Now I have never to this day been able to make up my mind whether the Lady Kirkpatrick was really stirred with such anger as she pretended, whether she was only more than a little mad, or if all was done merely to break down Irma’s reserve by playing on her anger and pride.

If the last was the cause of my lady’s strange behaviour to us, it was shiningly successful.

“We will not go a step to find my Lady Frances,” said Irma when we were outside; “if she be so full of all the wisdoms, she would very likely try to separate us.”

And certainly it was noways my business to make any objections. So, hardly crediting my happiness, I went southwards over the Bridges, with Irma by my side, my heart beating so rarely that I declare I could hardly bethink me of a minister to make me sure of Irma before she had time to change her mind. As was usual at that hour at the Surgeon’s Hall, we met Freddy Esquillant coming from the direction of Simon Square. Him I sent off as quickly as he could to Rankeillor Street for Amelia Craven. I felt that this was no less than Amelia’s due, for many a time and oft must she have been wearied with my sighs and complaints—very suitable to the condition of a lover, but mightily wearisome to the listener.

Irma said nothing. She seemed to be walking in a dream, and hardly noticed Freddy—or yet the errand upon which I sent him.

It came to me that, as the matter was of the suddenest, Amelia Craven might help us to find a small house of our own where we might set up our household gods—that is, when we got any.

An unexpected encounter preceded the one expected. I was marching along to our rendezvous with Freddy and Amelia at the crossing from Archers’ Hall to the Sciennes, when all of a sudden whom should we meet right in the face but my rosy-cheeked, bunchy little employer—my Lord Advocate in person, all shining as if he had been polished, his face smiling and smirking like a newly-oiled picture, and on his arm, but towering above him, a thin, dusky-skinned woman, plainly dressed, and with an enormous bonnet on her head, obviously of her own manufacture—a sort of tangle of black, brown and green which really had to be seen to be believed.

“Aha!” cried my Lord Advocate; “whither away, young sir? Shirking the proofs, eh, my lad? And may I have the honour to be presented to your sister from the country—for so, by her fresh looks, I divine the young lady to be.”

“If you will wait a few minutes till we can find a minister, I will say, ‘This, sir, is my wedded wife,’” I declared manfully.

“And is the young lady of the same mind?” quoth my Lord, with a quick, gleg slyness.

“I am, sir—if the business concerns you!” said Irma, looking straight at him.

“What, and dare you say that you will take a man like this for your wedded husband?” he demanded, with the swift up-and-down play of his bushy brows which was habitual to him.

“I see not what business it is of yours,” Irma answered, as sharply, “but I do take him for my husband.”“There!” cried the lawyer, pulling out his snuffbox and tapping it vehemently, “it is done. I have performed my first marriage, and all the General Assembly, or the Gretna Green Welder himself, could not have done it neater or made a better job. Declaration before witnesses being sufficient in the eye of the law of Scotland, I declare you two man and wife!”

Irma looked distressed.

“But I do not feel in the least married,” she said; “I must have a minister!”

“You can have all the ministers in Edinburgh, my lass, but you have been duly wedded already in the presence of the first legal authority of your kingdom, not to mention that of the Lady Frances Kirkpatrick——”

“My aunt Frances, after all!” cried Irma, suddenly flushing.

“Who may you be?” said the tall lady, with the face like sculptured gingerbread.

“Who was she, you mean, my Lady Frances?” said the Advocate blandly, helping himself to a pinch of snuff. “I can tell you who she is—Mrs. Duncan MacAlpine, wife of my private assistant and the sub-editor of the Universal Review.”

It was the first time he had given me that title, which pleased me, and led me to hope that he meant to accompany the honour by a rise in salary.

“I am—I was—Irma Sobieski Maitland,” the answer was rather halting and faint, for Irma was easily touched, and it was only when much provoked that she put on her “No-one-shall-touch-me-with-impunity” air.

“If the bride be at all uneasy in her mind,” said the Lord Advocate, “here we are at Mr. Dean’s door. I dare say he will step down-stairs into the chapel and put on his surplice. From what I judge of the lady’s family, she will probably have as little confidence in a Presbyterian minister as in a Presbyterian Lord Advocate!”

