saint saviour’s church was by many sizes too large for the party—a modern edifice in the gothic taste, carried out in pink brick with white facings. it was large and smelt of damp. the bridegroom wore his overcoat throughout the ceremony. it was distinctly high, and mrs. james’s hands were many times up, and her eyes all about for witness of the “frippery” they beheld. stations of the cross were affixed to the pillars of the nave, lamps twinkled in the sanctuary; dimly in an aisle she made out the plaster effigy of a beardless young man in the capuchin habit, pink cheeks, and a fringe, who carried lilies in a sheaf. “the hermaphrodite,” mrs. james did not scruple to call him for his pains. “can we not have some of these things taken out?” she had asked her lord; but the rector was precise that they must have a faculty, and that they were ten minutes late as it was. he was to officiate, that was one comfort; but it diminished the bridegroom’s party by one.

that occupied, barely, the front pew on the right; the bride’s company that of the left. mrs. james, lady barbara rewish, an old friend, miss germain, a pale sister, mr. gradeley, q.c., who was best man, and smiled at his own thoughts, and the right hon. constantine jess, like a large comfortable cat, who had been president of the board of trade and hoped to be again; that was all—but it was too much for the middleham connexion, which shrank into a row of ciphers as the rite proceeded.

jinny middleham, whose shyness was taken for impudence, would have made a very handsome appearance if she had not been so painfully aware of it; the bride, shorter by a head, looked like a child. she wore pale grey cloth and feathers, and had a black hat. all that art could do for her had been done; her slight figure was enhanced, her little feet seemed smaller, her gloves were perfect—and yet, as mrs. james recognized with lead in the heart, if john had picked her up in her poppies and white muslin, and married her then and there one could have understood it. a man might love a milkmaid—but a little doll in a smart frock, a suburban miss in masquerade—ah, the pity of it! and yet the girl’s eyes were like stars, and her face, if it was pale, was serious enough. “it won’t do—it will not do,” said mrs. james to herself—“i despair.” she despaired from the moment of the bride’s entry upon the arm of her little anxious whiskered father—when she saw old lady barbara raise her lorgnette upon the group for one minute—and drop it again, and snuggle into her lace. “there’s nothing in it—not even romance,” that look told mrs. james. “it’s ridiculous—it's rather low—but here i am. and germain’s an old friend.” lady barbara rewish, alone among his equals, sometimes called mr. germain jack.

that anything possibly low could be set beside mr. germain seemed incredible—but, if credible, then tragic. he wore race in every span of his tall, thin figure, in every line of his fastidious, patient face. his simplicity was manifest, his courtesy never at fault. the slight stoop towards her which he gave his bride as she drew level with him—the humble appeal, the hope and the asking—should have struck the word from his old friend’s mind. thus a man defers to a queen, she might have said—and yet in that she did not she was wiser, perhaps, in her generation than the children of light. germain was really, now and throughout the ceremony, revelling in the ?sthetic. the position, in its pathos and its triviality at once, appealed to the sensual in him. how lovely her humility, how exquisite, how pure his pride! benevolence! behold, i stoop and pick for my breast this hedgerow thing! see it for what it is in all this state—see it trembling here upon the edge of a new world! is not this to be loved indeed—where i only give, and she must look to me alone? to be sought as a mother by a frightened child, to be source and fountain of all, to give—this is to be happy. and, incapable of expressing it by a sign, he was at this moment supremely happy, and, though he would have been aghast at the thought, supremely luxurious. he was, in fact, indulging appetite in the only way possible to him.

the rector of misperton, safe behind his panoply of shrugging eyebrows, hardened, too, by use and wont, administered the rite with calm precision. the words were said:—“i, john, take thee, mary susan,” “i, mary susan, take thee, john”—how she murmured them and how he loved her!—the book was signed—but mr. gradeley, q.c., had no pleasantries at his command, and mr. constantine jess had never had any. old lady barbara kissed the cold bride, and hoped she would be happy. “i’m sure he’s in love with you,” she said, “and you must be good to him. i’ve been in love with him myself any time these ten years. but he wouldn’t look at me—and i don’t wonder. i’m such a wicked old woman.” she told the tale on the way to the wheatsheaf hotel, where the bride was to be sped, of how poor old lord morfiter had married his cook—“she was a viennese—and, of course, they are wonderful—such tact! or is it the stays? there’s a place in wigmore-street. at any rate, it worked very well, and really there was nothing else to be done. no one understood him so well as she had—no one! she always cooked for him when they were alone—or had one or two people dining. perhaps it’ll be all right here.”

mr. jess bowed. “i sincerely hope so. but—forgive me—do i understand—? was mrs. germain——.”

