The wedding was to take place in Lisford church — that pretty, quaint1, old church of which I have already spoken.
The wandering Avon flowed through this rustic3 churchyard, along a winding4 channel fringed by tall, trembling rushes. There was a wooden bridge across the river, and there were two opposite entrances to the churchyard. Pedestrians5 who chose the shortest route between Lisford and Shorncliffe went in at one gate and out at another, which opened on to the high-road.
The worthy6 inhabitants of Lisford were almost as much distressed7 by the unpromising aspect of the sky as Laura Dunbar and her faithful nurse themselves. New bonnets8 had been specially9 prepared for this festive10 occasion. Chrysanthemums11 and dahlias, gay-looking China-asters, and all the lingering flowers that light up the early winter landscape, had been collected to strew12 the pathway beneath the bride’s pretty feet. All the brightest evergreens13 in the Lisford gardens had been gathered as a fitting sacrifice for the “young lady from the Abbey.”
Laura Dunbar’s frank good-nature and reckless generosity14 were well remembered upon this occasion; and every creature in Lisford was bent15 upon doing her honour.
But this aggravating16 rain balked17 everybody. What was the use of throwing wet dahlias and flabby chrysanthemums into the puddles18 through which the bride must tread, heiress though she was? How miserable19 would be the aspect of two rows of damp charity children, with red noses and no pocket-handkerchiefs! The rector himself had a cold in his head, and would be obliged to omit all the n’s and m’s in the marriage service.
In short, everybody felt that the Abbey wedding was destined20 to be more or less a failure. It seemed very hard that the chief partner in the firm of Dunbar, Dunbar, and Balderby could not, with all his wealth, buy a little glimmer21 of sunshine to light up his daughter’s wedding. It grew so dark and foggy towards eleven o’clock, that a dozen or so of wax-candles were hastily stuck about the neighbourhood of the altar, in order that the bride and bridegroom might be able, each of them, to see the person that he or she was taking for better or worse.
Yes, the dismal22 weather made everything dismal in unison23 with itself. A wet wedding is like a wet pic-nic. The most heroic nature gives way before its utter desolation; the wit of the party forgets his best anecdote24; the funny man breaks down in the climactic verse of his great buffo song; there is no brightness in the eyes of the beauty; there is neither sparkle nor flavour in the champagne25, though the grapes thereof have been grown in the vineyards of Widow Cliquot herself.
There are some things that are more powerful than emperors, and the atmosphere is one of them. Alexander might conquer nations in very sport; but I question whether he could have resisted the influence of a wet day.
Of all the people who were to assist at Sir Philip Jocelyn’s wedding, perhaps the father of the bride was the person who seemed least affected26 by that drizzling27 rain, that hopelessly-black sky.
If Henry Dunbar was grave and silent to-day, why that was nothing new: for he was always grave and silent. If the banker’s manner was stern and moody28 to-day, that stern moodiness29 was habitual30 to him: and there was no need to blame the murky31 heavens for any change in his temper. He sat by the broad fireplace watching the burning coals, and waiting until he should be summoned to take his place by his daughter’s side in the carriage that was to convey them both to Lisford church; and he did not utter one word of complaint about that aggravating weather.
He looked very handsome, very aristocratic, with his grey moustache carefully trimmed, and a white camellia in his button-hole. Nevertheless, when he came out into the hall by-and-by, with a set smile upon his face, like a man who is going to act a part in a play, Laura Dunbar recoiled32 from him with an involuntary shiver, as she had done upon the day of her first meeting with him in Portland Place.
But he offered her his hand, and she laid the tips of her fingers in his broad palm, and went with him to the carriage. “Ask God to bless me upon this day, papa,” the girl said, in a low, tender voice, as these two people took their places side by side in the roomy chariot.
Laura Dunbar laid her hand caressingly33 upon the banker’s shoulder as she spoke2. It was not a time for reticence34; it was not an occasion upon which to be put off by any girlish fear of this stern, silent man.
“Ask God to bless me, father dearest,” the soft, tremulous voice pleaded, “for the sake of my dead mother.”
She tried to see his face: but she could not. His head was turned away, and he was busy making some alteration35 in the adjustment of the carriage-window. The chariot had cost nearly three hundred pounds, and was very well built: but there was something wrong about the window nevertheless, if one might judge by the difficulty which Mr. Dunbar had, in settling it to his satisfaction.
He spoke presently, in a very earnest voice, but with his head still turned away from Laura.
“I hope God will bless you, my dear,” he said; “and that He will have pity upon your enemies.”
This last wish was more Christianlike than natural; since fathers do not usually implore36 compassion37 for the enemies of their children.
