# The City of Masks/Chapter 22

CHAPTER XXII
THE BEGINNING
THE brisk, businesslike little clergyman was sorely disappointed. He had looked forward to a rather smart affair, so to speak, on the afternoon of the fifteenth. Indeed, he had gone to some pains to prepare himself for an event far out of the ordinary. It isn't every day that one has the opportunity to perform a ceremony wherein a real Lord and Lady plight the troth; it isn't every parson who can say he has officiated for nobility. Such an event certainly calls for a little more than the customary preparations. He got out his newest vestments and did not neglect to brush his hair. His shoes were highly polished for the occasion and his nails shone with a brightness that fascinated him. Moreover, he had tuned up his voice; it had gone stale with the monotony of countless marriages in which he rarely took the trouble to notice whether the responses were properly made. By dint of a little extra exertion in the rectory he had brought it to a fine state of unctuous mellowness.
Moreover, he had given some thought to the prayer. It wasn't going to be a perfunctory, listless thing, this prayer for Lord and Lady Temple. It was to be a profound utterance. The glib, everyday prayer wouldn't do at all on an occasion like this. The church would be filled with the best people in New York. Something fine and resonant and perhaps a little personal,—something to do with God, of course, but, in ​the main, worth listening to. In fact, something from the diaphragm, sonorous.
For a little while he would take off the well-worn mask of humility and bask in the fulgent rays of his own light.
But, to repeat, he was sorely disappointed. Instead of beaming upon an assemblage of the elect, he found himself confronted by a company that caused him to question his own good taste in shaving especially for the occasion and in wearing gold-rimmed nose-glasses instead of the "over the ears" he usually wore when in haste.
He saw, with shocked and incredulous eyes, sparsely planted about the dim church as if separated by the order of one who realized that closer contact would result in something worse than passive antagonism, a strange and motley company.
For a moment he trembled. Had he, by some horrible mischance, set two weddings for the same hour? He cudgelled his brain as he peeped through the vestry door. A sickening blank! He could recall no other ceremony for that particular hour,—and yet as he struggled for a solution the conviction became stronger that he had committed a most egregious error. Then and there, in a perspiring panic, he solemnly resolved to give these weddings a little more thought. He had been getting a bit slack,—really quite haphazard in checking off the daily grist.
What was he to do when the noble English pair and their friends put in an appearance? Despite the fact that the young American sailor-chap who came to see him about the service had casually remarked that it ​was to be a most informal affair,—with "no trimmings" or something like that,—he knew that so far as these people were concerned, simplicity was merely comparative. Doubtless, the young couple, affecting simplicity, would appear without coronets; the guests probably would saunter in and, in a rather dégagé fashion, find seats for themselves without deigning to notice the obsequious verger in attendance. And here was the church partially filled,—certainly the best seats were taken,—by a most unseemly lot of people! What was to be done about it? He looked anxiously about for the sexton. Then he glanced at his watch. Ten minutes to spare.
Some one tapped him on the shoulder. He turned to face the stalwart young naval officer. A tall young man was standing at some distance behind the officer, clumsily drawing on a pair of pearl grey gloves. He wore a monocle. The good pastor's look of distress deepened.
"Good afternoon," said the smiling lieutenant. "You see I got him here on time, sir."
"Yes, yes," murmured the pastor. "Ha-ha! Ha-ha!" He laughed in his customary way. Not one but a thousand "best men" had spoken those very words to him before. The remark called for a laugh. It had become a habit.
"Is everybody here?" inquired Aylesworth, peeping over his shoulder through the crack in the door. The pastor bethought himself and gently closed the door, whereupon the best man promptly opened it again and resumed his stealthy scrutiny of the dim edifice.
​"I can't fasten this beastly thing, Aylesworth," said the tall young man in the background. "Would you mind seeing what you can do with the bally thing?"
"I see the Countess there," said Aylesworth, still gazing. "And the Marchioness, and—"
"The Marchioness?" murmured the pastor, in fresh dismay.
"I guess they're all here," went on the best man, turning away from the door and joining his nervous companion.
"I'd sooner face a regiment of cavalry than—" began Eric Temple.
"May I have the pleasure and the honour of greeting Lord Temple?" said the little minister, approaching with outstretched hand. "A—er—a very happy occasion, your lordship. Perhaps I would better explain the presence in the church of a—er—rather unusual crowd of—er—shall we say curiosity-seekers? You see, this is an open church. The doors are always open to the public. Very queer people sometimes get in, despite the watchfulness of the attendant, usually, I may say, when a wedding of such prominence—ahem!—er—"
"I don't in the least mind," said Lord Temple good-humouredly. "If it's any treat to them, let them stay. Sure you've got the ring, Aylesworth? I say, I'm sorry now we didn't have a rehearsal. It isn't at all simple. You said it would be, confound you. You—"
"All you have to do, old chap, is to give your arm to Lady Jane and follow the Baroness and me to the chancel. Say 'I do' and 'I will' to everything, and before you know it you'll come to and find yourself ​still breathing and walking on air. Isn't that so, Doctor?"
