rector asked; 'since there have been no
banns.'

Nicholas produced it, Mr. Bealand read it, an operation which occupied
him several minutes--or at least he made it appear so; till Christine
said impatiently, 'We are quite ready, Mr. Bealand. Will you proceed?
Mr. Long has to take a journey of a great many miles to-day.'

'And you?'

'No. I remain.'

Mr. Bealand assumed firmness. 'There is something wrong in this,' he
said. 'I cannot marry you without your father's presence.'

'But have you a right to refuse us?' interposed Nicholas. 'I believe we
are in a position to demand your fulfilment of our request.'

'No, you are not! Is Miss Everard of age? I think not. I think she is
months from being so. Eh, Miss Everard?'

'Am I bound to tell that?'

'Certainly. At any rate you are bound to write it. Meanwhile I refuse
to solemnize the service. And let me entreat you two young people to do
nothing so rash as this, even if by going to some strange church, you may
do so without discovery. The tragedy of marriage--'

'Tragedy?'

'Certainly. It is full of crises and catastrophes, and ends with the
death of one of the actors. The tragedy of marriage, as I was saying, is
one I shall not be a party to your beginning with such light hearts, and
I shall feel bound to put your father on his guard, Miss Everard. Think
better of it, I entreat you! Remember the proverb, "Marry in haste and
repent at leisure."'

Christine, spurred by opposition, almost stormed at him. Nicholas
implored; but nothing would turn that obstinate rector. She sat down and
reflected. By-and-by she confronted Mr. Bealand.

'Our marriage is not to be this morning, I see,' she said. 'Now grant me
one favour, and in return I'll promise you to do nothing rashly. Do not
tell my father a word of what has happened here.'

'I agree--if you undertake not to elope.'

She looked at Nicholas, and he looked at her. 'Do you wish me to elope,
Nic?' she asked.

'No,' he said.

So the compact was made, and they left the church singly, Nicholas
remaining till the last, and closing the door. On his way home, carrying
the well-packed bag which was just now to go no further, the two men who
were mending water-carriers in the meadows approached the hedge, as if
they had been on the alert all the time.

'You said you mid want us for zummat, sir?'

'All right--never mind,' he answered through the hedge. 'I did not
require you after all.'