But Laura Dunbar did not trouble herself to think about this. She only knew that her father had called down Heaven’s blessing38 upon her; and that his manner had betrayed such agitation39 as could, of course, only spring from one cause, namely, his affection for his daughter.
She threw herself into his arms with a radiant smile, and putting up her hands, drew his face round, and pressed her lips to his.
But, as on the day in Portland Place, a chill crept through her veins40, as she felt the deadly coldness of her father’s hands lifted to push her gently from him.
It is a common thing for Anglo–Indians to be quiet and reserved in their manners, and strongly adverse41 to all demonstrations42 of this kind. Laura remembered this, and made excuses to herself for her father’s coldness.
The rain was still falling as the carriage stopped at the churchyard. There were only three carriages in this brief bridal train, for Mr. Dunbar had insisted that there should be no grandeur43, no display.
The two Miss Melvilles, Dora Macmahon, and Arthur Lovell rode in the same carriage. Major Melville’s daughters looked very pale and cold in their white-and-blue dresses, and the north-easter had tweaked their noses, which were rather sharp and pointed44 in style. They would have looked pretty enough, poor girls, had the wedding taken place in summer-time; but they had not that splendid exceptional beauty which can defy all changes of temperature, and which is alike glorious, whether clad in abject45 rags or robed in velvet46 and ermine.
The carriages reached the little gate of Lisford churchyard; Philip Jocelyn came out of the porch, and down the narrow pathway leading to the gate.
The drizzling rain descended47 on him, though he was a baronet, and though he came bareheaded to receive his bride.
I think the Lisford beadle, who was a sound Tory of the old school, almost wondered that the heavens themselves should be audacious enough to wet the uncovered head of the lord of Jocelyn’s Rock.
But it went on raining, nevertheless.
“Times has changed, sir,” said the beadle, to an idle-looking stranger who was standing49 near him. “I have read in a history of Warwickshire, that when Algernon Jocelyn was married to Dame50 Margery Milward, widow to Sir Stephen Milward, knight51, in Charles the First’s time, there was a cloth-of-gold canopy52 from the gate yonder to this porch here, and two moving turrets53 of basket-work, each of ’em drawn55 by four horses, and filled with forty poor children, crowned with roses, lookin’ out of the turret54 winders, and scatterin’ scented56 waters on the crowd; and there was a banquet, sir, served up at noon that day at Jocelyn’s Rock, with six peacocks brought to table with their tails spread; and a pie, served in a gold dish, with live doves in it, every feather of ’em steeped in the rarest perfume, which they was intended to sprinkle over the company as they flew about here and there. But — would you believe in such a radical57 spirit pervadin’ the animal creation? — every one of them doves flew straight out of the winder, and went and scattered58 their perfumes on the poor folks outside. There’s no such weddin’s as that nowadays, sir,” said the old beadle, with a groan59. “As I often say to my old missus, I don’t believe as ever England has held up its head since the day when Charles the Martyr60 lost his’n.”
Laura Dunbar went up the narrow pathway by her father’s side; but Philip Jocelyn walked upon her left hand, and the crowd had enough to do to stare at bride and bridegroom.
The baronet’s face, which was always a handsome one, looked splendid in the light of his happiness. People disputed as to whether the bride or bridegroom was handsomest; and Laura forgot all about the wet weather as she laid her light hand on Philip Jocelyn’s arm.
The churchyard was densely61 crowded in the neighbourhood of the pathway along which the bride and bridegroom walked. In spite of the miserable weather, in defiance62 of Mr. Dunbar’s desire that the wedding should be a quiet one, people had come from a very long distance in order to see the millionaire’s beautiful daughter married to the master of Jocelyn’s Rock.
Amongst the spectators who had come to witness Miss Dunbar’s wedding was the tall gentleman in the high white hat, who was known in sporting circles as the Major, and who had exhibited so much interest when the name of Henry Dunbar was mentioned on the Shorncliffe racecourse. The Major had been very lucky in his speculations63 on the Shorncliffe races, and had gone straight away from the course to the village of Lisford, where he took up his abode64 at the Hose and Crown, a bright-looking hostelry, where a traveller could have his steak or his chop done to a turn in one of the cosiest65 kitchens in all Warwickshire. The Major was very reserved upon the subject of his sporting operations when he found himself among unprofessional people; and upon such occasions, though he would now and then condescend66 to lay the odds67 against anything with some unconscious agriculturalist or village tradesman, his innocence68 with regard to all turf matters was positively69 refreshing70.
