gone on raining in this way for three days,
and people were almost justified in wondering
whether it ever meant to stop; in all that
time there had not been a gleam of sunshine,
the spring flowers and budding trees looked
drenched and spiritless; the very birds had
ceased their song in the churchyard elms.

The pew-opener, never a person of lively
disposition, kept one ear open to listen for
the roll of the carriages, and talked,
meanwhile, in a dreary strain of marriages that
she had witnessed in that very place, and
which had most of them, to her knowledge,
turned out ill. She thought it a tempting of
misfortune to choose a Friday in May for a
wedding, when there are three hundred and
sixty-five days in a year; and hoped it might
turn out well, that was all. While she was
detailing a disastrous story the clock struck
eleven, and the clerk, observing that they
could not be long now, admonished his
colleague to be in readiness at the door to
receive them. My gossip accordingly hobbled
away, and I ensconced myself in a pew near
the altar, already occupied by Miss Wolsey
and Mrs. Briskett. The latter whispered to
me that she hoped it would clear at noon, as
it often does, she has remarked, but Miss
Wolsey shook her head, and said she saw no
chance of it. There were a many people in
the church in their worst bonnets and cloaks,
whose umbrellas hung dripping in tiny
rivulets over the floor; every body was very
silent as if oppressed by the weather, and
unable to get up the slightest festal expression.

Presently entered Dr. Wyatt and Mr.
Collins, streaming wet. The pew-opener
marshalled them to the vestry, whence they
issued fully robed, and took their seats
within the altar rails. The people were
more still than ever; there was quite a dead
hush in the church; you might have heard
a pin fall. A quarter past eleven struck
—half past. Dr. Wyatt whispered to the
clerk, who went solemnly out into the rain
bareheaded, and returned sleeking down his
hair, to say quite audibly, "No." But before
he had time to get back to his place, Miss
Prior scuttered in noisily on pattens, and
whispered very loud, "They are coming!"
Immediately there was a commotion all over
the church; people got up and sat down
again, and coughed, and then hastily settled
themselves as the first detachment of the
wedding party appeared and walked down
the aisle. There was Sir Bertram Sinclair,
the bridegroom, as upright and proud as
ever, with his restless bright eyes glancing
hither and thither, his grey curls brushed up
fiercely, and his moustache twitching over his
thin lips; young Philip Wilton, and two
strange gentlemen with supercilious eyes,
Then came old Captain Wilton, with his
daughter on his arm, and Mistress Priscilla
Cooke, her old nurse, following. I never
saw people come to a wedding in such a way
before—not a single bridesmaid or female
friend!

The ceremony began, Dr. Wyatt reading it
very slowly, solemnly, and deliberately, and
giving to every word its awful weight. It
almost made me ill to look at Mary Wilton.
We had heard whispers that she did not love
Sir Bertram, and that threats had driven
her into making what, in a worldly sense,
everybody called a great match. She was
covered from head to foot with a fine lace
veil, and her face looked like marble through
it. She stood rather far apart from Sir
Bertram, and I noticed that her whole frame
quivered like aspen leaves in wind, as the
Doctor said, "I charge you both (as you
shall answer at the dreadful day of judgment,
when the secrets of all hearts shall be
disclosed) that if either of you know any
impediment why ye may not be lawfully joined
together in matrimony, ye do now confess
it." Everybody saw and noticed how she trembled.
The Doctor made a pause of unusual
length, as if anticipating some interruption,
but at last he continued, and Sir Bertram's
sonorous "I will," came out with a jerk as if
the question took him unawares; nobody,
though they listened breathlessly, could hear
Mary Wilton's voice, but I saw her lips move,
and noticed the almost convulsive shudder
that shook her as the ring was slipped upon
her finger; Sir Bertram held her hand so
firmly that the slender fingers must have
been almost crushed in his grip, and for a
second she seemed to draw them away,
and turned her head to old Priscilla Cooke,
who was crying behind her. In a few
minutes more the ceremony was ended, and
they all went into the vestry to sign the
book.

Then Mrs. Briskett remarked to me that
the sun had not come out, and that it was
raining faster than ever. There were no
congratulations or hand-shakings in the
vestry, and in a very little while Sir
Bertram and Lady Sinclair issued forth, he
holding her hand upon his arm, as if force
were necessary to keep it there, and she, with
her head declined upon her breast, and a face
like pale marble. Those who saw it said,
that when put into the carriage, she laid her
hand upon the handle of the door, as if to
escape, and that Sir Bertram drew her back,
and she shrank into the furthest corner, and
began to sob and shriek wildly as they drove
to the gloomy old house in Manor House
Yard.

As we crossed the market-place home the
bells rang out so loudly, tunefully, and
merrily, that we were half-cheated into the
belief that we had been witnessing a happy
marriage. The merry marriage-bells! They
should toll for such a bridal instead of sending
lying echoes of joy up heavenwards,
where the angels may be weeping over it.
How often do the flowers lift their heads to
hearken to such music when it would be