“lord bless us, no!” cried lady barbara. “i don’t suppose she ever saw a cutlet, off a dish. a bath bun and a cup of coffee is her standard, you may be sure. of course, she’ll be different in a year, you know. she’ll drop her people and all that.”

“quite so, quite so,” said mr. jess. “and get what you call ‘tact’——.”

“oh, she’s dressed herself beautifully—or ninon’s done it for her. she’ll pay for dressing. i call it a pretty figure. charming. and she’s got fine eyes,” lady barbara replied. “that’s what did it, no doubt. constantia tells me that tristram duplessis—.” mr. jess grew animated.

“a clever young fellow, duplessis. i have had him under observation lately. my secretary is leaving me, and there has been talk—i hear, by the way, that the cabinet is hopelessly divided: breaking up,—really, you know, on the rocks.”

“so poor lord quantock was telling me last night, with tears in his eyes. then you come in, it seems.”

“well, well,” said mr. jess soothingly, “we shall see what we shall see.”

“no doubt,” said lady barbara, bored with mr. jess.

the reception was rather ghastly. lady barbara supposed “we ought to mingle,” and gallantly tried it upon mrs. middleham, who had her daughter mary’s fine eyes crystallized, as it were, in her head, stiffened into glass and intensely polished! mr. germain, seconding his friend’s effort while rigidly ignoring that an effort was to be made, performed the introduction—“ah—do you know lady barbara rewish? mrs. middleham,” and departed, not without hearing mrs. middleham say that she did not know her ladyship.

“such a pretty wedding,” said lady barbara; “she looked delicious.”

mrs. middleham, who was not without character, said that mary was a very good girl. she had her “back up,” as her daughter jinny said, and neither gave nor took any odds. lady barbara replied that we were all good at that age—and then found herself stranded. to see jinny with mr. gradeley, q.c., had been a cure for the spleen. she ignored him, till he perspired in her service.

mary was cutting the cake while mr. germain was engaged in the very unpleasant task of watching his sister-in-law “put things on a proper footing” before mr. middleham. he could tell by the quivering eyelids of the poor man that things were being put there with vigour. “no, madam, no,” mr. middleham was heard to say. “i don’t know that we could fairly expect more than that.”

“nor do i,” said mrs. james, with the air of one who adds, “i should think not.”

“mr. germain has been more than kind,” he ventured to proceed; “princely, indeed—and we should not presume——.”

“of course not,” said mrs. james, and was echoed, somewhat to her discomfiture, by mrs. middleham, who had escaped from lady barbara by the simple means of walking away.

“i think that mrs. germain may take for granted that nobody from our house will intrude where he is not wanted,” said mrs. middleham with dignity. “whenever mary comes to see us she will be welcome. that she knows. we shall go where we are welcome—and nowhere else.”

“then we quite understand each other, i see,” said mrs. james.

“i hope we do,” said the other. “it shan’t be my fault if we do not.”

mr. germain was very uncomfortable, but there was now none too much time for the train, according to his calculations. while mary was “changing her hat”—as it was put—the wedding party, rigidly segregated, stood astare, each at its window, upon the gusty vagaries of a late autumn day.

mary was at the glass, flushed and on the edge of tears. her hands were at her hat, while her eyes searched jinny’s stony pair for a sign of melting. but jinny was immovable. in vain did the pretty bride turn this way and that, invite criticism, invoke it: jinny’s disapproval persisted. this was not to be borne—with a little whimper the victim turned, clasped medusa round the waist; with one hand to her chin she coaxed for kindness. she stroked jinny’s cheek, tiptoed for a kiss. presently she fairly sobbed on jinny’s bosom.

“oh, you are unkind to me—you hurt me dreadfully! what have i done, that you won’t love me?”

“done!” cried jinny. “hear her!” then with blazing wrath she scorned her sister. “i’ll tell you what you’ve done, my dear. you’ve married a gravestone. sacred to the memory of john germain, esquire—that’s what you’ve sold yourself to—take your joy of that. the price of a kissed hand! you’ll find out before morning, my beauty. if i marry a crossing-sweeper, he shall be a man.”

“you liked him, you know you liked him——.”

“yes, for a grandfather, my dear; but for a husband, if you please, i’ll have a man. and so might you—over and over. you’ve been as good as promised half-a-dozen times——.”

“jinny, you know that’s not true.” she was ruthlessly put away to arm’s length.

“but it is true. there was rudd—what do you say of him?”

rudd must be owned to. so far off he showed so dim a speck in the distance, there seemed nothing in it.

“young stainer—you forget him, too, i suppose——.”

“stainer?” said poor mary. “he was a boy, jinny.”

“he had a pair of arms, i believe. and i should like to hear your opinion of fred wimple. you were never at folkestone in your life, i suppose? you never talked to sandgate by moonlight? never met any one in your life by moonlight?”

the remembrance of a meeting by moonlight, more recent than any at folkestone, enabled mary to consider mr. wimple’s case.

“i don’t think you need drag up flirtations against me. you’re not very generous, jinny. of course i flirted.”

“did you flirt with mr. ambrose perivale? was that what made him follow you home across england? did you flirt with mr. dup—.” but now mary clung to her.

“stop, jinny, oh, stop! if i’ve been wicked i must pay for it—it’s always the girl that pays. but i have never been wicked—you know it, oh, you must know it of your sister. i’ve told him everything, jinny—all that he would hear. but he’s too good to believe anything against me; he’ll protect me, he’ll never let me come to any harm. oh, jinny, jinny, don’t be cruel to me any more! if ever a girl meant to do her duty in life i mean it now. dearest, you must help me—i’m afraid of him, you know.”

jinny folded her arms tightly over her chest. “yes, i can believe it—and you may be afraid of your husband before long—for the same reason. you go out of your own walk—and you get lost. your tristram duplessis, who looks at a girl as if he wanted to eat her! you can’t be expected to understand such ways. and it’s my belief that your john germain, esquire, is no better—except for one thing, that he hasn’t any teeth. if you ask me, i would rather be eaten any day by mr. duplessis. he’d make a cleaner job of it.”

mary was not crying. on the contrary, her eyes were hard. she was pale and serious.

“i know that i’ve done a thing which you don’t approve. you think that i’m going to leave you all for good. i hope that i shall show you soon that you are wrong. do me justice, jinny. you have never seen me try to get out of my station. i shall do whatever mr.—, my husband, wishes, of course—but i will never turn my back on my people. nor would he ask it of me—be sure of that. i can’t say any more—except that you have hurt me by what you have said—and that five minutes after i’ve gone away, you’ll be sorry.” then she choked down something, and jinny was sorry.

“molly, i’ve been a brute——”

“no, no.”

“but i have. i’m proud of you, really—you looked quite a beauty in your french clothes——”

“jinny! beside you i’m a little brown mouse.”

“you’re not, my dear. you’re as sharp as any needle. you’ll be one of them in a month, and they’ll be the first to own it. i could see that old lady rewish look you over—and nod her wicked old head. she knows, bless you! little moll, forgive your tiresome sister—kiss me now——”

“darling jinny, darling jinny——”

they clung, wept, and kissed; and presently a radiant bride went down to meet her lord.

good-byes were said in haste. jinny promised there should be no rice. a momentary flush of cordiality warmed the unhappy guests. lady barbara kissed the bride on both cheeks; jinny hovered about her, eager now to show her contrition. wonder of all, mr. germain, saluted her fair cheek. jinny was seen to blush. riceless, slipperless they went their way—and the party dissolved like smoke.

it was afterwards agreed at blackheath that mr. germain and the rector were gentlemen.