He was a traveller in Birmingham jewellery, he told the land lady of the quiet little inn, and was on his way to that busy commercial centre to procure71 a fresh supply of glass emeralds, and a score or so of gigantic rubies72 with crinkled tinsel behind them. The Major, usually somewhat silent and morose73, contrived74 to make himself very agreeable to the jovial75 frequenters of the comfortable little public parlour of the Rose and Crown.
He took his dinner and his supper in that cosy76 apartment; and he sat there all the evening, listening to and joining in the conversation of the Lisfordians, and drinking sixpenn’orths of gin-and-water, with the air of a man who could consume a hogshead of the juice of the juniper-berry without experiencing any evil consequences therefrom. He ate and drank like a man of iron; and his glittering black eyes kept perpetual watch upon the faces of the simple country people, and his eager ears drank in every word that was spoken. Of course a great deal was said about the event of the next morning. Everybody had something to say about Miss Dunbar and her wealthy father, who lived so lonely and secluded77 at the Abbey, and whose ways were altogether so different from those of his father before him.
The Major listened to every syllable78, and only edged-in a word or two now and then, when the conversation flagged, or when there was a chance of the subject being changed.
By this means he contrived to keep the Lisfordians constant to one topic all the evening, and that topic was the manners and customs of Henry Dunbar.
Very early on the morning of the wedding the Major made his appearance in the churchyard. As for the incessant79 rain, that was nothing to him; he was used to it; and, moreover, the wet weather gave him a good excuse for buttoning his coat to the chin, and turning the poodle collar over his big red ears.
He found the door of the church ajar, early though it was, and going in softly, he came upon the Tory beadle and some damp charity children.
The Major contrived to engage the Tory beadle in conversation, which was not very difficult, seeing that the aforesaid beadle was always ready to avail himself of any opportunity of hearing his own voice. Of course the loquacious80 beadle talked chiefly of Sir Philip Jocelyn and the banker’s daughter; and again the sporting gentleman from London heard of Henry Dunbar’s riches.
“I have heerd as Mr. Dunbar is the richest man in Europe, exceptin’ the Hemperore of Roosia and Baron48 Rothschild,” the beadle said; “but I don’t know anythink more than that he’s got a deal more money than he knows what to do with, seein’ that he passes the best part of his days sittin’ over the fire in his own room, or ridin’ out after dark on horseback, if report speaks correct.”
“I tell you what I’ll do,” said the Major; “as I am in Lisford — and, to be candid81 with you, Lisford’s about the dullest place it was ever my bad luck to visit — why, I’ll stay and have a look at this wedding. I suppose you can put me into a quiet pew, back yonder in the shadow, where I can see all that’s going on, without any of your fine folks seeing me, eh?”
As the Major emphasized this question by dropping half-a-crown into the beadle’s hand, that official answered it very promptly82 —
“I’ll put you into the comfortablest pew you ever sat in,” answered the official.
“You might do that easily,” muttered the sporting gentleman, below his breath; “for there’s not many pews, or churches either, that I’ve ever sat in.”
The Major took his place in a corner of the church whence there was a very good view of the altar, where the feeble flames of the wax-candles made little splashes of yellow light in the fog.
The fog got thicker and thicker in the church as the hour for the marriage ceremony drew nearer and nearer, and the light of the wax-candles grew brighter as the atmosphere became more murky.
The Major sat patiently in his pew, with his arms folded upon the ledge83, where the prayer-books in the corner of the seats were wont84 to rest during divine service. He planted his bristly chin upon his folded arms, and closed his eyes in a kind of dog-sleep.
But in this sleep he could hear everything going on. He heard the hobnailed soles of the charity children pattering upon the floor of the church; he heard the sharp rustling85 of the evergreens and wet flowers under the children’s figures; and he could hear the deep voice of Philip Jocelyn, talking to the clergyman in the porch, as he waited the arrival of the carriages from Maudesley Abbey.
The carriages arrived at last; and presently the wedding-train came up the narrow aisle86, and took their places about the altar-rails. Henry Dunbar stood behind his daughter, with his face in shadow.
The marriage-service was commenced. The Major’s eyes were wide open now. Those sharp eager black eyes took notice of everything. They rested now upon the bride, now upon the bridegroom, now upon the faces of the rector and his curate.
Sometimes those glittering eyes strove to pierce the gloom, and to see the other faces, the faces that were farther away from the flickering87 yellow light of the wax-candles; but the gloom was not to be pierced even by the sharpest eyes.
The Major could only see four faces; — the faces of the bride and bridegroom, the rector, and his curate. But by-and-by, when one of the clergymen asked the familiar question —“Who giveth this woman to be married, to this man?” Henry Dunbar came forward into the light of the wax-candles, and gave the appointed answer.
