The Church.
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.