People came from miles round to see that wedding, for the morning was
bright and genial, and there were to be grand doings up at the castle as
soon as the happy pair had taken their departure. It was not often that
a wedding took place at Merland church, and this was to be no ordinary
affair. Hours before the time appointed the people from the village and
outlying farms began to assemble. The school children, flower-laden and
excited, had rehearsed their part of throwing flowers in the bride's
path, and had picked them up again; the ringers were having a
preliminary "qu-a-a-art" of the very bad ale sold at the village inn
preparatory to looking over the ropes of the three bells, all that
Merland tower could boast. Sir Murray Gernon's tenants, and the
farmers' daughters, were in an acute state of excitement, and dresses
that had been in preparation for days past were being carefully fitted
on.
"There could not have been a brighter and happier morning for you, my
darling," exclaimed Marion's mother, as she kissed her affectionately,
holding her with the clinging fondness of one about to lose a household
treasure; proud of the position her child was to take, but, now that it
had come to the time, tearful and hard pressed to hide her pain.
"And no bride ever looked better, aunt, I'm sure," said Ada Lee,
merrily, as she adjusted a fold here, and arranged some scrap of lace
there.
"She'd have had to look strange and fine, if she did, mum, that she
would!" exclaimed Jane, handmaiden in ordinary at the rectory, but now
to be promoted to the honourable post of maid to Lady Gernon. Jane had
first entered the room very red of cheek, due to a salute placed thereon
by Mr Gurdon, Sir Murray's gentleman, who had but a few moments before
arrived with the bouquet Jane bore in her hand, and a note. But note
and flowers, and even the impudence of "that Gurdon," were forgotten in
Jane's genuine admiration, as, catching Ada's words, she had delivered
her own opinion.
Till now, though pale, Marion's face had been bright and animated as
that of her cousin, and to have seen the two girls, no one would have
imagined that they had each passed a troubled and almost sleepless
night. The forebodings of the past seemed to have been dismissed, and
Ada, seeing how bright and happy her cousin appeared, forbore even to
hint at last night's tears.
But now came a message from the anxious rector, respecting time, and the
last touches were given to the bridal apparel; when, turning round,
after hastily adjusting her own veil, Ada exclaimed:
"Oh, Marion! Is that wise?"
"Oh, Miss!" exclaimed Jane. "Not wear that beautiful bookey, as Sir
Murray sent?"
Marion made no answer, but quietly arranged the bunch of forget-me-nots,
culled the previous day in the fen, and utterly regardless of her
cousin's words, pinned them on her breast, with a sad smile. Then,
turning to Ada, she said, gaily: "You must have that bouquet, Ada."
"But there's ever so many more downstairs, miss, on purpose for the
bridesmaids," said Jane, excitedly. And then she raised her hands, as
if mutely exclaiming, "What obstinacy!" as she saw Ada take the bouquet
and hold it, gazing curiously at Marion's pale, sweet face, and then
glancing at the little blue flowers upon her breast.
Marion interpreted her looks, and leaning forward, kissed her tenderly.
"Don't grudge me that little satisfaction, dear," she said. "You see
how I am this morning. Are you not satisfied with the way in which I
have taken your advice to heart?"
"Oh, yes--yes, dear," exclaimed Ada, clinging to her; "but was this
wise?" And she pointed with Sir Murray's bouquet to the simple marsh
flowers.
"Wise!" said Marion, "perhaps not; but I placed them there _in
memoriam_. Should we forget the dead?"
"There, do pray, for goodness gracious' sake, Miss, mind what you're a
doing! You're cramming Miss Marion's veil all to nothing, and I know
you'll be sorry for it after."
"Jane's right," said Ada, merrily. "I won't `cram' you any more. Come,
dear, there's uncle going out of his wits because we're so long. He
won't be happy till the knot is tied. I know he's afraid that Sir
Murray will repent at the eleventh hour, aren't you, uncle?" she
continued, as, on opening the door, she found the anxious father on the
landing.
"Come, my dears--come, my dears!" he cried; and then, "Heaven bless you,
my darling!"
"Ah--ah! mustn't touch! Oh, sir, please don't!" exclaimed Ada and Jane
in a breath; for the father was about to clasp his child to his breast.
"There! Bless my soul, I forgot!" exclaimed the rector; and, handing
Marion down, in a few minutes more the party were walking across the
lawn to the gate in the great hedge, which opened upon the churchyard,
where they were saluted by a volley of cheers--heartiest of the hearty;
cheers such as had saluted Sir Murray Gernon and his friends, when, a
quarter of an hour before, his barouche and four had come along the
road, dashed up to the gate, and, proud and elate, the bridegroom had
strode into the church, hit, in the process, on the hat, back, and
breast with cowslips, hurled at him by the over-excited school children.
They could not be restrained till the proper time by their equally
excited mistress, who, like the rest of the feminine community present,
was ready to fall down and worship the proud handsome man who had just
passed into the church.
The cheering ceased, as the rectory party were seen to cross over to the
chancel door, and the people crowded into the building. There had not
been such a congregation--"no, not since Sir Murray's father and
mother--Heaven rest 'em!--were married in that very church," said the
oldest inhabitant, who wiped his eyes on the sleeve of his smock-frock
as he recalled the day.
"And how drunk you did get that day, up ta castle, Joey!" said a crony.
"Well, yes, lad, I did--I did," said the oldest inhabitant. "But, then,
castle ale is stark drink, lad, and old Barnes Thorndike used to brew
good stuff."