The Major’s folded arms dropped off the ledge, as if they had been suddenly paralyzed. He sat, breathing hard and quick, and staring at Mr. Dunbar.
“Henry Dunbar?” he muttered to himself, presently —“Henry Dunbar!”
Mr. Dunbar did not again retire into the shadow. He remained during the rest of the ceremony standing where the light shone full upon his handsome face.
When all was over, and the bride and bridegroom had signed their names in the vestry, before admiring witnesses, the sporting gentleman rose and walked softly out of the pew, and along one of the obscure side-aisles.
The wedding-party passed out of the church-porch. The Major followed slowly.
Philip Jocelyn and his bride went straight to the carriage that was to convey them back to the Abbey.
Dora Macmahon and the two pale Bridesmaids, with areophane bonnets that had become hopelessly limp from exposure to that cruel rain, took their places in the second carriage. They were accompanied by Arthur Lovell, whom they looked upon with no very great favour; for he had been silent and melancholy88 throughout the drive from Maudesley Abbey to Lisford Church, and had stared at them with vacant indifference89, while handing them out of the carriage with a mechanical kind of politeness that was almost insulting.
The two first carriages drove away from the churchyard-gate, and the mud upon the high-road splashed the closed windows of the vehicles as the wheels went round.
The third carriage waited for Henry Dunbar, and the crowd in the churchyard waited to see him get into it.
He had his foot upon the lowest step, and his hand upon the door, when the Major went up to him, and tapped him lightly upon the shoulder.
The spectators recoiled, aghast with indignant astonishment90.
How dared this shabby-looking man, with clumsy boots that were queer about the heels, and a mangy fur collar, like the skin of an invalid91 French poodle, to his threadbare coat — how in the name of all that is audacious, dared such a low person as this lay his dirty fingers upon the sacred shoulder of Henry Dunbar of Dunbar, Dunbar, and Balderby’s banking-house, St. Gundolph Lane, City?
The millionaire turned, and grew as ashy pale at sight of the shabby stranger as he could have done if the sheeted dead had risen from one of the graves near at hand. But he uttered no exclamation92 of horror or surprise. He only shrank haughtily93 away from the Major’s touch, as if there had been some infection to be dreaded94 from those dirty finger-tips.
“May I be permitted to know your motive95 for this intrusion, sir?” the banker asked, in a cold, repellent voice, looking the shabby intruder full in the eyes as he spoke.
There was something so resolute96, so defiant97, in the rich man’s gaze, that it is a wonder the poor man did not shrink from encountering it.
But he did not: he gave back look for look.
“Don’t say you’ve forgotten me, Mr. Dunbar,” he said; “don’t say you’ve forgotten a very old acquaintance.”
This was spoken after a pause, in which the two men had looked at each other as earnestly as if each had been trying to read the inmost secrets of the other’s soul.
“Don’t say you’ve forgotten me, Mr. Dunbar,” repeated the Major.
Henry Dunbar smiled. It was a forced smile, perhaps; but, at any rate, it was a smile.
“I have a great many acquaintances,” he said; “and I fancy you must have gone down in the world since I knew you, if I may judge from appearances.”
The bystanders, who had listened to every word, began to murmur98 among themselves. “Yes, indeed, they should rather think so:— if ever this shabby stranger had known Mr. Dunbar, and if he was not altogether an impostor, he must have been a very different sort of person at the time of his acquaintance with the millionaire.”
“When and where did I know you?” asked Henry Dunbar, with his eyes still looking straight into the eyes of the other man.
“Oh, a long time ago — a very long way off!”
“Perhaps it was — somewhere in India — up the country?’ said the banker, very slowly.
“Yes, it was in India — up the country,” answered the other.
“Then you won’t find me slow to befriend you,” said Mr. Dunbar. “I am always glad to be of service to any of my Indian acquaintances — even when the world has treated them badly. Get into my carriage, and I’ll drive you home. I shall be able to talk to you by-and-by, when all this wedding business is over.”
The two men seated themselves side by side upon the spring cushions of the banker’s luxurious99 carriage; and the vehicle drove rapidly away, leaving the spectators in a rapture100 of admiration101 at Henry Dunbar’s condescension102 to his shabby Indian acquaintance.