"Quite,—quite so, I am sure."
"Let me take a peep out there, Aylesworth. I'd like to get my bearings."
"Pray do not be dismayed by the—" began the minister.
"Hullo! There's Bramby sitting in the front seat,—my word, I've never known him to look so seraphic. Old Fogazario, and de Bosky, and—yes, there's Mirabeau, and the amiable Mrs. Moses Jacobs. 'Gad, she's resplendent! Du Bara and Herman and— By Jove, they're all here, every one of them. I say, Aylesworth, what time is it? I wonder if anything can have happened to Jane? Run out to the sidewalk, old chap, and have a look, will you? I—"
"Are all bridegrooms like this?" inquired Aylesworth drily, addressing the bewildered minister.
"Here she is!" sang out the bridegroom, leaping toward the little vestibule. "Thank heaven, Jane! I thought you'd met with an accident or— My God! How lovely you are, darling! Isn't she, Aylesworth?"
"Permit me to present you, Doctor, to Lady Jane Thorne," interposed Aylesworth. "And to the Baroness Brangwyng."
From that moment on, the little divine was in a daze. He didn't know what to make of anything. Everything was wrong and yet everything was right! How could it be?
How was he to know that his quaint, unpretentious little church was half-full of masked men and women? ​How was he to know that these queer-looking people out there were counts and countesses, barons and baronesses, princes and princesses? Swarthy Italians, sallow-faced Frenchmen, dark Hungarians, bearded Russians and pompous Teutons! How was he to know that once upon a time all of these had gone without masks in the streets and courts of far-off lands and had worn "purple and fine linen"? And those plainly, poorly dressed women? Where,—oh where, were the smart New Yorkers for whom he had furbished himself up so neatly?
What manner of companions had this lovely bride,—ah, but she had the real atmosphere!— What sort of people had she been thrown with during her stay in the City of New York? She who might have known the best, the most exclusive,—"bless me, what a pity!"
Here and there in the motley throng, he espied a figure that suggested upper Fifth Avenue. The little lady with the snow-white hair; the tall brunette with the rather stunning hat; the austere gentleman far in the rear, the ruddy faced old man behind him, and the aggressive-looking individual with the green necktie,— Yes, any one of them might have come from uptown and ought to feel somewhat out of place in this singular gathering. The three gentlemen especially. He sized them up as financiers, as plutocrats. And yet they were back where the family servants usually sat.
He got through with the service,—indulgently, it is to be feared, after all.
He would say, on the whole, that he had never seen a handsomer couple than Lord and Lady Temple. There was compensation in that. Any one with half ​an eye could see that they came of the very best stock. And the little Baroness,—he had never seen a baroness before,—was somebody, too. She possessed manner,—that indefinable thing they called manner,—there was no mistake about it. He had no means of knowing, of course, that she was struggling hard to make a living in the "artist colony" down town.
Well, well, it is a strange world, after all. You never can tell, mused the little pastor as he stood in the entrance of his church with half-a-dozen reporters and watched the strange company disperse,—some in motors, some in hansoms, and others on the soles of their feet. A large lady in many colours ran for a south-bound street car. He wondered who she could be. The cook, perhaps.
Lieutenant Aylesworth was saying good-bye to the bride and groom at the Grand Central Station. The train for Montreal was leaving shortly before ten o'clock.
The wedding journey was to carry them through Canada to the Pacific and back to New York, leisurely, by way of the Panama Canal. Lord Fenlew had not been niggardly. All he demanded of his grandson in return was that they should come to Fenlew Hall before the first of August.
"Look us up the instant you set foot in England, Sammy," said Eric, gripping his friend's hand. "Watch the newspapers. You'll see when our ship comes home, and after that you'll find us holding out our arms to you."
"When my ship leaves home," said the American, ​"I hope she'll steer for an English port. Good-bye, Lady Temple. Please live to be a hundred, that's all I ask of you."
"Good-bye, Sam," she said, blushing as she uttered the name he had urged her to use.
"You won't mind letting the children call me Uncle Sam, will you?" he said, a droll twist to his lips.
"How quaint!" she murmured.
"By Jove, Sammy," cried Eric warmly, "you've no idea how much better you look in Uncle Sam's uniform than you did in that stuffy frock coat this afternoon. Thank God, I can get into a uniform myself before long. You wouldn't understand, old chap, how good it feels to be in a British uniform."
"I'm afraid we've outgrown the British uniform," said the other drily. "It used to be rather common over here, you know."
"You don't know what all this means to me," said Temple seriously, his hand still clasping the American's. "I can hold up my head once more. I can fight for England. If she needs me, I can fight and die for her."
"You're a queer lot, you Britishers," drawled the American. "You want to fight and die for Old England. I have a singularly contrary ambition. I want to live and fight for America."
On the twenty-fourth of July, 1914, Lord Eric Temple and his bride came home to England.
THE END