A cry of rage and despair interrupted the reader.  But he went on directly.

“No one in America knew that I had been educated for the Church and had taken orders, though I have never preached except one month; the work was distasteful to me, and when my brother died and I inherited my grandfather’s property, I resigned my pastorate at once.  This act shows how unfit for it I was.  But whatever my grief may be, my conscience commands me to forbid this present marriage, and to declare with all solemnity, that Stephen Archdale already has a wife, and that she is that lady, who, until she opened my letter, believed herself still Mistres Royal.”

A burst of amazement and indignation, that could no longer be repressed, interrupted the reading.  Faces and voices expressed consternation.  To this confession had been added names and dates, the year of the writer’s entrance into the ministry, the time and place of his brief pastorate, everything that was necessary to give his statement a reliable air, and to verify it if one chose to do so.  It was evident that there could be no wedding that morning, and as the truth of the story impressed itself, more and more upon the minds of the audience, a fear spread lest there could be no wedding at all, such as they had been called together to witness.  For, if this amusement should turn out to have been a real marriage, what help was there?  It was in the days when amusements were viewed seriously and were readily imagined to lead to fatal consequences.  Had Stephen Archdale really married?  The people in the drawing-room that December morning were able men and women, they were among the best representatives of their time, an age that America will always be proud of, but they held marriage vows so sacred, that even made in jest there seemed to be a weight in them.  Proofs must be found, law must speak, yet these people in waiting feared, for their part in life was to be so great in uprightness and self-restraint, that these qualities flowing through mighty channels should conquer physical strength and found a nation.  To do a thing because it was pleasant was no part of their creed,—­although, even then, there were occasional examples of it in practice.

That winter morning, therefore, the guests were ready to inveigh against the sin of unseemly jesting, to hope that all would be well, and to shake their heads mournfully.

“Harwin!” cried Master Archdale as he heard the name of the writer; “it seems impossible.  I liked that man so much, and trusted him so much.  I knew he loved my little girl, but I thought it was with an honorable love that would rejoice to see her happy.  No, no, it cannot be true.  We must wait.  But matters will come right at last.”

“Yes,” assented the Colonel across whose face an incomprehensible expression had passed more than once during the reading; “it will all come right.  We must make it so.”

A hum of conversation went on in the room, comment, inquiry, sympathy, spoken to the chief actors in this scene, or if not near enough to them for that, spoken to the first who were patient enough to listen instead of themselves talking.