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quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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rustic
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| adj.乡村的，有乡村特色的；n.乡下人，乡巴佬 | |
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winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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pedestrians
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| n.步行者( pedestrian的名词复数 ) | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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bonnets
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| n.童帽( bonnet的名词复数 )；（烟囱等的）覆盖物；（苏格兰男子的）无边呢帽；（女子戴的）任何一种帽子 | |
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specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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festive
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| adj.欢宴的，节日的 | |
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chrysanthemums
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| n.菊花( chrysanthemum的名词复数 ) | |
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strew
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| vt.撒；使散落；撒在…上，散布于 | |
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evergreens
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| n.常青树，常绿植物，万年青( evergreen的名词复数 ) | |
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generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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aggravating
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| adj.恼人的，讨厌的 | |
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balked
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| v.畏缩不前，犹豫( balk的过去式和过去分词 )；（指马）不肯跑 | |
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puddles
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| n.水坑， （尤指道路上的）雨水坑( puddle的名词复数 ) | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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destined
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glimmer
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| v.发出闪烁的微光；n.微光，微弱的闪光 | |
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dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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unison
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| n.步调一致，行动一致 | |
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anecdote
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| n.轶事，趣闻，短故事 | |
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champagne
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| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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drizzling
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| 下蒙蒙细雨，下毛毛雨( drizzle的现在分词 ) | |
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moody
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| adj.心情不稳的，易怒的，喜怒无常的 | |
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moodiness
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| n.喜怒无常；喜怒无常，闷闷不乐；情绪 | |
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habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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murky
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| adj.黑暗的，朦胧的；adv.阴暗地，混浊地；n.阴暗；昏暗 | |
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recoiled
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caressingly
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| 爱抚地，亲切地 | |
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reticence
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| n.沉默，含蓄 | |
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alteration
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| n.变更，改变；蚀变 | |
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implore
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| vt.乞求，恳求，哀求 | |
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compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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adverse
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| adj.不利的；有害的；敌对的，不友好的 | |
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demonstrations
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| 证明( demonstration的名词复数 )； 表明； 表达； 游行示威 | |
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grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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abject
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| adj.极可怜的，卑屈的 | |
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velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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baron
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| n.男爵；(商业界等)巨头，大王 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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dame
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| n.女士 | |
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51
knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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52
canopy
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| n.天篷，遮篷 | |
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turrets
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| （六角）转台( turret的名词复数 )； （战舰和坦克等上的）转动炮塔； （摄影机等上的）镜头转台； （旧时攻城用的）塔车 | |
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54
turret
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| n.塔楼，角塔 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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scented
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| adj.有香味的；洒香水的；有气味的v.嗅到(scent的过去分词) | |
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radical
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| n.激进份子，原子团，根号；adj.根本的，激进的，彻底的 | |
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scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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groan
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| vi./n.呻吟，抱怨；(发出)呻吟般的声音 | |
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martyr
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| n.烈士，殉难者；vt.杀害，折磨，牺牲 | |
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densely
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| ad.密集地；浓厚地 | |
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defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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speculations
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| n.投机买卖( speculation的名词复数 )；思考；投机活动；推断 | |
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abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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cosiest
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| adj.温暖舒适的( cosy的最高级 )；亲切友好的 | |
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condescend
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| v.俯就，屈尊；堕落，丢丑 | |
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odds
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| n.让步，机率，可能性，比率；胜败优劣之别 | |
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innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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refreshing
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| adj.使精神振作的，使人清爽的，使人喜欢的 | |
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procure
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| vt.获得，取得，促成；vi.拉皮条 | |
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rubies
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| 红宝石( ruby的名词复数 )； 红宝石色，深红色 | |
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morose
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| adj.脾气坏的，不高兴的 | |
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contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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jovial
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| adj.快乐的，好交际的 | |
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cosy
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| adj.温暖而舒适的，安逸的 | |
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secluded
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| adj.与世隔绝的；隐退的；偏僻的v.使隔开，使隐退( seclude的过去式和过去分词) | |
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78
syllable
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| n.音节；vt.分音节 | |
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incessant
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| adj.不停的，连续的 | |
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loquacious
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| adj.多嘴的，饶舌的 | |
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candid
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| adj.公正的，正直的；坦率的 | |
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promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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83
ledge
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| n.壁架，架状突出物；岩架，岩礁 | |
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wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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85
rustling
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| n. 瑟瑟声，沙沙声 adj. 发沙沙声的 | |
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aisle
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| n.（教堂、教室、戏院等里的）过道，通道 | |
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flickering
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| adj.闪烁的，摇曳的，一闪一闪的 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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invalid
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| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
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exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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haughtily
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| adv. 傲慢地, 高傲地 | |
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dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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96
resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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defiant
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| adj.无礼的，挑战的 | |
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98
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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99
luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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100
rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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101
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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102
condescension
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| n.自以为高人一等，贬低(别人) | |
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