as it may--that mooted question as to
the archdeacon's journey to Paris--Lord Dumbello was forthcoming at
Plumstead on the 5th of August, and went through his work like a man.
The Hartletop family, when the alliance was found to be unavoidable,
endeavoured to arrange that the wedding should be held at Hartletop
Priory, in order that the clerical dust and dinginess of Barchester
Close might not soil the splendour of the marriage gala doings; for,
to tell the truth, the Hartletopians, as a rule, were not proud of
their new clerical connexions. But on this subject Mrs. Grantly
was very properly inexorable; nor when an attempt was made on the
bride to induce her to throw over her mamma at the last moment and
pronounce for herself that she would be married at the priory, was
it attended with any success. The Hartletopians knew nothing of the
Grantly fibre and calibre, or they would have made no such attempt.
The marriage took place at Plumstead, and on the morning of the
day Lord Dumbello posted over from Barchester to the rectory. The
ceremony was performed by the archdeacon, without assistance,
although the dean, and the precentor, and two other clergymen, were
at the ceremony. Griselda's propriety of conduct was quite equal to
that of Olivia Proudie; indeed, nothing could exceed the statuesque
grace and fine aristocratic bearing with which she carried herself
on the occasion. The three or four words which the service required
of her she said with ease and dignity; there was neither sobbing
nor crying to disturb the work or embarrass her friends, and she
signed her name in the church books as "Griselda Grantly" without a
tremor--and without a regret.

Mrs. Grantly kissed her and blessed her in the hall as she was about
to step forward to her travelling carriage leaning on her father's
arm, and the child put up her face to her mother for a last whisper.
"Mamma," she said, "I suppose Jane can put her hand at once on the
moire antique when we reach Dover?" Mrs. Grantly smiled and nodded,
and again blessed her child. There was not a tear shed--at least, not
then--nor a sign of sorrow to cloud for a moment the gay splendour
of the day. But the mother did bethink herself, in the solitude of
her own room, of those last words, and did acknowledge a lack of
something for which her heart had sighed. She had boasted to her
sister that she had nothing to regret as to her daughter's education;
but now, when she was alone after her suc