Gerald, please; she is so proud and self-reliant that she won't
even lean on any one's arm, if she can avoid it. Take her down the
middle aisle, for I've sent your car to that door' (this was the
last of a series of happy thoughts on my part). "I'll go and tell
Francesca, who is flirting with the organist. She has an
appointment at the tailor's; so I will drop her there, and join you
at the hotel in a few minutes."
The refractory pair of innocent, middle-aged lovers started, arm in
arm, on what I ardently hoped would be an eventful walk together.
It was from, instead of toward the altar, to be sure, but I was
certain it would finally lead them to it, notwithstanding the
unusual method of approach. I gave Francesca the signal, and then,
disappearing behind the screen, I held her hand in a palpitation of
nervous apprehension that I had scarcely felt when Himself first
asked me to be his.
The young organist, blushing to the roots of his hair, trembling
with responsibility, smiling at the humour of the thing, pulled out
all the stops, and the Wedding March pealed through the cathedral,
the splendid joy and swing and triumph of it echoing through the
vaulted aisles in a way that positively incited one to bigamy.
"We may regard the matter as settled now," whispered Francesca
comfortably. "Anybody would ask anybody else to marry him, whether
he was in love with her or not. If it weren't so beautiful and so
touching, wouldn't it be amusing? Isn't the organist a darling, and
doesn't he enter into the spirit of it? See him shaking with
sympathetic laughter, and yet he never lets a smile creep into the
music; it is all earnestness and majesty.
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