“Sakes alive, how white’s she’s looking, though,” said somebody, and then somebody else said—­I could not help but hear it—­

“Dear heart knows if her father has done right for all that.”

I did not look at anybody, but I saw Martin’s mother at the back, and she was wiping her eyes and saying to some one by her side—­it must have been the doctor—­

“God bless her for the sweet child veen she always was, anyway.”

The storm had increased during the service; and the sacristan, who was opening the door for us, had as much as he could do to hold it against the wind, which came with such a rush upon us when we stepped into the porch that my veil and the coronal of myrtle and orange blossoms were torn off my head and blown back into the church.

“God bless my sowl,” said somebody—­it was Tommy’s friend, Johnny Christopher—­“there’s some ones would he calling that bad luck, though.”

A band of village musicians, who were ranged up in the road, struck up “The Black and Grey” as we stepped out of the churchyard, and the next thing I knew was that my husband and I were in the carriage going home.

He had so far recovered from the frightening effects of the marriage service that he was making light of it, and saying: 

“When will this mummery come to an end, I wonder?”

The windows of the carriage were rattling with the wind, and my husband had begun to talk of the storm when we came upon the trunk of a young tree which had been torn up by the roots and was lying across the road, so that our coachman had to get down and remove it.

“Beastly bad crossing, I’m afraid.  Hope you’re a good sailor.  Must be in London to-morrow morning, you know.”

The band was playing behind us.  The leafless trees were beating their bare boughs in front.  The wedding bells were pealing.  The storm was thundering through the running sky.  The sea was very loud.

At my father’s gate Tommy the Mate, with a serious face, was standing, cap in hand, under his triumphal arch, which (as well as it could for the wind that was tearing its flowers and scattering them on the ground) spelled out the words “God bless the Happy Bride.”

When we reached the open door of the house a group of maids were waiting for us.  They were holding on to their white caps and trying to control their aprons, which were swirling about their black frocks.  As I stepped out of the carriage they addressed me as “My lady” and “Your ladyship.”  The seagulls, driven up from the sea, were screaming about the house.

My husband and I went into the drawing-room, and as we stood together on the hearthrug I caught a glimpse of my face in the glass over the mantelpiece.  It was deadly white, and had big staring eyes and a look of faded sunshine.  I fixed afresh the pearls about my neck and the diamond in my hair, which was much disordered.

Almost immediately the other carriages returned, and relatives and guests began to pour into the room and offer us their congratulations.  First came my cousins, who were too much troubled about their own bedraggled appearance to pay much attention to mine.  Then Aunt Bridget, holding on to her half-moon bonnet and crying: