"Into which holy estate these two persons present come now to be joined. Therefore if any man can show any just cause, why they may not lawfully be joined together, let him NOW speak, or else hereafter for ever hold his peace!" We were witnessing that service of the Church which, as a cynic remarked, "begins with 'Dearly Beloved', and ends with 'amazement.'"
A pew, half way down the aisle, gave us decent shelter, within earshot, and we paid attention to this reticent, informal, solemnisation of matrimony. There were no bridesmaids, as you may suppose—no groomsman—only a perfunctory pew-opener as witness, and an awkward youth in a large jacket, who officiated, blushing profusely, as "father," giving "this woman to this man." He may have been half a year her senior. The girl's parents, apparently, had not yet forgiven her. At length, duly united, the couple followed the clergyman bashfully into the vestry, with their witnesses. The baby, apparently, had been placed in some safe keeping, as an unsuitable attendant at this ceremonial. We viewed the departure of the group, the ring proudly displayed on the girl's ungloved hand; and my companion (whom I began to suspect of having abetted in this dènouement) had a word to say to the clergyman. Then, as we passed out of the gates, I asked her, "Well! How in the world did you follow them up?"
"Oh, nothing easier," she replied. "I had a notion of what would happen, and of course I knew the girl's name through the Union people, so that there was no difficulty in finding out from Mr. Noster (that is the curate, who has just married them) when the banns were put up.
"I thought," she added, with her delightful smile, "that you would be glad to see the end of it!"
And I was glad: but really it is hardly printable; it is too improbable, too melodramatic.
