There were the usual marriage pleasantries, facetious compliments and chaff, in which to my surprise (the solemnity of the service being still upon me) the Bishop permitted himself to join.

I was now very nervous, and yet I kept up a forced gaiety, though my heart was cold and sick.  I remember that I had a preternatural power of hearing at the same time nearly every conversation that was going on at the table, and that I joined in nearly all the laughter.

At a more than usually loud burst of wind somebody said it would be a mercy if the storm did not lift the roof off.

“Chut, man!” cried my father.  “Solid oak and wrought iron here.  None of your mouldy old monuments that have enough to do to keep their tiles on.”

“Then nobody,” said my husband with a glance at his friend, “need be afraid of losing his head in your house, sir?”

“Not if he’s got one to come in with, sir.”

Betsy Beauty, sitting next to Mr. Eastcliff, was wondering if he would do us the honour to visit the island oftener now that his friend had married into it.

“But, my dear Betsy,” said my husband, “who would live in this God-forsaken place if he could help it?”

“God-forsaken, is it?” said my father.  “Maybe so, sir—­but that’s what the cuckoo said after he had eaten the eggs out of the thrush’s nest and left a mess in it.”

Aunt Bridget was talking in doleful tones to Lady Margaret about my mother, saying she had promised her on her death-bed to take care of her child and had been as good as her word, always putting me before her own daughter, although her ladyship would admit that Betsy was a handsome girl, and, now that his lordship was married, there were few in the island that were fit for her.

“Why no, Mrs. MacLeod,” said my husband, after another significant glance at his friend, “I dare say you’ve not got many who can make enough to keep a carriage?”

“Truth enough, sir,” said my father.  “We’ve got hundreds and tons that can make debts though.”

The breakfast came to an end at length, and almost before the last of the waiters had left the room my father rose to speak.

“Friends all,” he said, “the young married couple have to leave us for the afternoon steamer.”

“In this weather?” said somebody, pointing up to the lantern light through which the sky was now darkening.

“Chut!  A puff of wind and a slant of rain, as I’ve been saying to my gel here.  But my son-in-law, Lord Raa,” (loud cheers followed this description, with some laughter and much hammering on the table), “my son-in-law says he has to be in London to-morrow, and this morning my daughter has sworn obedience. . . .  What’s that, Monsignor?  Not obedience exactly?  Something like it then, so she’s bound to go along with him.  So fill up your glasses to the brim and drink to the bride and bridegroom.”

As soon as the noise made by the passing of decanters had died down my father spoke again.