“That need not delay us,” said Gilliatt. And he presented a paper to the Dean. The Dean took it, perused it by a glance, seemed to pass over some lines as unimportant, and read aloud: “Go to the Dean for the licence. I wish the marriage to take place as soon as possible. Immediately would be better.”
He placed the paper on the table, and proceeded:
“It is signed, Lethierry. It would have been more respectful to have addressed himself to me. But since I am called on to serve a colleague, I ask no more.”
Caudray glanced again at Gilliatt. There are moments when mind and mind comprehend each other. Caudray felt that there was some deception; he had not the strength of purpose, perhaps he had not the idea of revealing it. Whether in obedience to a latent heroism, of which he had begun to obtain a glimpse; or whether from a deadening of the conscience, arising from the suddenness of the happiness placed within his reach, he uttered no word.
The Dean took the pen, and aided by the clerk, filled up the spaces in the page of the register; then he rose, and by a gesture invited Caudray and Déruchette to approach the table.
The ceremony commenced. It was a strange moment. Caudray and Déruchette stood beside each other before the minister. He who has ever dreamed of a marriage in which he himself was chief actor, may conceive something of the feeling which they experienced.
Gilliatt stood at a little distance in the shadow of the pillars.
Déruchette, on rising in the morning, desperate, thinking only of death and its associations, had dressed herself in white. Her attire, which had been associated in her mind with mourning, was suited to her nuptials. A white dress is all that is necessary for the bride.
A ray of happiness was visible upon her face. Never had she appeared more beautiful. Her features were remarkable for prettiness rather than what is called beauty. Their fault, if fault it be, lay in a certain excess of grace. Déruchette in repose, that is, neither disturbed by passion or grief, was graceful above all. The ideal virgin is the transfiguration of a face like this. Déruchette, touched by her sorrow and her love, seemed to have caught that higher and more holy expression. It was the difference between the field daisy and the lily.
The tears had scarcely dried upon her cheeks; one perhaps still lingered in the midst of her smiles. Traces of tears indistinctly visible form a pleasing but sombre accompaniment of joy.
The Dean, standing near the table, placed his finger upon the open book, and asked in a distinct voice whether they knew of any impediment to their union.
There was no reply.
“Amen!” said the Dean.
Caudray and Déruchette advanced a step or two towards the table.
“Joseph Ebenezer Caudray, wilt thou have this woman to be thy wedded wife?”
Caudray replied “I will.”
The Dean continued:
“Durande Déruchette Lethierry, wilt thou have this man to be thy wedded husband?”
Déruchette, in an agony of soul, springing from her excess of happiness, murmured rather than uttered—
“I will.”
Then followed the beautiful form of the Anglican marriage service. The Dean looked around, and in the twilight of the church uttered the solemn words:
“Who giveth this woman to be married to this man?”
Gilliatt answered, “I do!”
There was an interval of silence. Caudray and Déruchette felt a vague sense of oppression in spite of their joy.
The Dean placed Déruchette’s right hand in Caudray’s; and Caudray repeated after him:
“I take thee, Durande Déruchette to be my wedded wife, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish till death do us part; and thereto I plight thee my troth.”
The Dean then placed Caudray’s right hand in that of Déruchette, and Déruchette said after him:
“I take thee to be my wedded husband for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness or in health, to love and to cherish till death do us part; and thereto I plight thee my troth.”
The Dean asked, “Where is the ring?” The question took them by surprise. Caudray had no ring; but Gilliatt took off the gold ring which he wore upon his little finger. It was probably the wedding-ring which had been sold that morning by the jeweller in the Commercial Arcade.
The Dean placed the ring upon the book; then handed it to Caudray, who took Déruchette’s little trembling left hand, passed the ring over her fourth finger, and said:
“With this ring I thee wed!”
“In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost,” continued the Dean.
“Amen,” said his evangelist.
Then the Dean said, “Let us pray.”
Caudray and Déruchette turned towards the table, and knelt down.
Gilliatt, standing by, inclined his head.
So they knelt before God; while he seemed to bend under the burden of his fate.
IV
For Your Wife: When You Marry
As they left the church they could see the Cashmere making preparations for her departure.
“You are in time,” said Gilliatt.
They chose again the path leading to the Havelet.
Caudray and Déruchette went before, Gilliatt this time walking behind them. They were two somnambulists. Their bewilderment had not passed away, but only changed in form. They took no heed of whither they were going, or of what they did. They hurried on mechanically, scarcely remembering the existence of anything, feeling that they were united forever, but scarcely able to connect two ideas in their minds. In ecstasy like theirs it is as impossible to think as it is to swim in a torrent. In the midst of their trouble and darkness they had been plunged in a whirlpool of delight; they bore a paradise within themselves. They did not speak, but conversed with each other by the mysterious sympathy of their souls. Déruchette pressed
