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?”
Too Late
“Now just you put that back where you took it from, Mr Impudence, or I’ll tell your master.”
“There you are, then, my dear; that’s as near the spot as I can recollect,” said the person addressed, giving Jane Barker a hearty smack on her rosy cheek, such a liberty being a little excusable on a wedding-day.
“Take your arm from round me, then; you can tell me without that, I’m sure,” said Jane, shrinking back into the rectory kitchen.
“No, I can’t; and how do I know but what perhaps, after I’ve been loving you with all my might, and saving up so as we may be married, there mayn’t come a foreign lover, a currier, or something of that sort, and cut me out?”
“Don’t be a fool, John!” exclaimed Jane, “and do adone there. I do declare – and serve you right, too! Such impudence!”
There was the sound of a smart slap received upon his cheek by John Gurdon, from the sole
