FullReads

In the vestry things assumed a brighter tone. There was no lack of witnesses to sign the register. The verger pointed out to them the place, and they wrote their names, as people in such cases do, without stopping to read. Then it occurred to some one that the bride had not yet signed. She stood apart, with her veil still down, and appeared to have been forgotten. Encouraged, she came forward meekly, and took the pen from the hand of the verger. The countess came and stood behind her.

“Mary,” wrote the bride, in a hand that looked as though it ought to have been firm, but which was not.

“Dear me,” said the countess, “I never knew there was a Mary in your name. How differently you write when you write slowly.”

The bride did not answer, but followed with “Susannah.”

“Why, what a lot of names you must have, my dear!” exclaimed the countess. “When are you going to get to the ones we all know?”

“Ruth,” continued the bride without answering.

Breeding is not always proof against strong emotion. The countess snatched the bride’s veil from her face, and Mary Susannah Ruth Sewell stood before her, flushed and trembling, but looking none the less pretty because of that. At this point the crowd came in useful.

“I am sure your ladyship does not wish a scene,” said Mary, speaking low. “The thing is done.”

“The thing can be undone, and will be,” retorted the countess in the same tone. “You, you–“

“My wife, don’t forget that, mother,” said Lord C— coming between them, and slipping Mary’s hand on to his arm. “We are both sorry to have had to go about the thing in this roundabout way, but we wanted to avoid a fuss. I think we had better be getting away. I’m afraid Mr. Hodskiss is going to be noisy.”

* * * * *

The doctor poured himself out a glass of claret, and drank it off. His throat must have been dry.

“And what became of Clementina?” I asked. “Did the naval lieutenant, while the others were at church, dash up in a post-chaise and carry her off?”

“That’s what ought to have happened, for the whole thing to be in keeping,” agreed the doctor. “I believe as a matter of fact she did marry him eventually, but not till some years later, after the contractor had died.”

“And did Mr. Hodskiss make a noise in the vestry?” I persisted. The doctor never will finish a story.

“I can’t say for certain,” answered my host, “I only saw the gentleman once. That was at a shareholders’ meeting. I should incline to the opinion that he did.”

“I suppose the bride and bridegroom slipped out as quietly as possible and drove straight off,” I suggested.

“That would have been the sensible thing for them to do,” agreed the doctor.

“But how did she manage about her travelling frock?” I continued. “She could hardly have gone back to her Aunt Jane’s and changed her things.” The doctor has no mind for minutiae.

“I cannot tell you about all that,” he replied. “I think I mentioned that Mary was a practical girl. Possibly she had thought of these details.”

“And did the countess take the matter quietly?” I asked.

I like a tidy story, where everybody is put into his or her proper place at the end. Your modern romance leaves half his characters lying about just anyhow.

“That also I cannot tell you for certain,” answered the doctor, “but I give her credit for so much sense. Lord C— was of age, and with Mary at his elbow, quite knew his own mind. I believe they travelled for two or three years. The first time I myself set eyes on the countess (nee Mary Sewell) was just after the late earl’s death. I thought she looked a countess, every inch of her, but then I had not heard the story. I mistook the dowager for the housekeeper.”