"Nought like what they have there now, lad," said the other old lad,
both speakers being over eighty; and comfortably seated as they were
upon a tombstone, patiently waiting the conclusion of the ceremony, with
one exception, they were now the only occupants of the churchyard.
"Well, I don't know, lad; but we'll try it, by and by--by and by. We'll
get a lift up ta castle, some gate or other, and see how things are, for
such days as this don't come often."
"Nay, not often," said the other. "But it's open house up there to-day,
and there's to be fine doings after the squire's gone with his lady."
"Where are they going, lad?"
"Oh, furren parts, sure; so my boy Jack tells me."
"And he's agoin' too--ain't he?"
"Ay, lad. He's Sir Murray's head man now, and he's to be butler when
they come back; and butlers keep keys, and there'll be a rare taste or
two--eh?"
"Ay; and my Fan's gal, Jenny, she's going, you know--my grandchild as
has been at parson's. She's going with her young missus; and strikes
me, neighbour, as young Jack Gurdon's thinking about her a good deal.
Jane's mother twitted her with it, and the gal laughed; and there might
be more strange things come to pass than for they two to come to be
butler and housekeeper up ta old place."
The old men chuckled and blinked at one another upon the tombstone, for
a few minutes, and then one spoke:
"Ain't they a long time getting of it done?"
"Two parsons, lad," said the other. "Takes two to do these grand
weddings. But they'll be a-coming out directly, for here's Miss Minson
putting the bairns straight with the flowers. But who's yon?"
The first old man shaded his eyes with his hands, as a tall figure, in a
brown travelling suit, crossed the churchyard hastily from the rectory
garden-gate, hurried up to the chancel door, peered in, and then, as if
struck a violent blow, he reeled back against a tombstone, to which he
clung for a few moments, till, recovering himself, he made his way in a
blind, groping fashion, towards the south door, close to whose porch sat
the two old men. There was a fair gravel-path, but he saw it not; but
walked straight forward, stumbling over the mounds of the dead in his
way, and feeling with outstretched hands the tombs--passing himself
along, till, clear of the obstacles, he again pressed on to the great
railed vault of the Gernon family, hard by the porch, where, holding by
one hand to the iron rails, he tore off his broad soft felt hat, and
stood gazing into the church.
The school children, flower-basket in hand, shrank back; for there was
something startling in the strangers appearance. For though quietly and
gentlemanly dressed, his face was wild--his eyes staring. At first
sight a looker-on would have raised his eyebrows, and muttered, "Drunk!"
But a second glance would have shown that the owner of that bronzed
face, handsome once, but now disfigured by the great scar of a
sabre-slash passing obliquely from temple to jaw, was suffering from
some great emotion, one which made his breast to heave, as his teeth
grated together, one hand tearing the while at his handkerchief, as
though he wanted air.
A few seconds, though, and the stranger grew apparently calm, as the
people began to flock out, and the children excitedly grasped handfuls
of flowers; while, though the newcomer took a step forward, so as to be
in front of the double line of children, through which the bridal
procession was to pass, he was unnoticed; for now the cry rose of "Here
they come!" and the three bells struck up their sonorous chime--sweet,
though wanting in proper cadence; for the old bells dated from days when
the monks blessed, and threw in their silver offering to the molten
metal.
"Now, lads! hooray!" piped one of the old fellows, climbing, by his
companion's aid, to the tombstone, where he stood, bent of back, feebly
waving his stick. "Hooray! and long life to Sir Murray and his lady!"
"Hooray!" cheered the crowd, in broken but hearty volleys.
Handkerchiefs were waved, flowers thrown, the buzz of excitement was at
its height when the proud bridegroom strode forward with his blushing
bride, bright, almost radiant in her white drapery, as, slightly
flushed, she smiled and bowed in acknowledgment of the greetings of the
little ones whom she had often taught, now casting their simple flowery
offerings at her feet; or with gentle glance thanked some old villager
for the blessing invoked upon her head. Progress was made but slowly:
they had advanced but a couple of yards from the porch, and Sir Murray,
hat in hand, was intending to wave it in response to the greeting he was
receiving, when he felt his wife's arm snatched from his, and turned to
see her with her hands clasped together and raised to the height of her
face; the smile gone; a deadly stony pallor overspreading her features;
her eyes starting, lips apart--it was as though death had smitten her in
an instant; for with one stride the stranger had confronted her, his
hand was upon her breast, and he had torn away the bunch of
forget-me-nots, to dash them upon the ground, and crush them beneath his
heel.
There was no word spoken: the language was of the eye; and the crowd
around, who could see the incident, seemed paralysed, as was the
bridegroom; but at that instant a wild and piercing shriek rang out from
the porch, and there was a sharp movement in the group.
But that cry was not from Lady Gernon, who stood as if turned to stone;
for as Sir Murray, recovering himself, had, pale with rage and
mortification, exclaimed, "How dare you!" Ada Lee had sprung forward,
and almost thrown herself upon the stranger's breast, pressing him back
from her cousin, as she glided between them.
It was but in time; for, mad with rage and hatred, roused by his words,
the newcomer had half-turned now to Sir Murray; but Ada clung to him
tightly, her bridesmaids veil torn, her flowers crushed, but a bright
wild look of joy and eagerness in her countenance, as she exclaimed--
"Back, Philip! Are you mad?"
Book 1, Chapter V.