Impossible!” said Mrs.
Jericho. “Extremely ungallant,” whispered Monica. “He’ll be here in a
minute,” said the Man-Tamer. “Perhaps,” said Miss Candituft, “perhaps
he has mistaken the church.” The bride, of course, said nothing.
“Here he is,” cried Mizzlemist, the door opening; and the heart of
the bride opening with it. A false alarm. It was not the bridegroom:
it was the beadle. The clerk was wanted by Doctor Cummin.
* * * * *
Atkins stood at the bedside, and resolving with himself, determined
to wake his master. “Sir, sir, it’s late—it’s very late, indeed,
sir,” cried Atkins.
* * * * *
“If the bridegroom doesn’t come in five minutes,” said the Man of
Money, “I do not think I can permit the bride to stay a moment
longer.” “Now, my dear,” said Mrs. Jericho, “you are so impatient.
There must be some strange mistake—perhaps, some accident.” “Yes,
mamma, I’m sure that’s it—some accident,” said poor Agatha; and then
the tears ran freely down her cheeks. Poor little soul; her heart was
breaking; nevertheless, Miss Candituft—cruel bridesmaid!—smiled as
in revenge and scorn. “This is infamous!” shouted Mr. Jericho, with
every moment waxing wrathful.
* * * * *
“You’ll be past the time, sir; you will really,” and Atkins shook his
master. “I know all about it,” grunted Hodmadod. “Steeple still up
and down—still in my head,” and the bridegroom again lapsed into the
depths of sleep. Atkins shook, but shook in vain.
* * * * *
“This appears to me,” said Jericho, “a premeditated affront. All a
plan to insult your daughter, Mrs. Jericho; to insult the family; to
insult me. I wish the devil may”—“Beg your pardon, sir,” said the
clerk: “but you must remember where you are; can’t admit of such
language here.” Mr. Jericho drew himself up to reply; but could not
speak. At length his wordless scorn exploded in a burst of laughter.
“This is shameful,” cried the clerk. “Brawling in church.” “My dear
sir, it is vexing,” said Mizzlemist with quick knowledge of the
ecclesiastical law—“but control your feelings.” “And why—why should
I control them?” roared Jericho—“I suppose I can afford to pay for
them. The bride shall not stay to be insulted; the young lady shall
not remain a minute longer.” Dear Agatha! Then might be seen the
little loves, with blubbered cheeks, sitting squat among her orange
flowers; picking bud and blossom, and with sobbings, dropping them
upon the vestry floor. And every minute gave new fire to Miss
Candituft’s eye—new red to her cheek—new fulness to her lip.
* * * * *
“Why, sir, sir,” cried Atkins, again shaking the bridegroom; “you’re
to be married to-day, sir; and it’s past the time. Have you forgot,
sir?” “I know all about it,” snorted Hodmadod; “scoundrel—disobeyed
my orders—leave my service—world before you—all before you;” and
with this, delivered very somnolently, Hodmadod rolled over upon his
side, and would not awake. “I see how it is,” thought Atkins. “He
has turned the matter over in his mind; he has thought better of it,
and this is his plan to get off the match.” And Atkins had his own
reasons for approving of his master’s determination: Atkins would
rather serve a bachelor, than a married man. Hence, when Candituft
presented himself at the house—sent by a whisper from Mrs. Jericho
to seek the bridegroom—Atkins declared that he knew nothing of his
master; therefore, could say nothing. All he knew was, that Sir
Arthur had intended to be married that morning; and if he was not
at the church; if he was not married by that time, why that was his
master’s business; and not his, Atkins’s. Moreover; perhaps Mr.
Candituft and Sir Arthur had missed one another on the road. Now,
Mr. Candituft was by no means urgent in his inquiries; he did not
sift the testimony of the valet; in fact, asked for no particulars;
but taking the suggestion of Atkins as the truth, assuming that the
bridegroom and himself had crossed each other, the Man-Tamer returned
to the vestry at the same leisurely rate at which he had set out upon
his journey.
* * * * *
“Another five minutes, and ’twill be too late,” cried Mizzlemist.
Jericho said nothing; but rocked himself backwards and forwards in
a chair, his hands in his pockets, and grinning to himself the most
tremendous revenge. Mrs. Jericho sat frowning and tapping her foot;
Monica looked blank and sympathetic, she could not but feel for the
distress of the bride; Agatha wept without attempting to restrain her
tears, whilst the Hon. Miss Candituft, calmly looking down upon the
victim, held to the sobbing maid a bottle of salts. At this moment,
the Hon. Mr. Candituft entered the vestry; he looked about him, as
though expecting to see the bridegroom. “Why, he’s not come!” said
Candituft, surprised; “where can he be?” At this moment the church
clock struck. “It is past the canonical hour,” cried Mizzlemist, in
tones heavy and sad as passing-bell. “Too late to marry to-day,” said
the clerk, “if the gentleman comes now.” Mr. Jericho, without saying
a word, rose. He approached the bride; and in the most peremptory
manner offered his arm to the forlorn one. Agatha, wiping her tears,
and drawing her veil about her scalded face, laid her trembling hand
upon her father-in-law. Mr. Candituft, with words of sympathy, led
away Mrs. Jericho, who would have despised herself to say a syllable
then and there upon the shameful transaction. Monica followed with
Mizzlemist, and as she declared, from the bottom of her heart
pitying her poor sister; with a supplementary wish, accompanied by a
spasmodic clutching of her little right hand, “that she was only a
man to revenge dear Agatha.” Miss Candituft was silent; but as she
descended the church steps, her face glowed and her eyes sparkled
with triumph.