Freddy and Amelia were waiting across the street. I beckoned to them, and they crossed reluctantly, seeing us talking with my Lord Advocate, whom, of course, all the world of Edinburgh knew. I was not long in making the introductions.

“Miss Craven, late of Yorkshire, and Mr. Frederick Esquillant, assistant to Professor Greg at the College.”

“Any more declarations before witnesses to-day?” said my Lord, looking quaintly at them. “Ah—the crop is not ripe yet. Well, well—we must be content for one day.”

And he vanished into a wide, steeply-gabled house, standing crushed between higher “lands.”

“The Dean will officiate, never fear,” said Lady Frances. “So you have been staying with my sister, and of course she turned you out. Well, she sent you to me, I’ll wager, and you were on your way. You could not have done better than come direct to me.”

“Indeed it was quite an accident,” said Irma, who never would take credit for what she had not deserved; “you see, I did not know you, and I thought that one like my Lady Kirkpatrick was quite enough——”

“Hush, hush,” said the tall brown woman; “perhaps she means better than you give her credit for. She is a rich woman, and can afford to pay for her whimsies. Be sure she meant some kindness. But, at any rate, here comes the Advocate with our good Dean.”

We mounted into a curiously arranged house. At first one saw nothing but flights on flights of stairs, range above range apparently going steeply up to the second floor, without any first floor rooms at all.

Mr. Dean was a handsome old man with white hair, and he took our hands most kindly.

“My friend here,” he said, smiling at my Lord Advocate, “tells me that he has not left very much for me to do from a legal point of view. But I look upon marriage as a sacrament, and though the bridegroom is not, as I hear, of our communion, I have no difficulty in acceding to the request of my Lord—especially since our good Lady Frances has deigned to be present as a near relative of the bride.”

He called something into a sort of stone tube. Then bidding us to be seated, he went into another room to array himself in his surplice, from which, presently, he came out, holding a service-book in his hand.

We followed him down-stairs—I with Lady Frances on my arm, the Lord Advocate preceding us with Irma, whom he was to give away. He appeared to take quite a boyish interest in the whole affair, from which I augured the best for our future.

We were rather hampered at the turning of the stair, and had to drop into single file again, when Irma clutched suddenly at my hand, and in the single moment we had together in the dusk, she whispered, “Oh, I am so glad!”

Lady Frances told me as we passed into the little half-underground chapel, low and barrel-shaped as to the roof, with the candles ready alight on the altar, that all this secrecy had come down from the time when the service according to the Episcopal form had been strictly forbidden in Edinburgh—at least in any open way.

I cannot describe what followed. I must have stood like a dummy, muttering over what I was prompted to say. But the responses came to Irma’s lips as if she had many times rehearsed them—which perhaps was the case—I know now that she had always kept her father’s King Edward prayer-book, and read it when alone. We stood by the rails of what I now know to have been the altar. All about was hung with deep crimson, and the heavy curtains were looped back with golden cord. A kind of glory shone behind the altar, in the midst of which appeared, in Hebrew letters, the name of God. Irma, who was far more self-possessed than I, found time to wonder and even to ask me what it meant. And I, translating freely (for I had picked up somewhat of that language from Freddy Esquillant), said, “Thou, God, seest me.”

Which, at any rate, if not exactly correct, was true and apt enough.

“Well, are you well married now, babes?” said the Advocate, and I tried to answer him as we made our way to the vestry—I stumbling and self-abased, Irma with the certainty and calmness of a widow at least thrice removed from the first bashfulness of a bride.

We signed the register, in which (the Advocate took care to inform us) were some very distinguished names indeed. Which, however, was entirely the same to me.

Then as I thanked Mr. Dean for his kindness, not daring to offer any poor fee, the Advocate chatted with Amelia Craven with great delicacy and understanding, inquiring chiefly as to Freddy’s attainments and prospects.

But what was my surprise when, as soon as we were on the cobble stones, the Lady Frances turned sharply upon Irma, and said, quite in the style of my Lady Kirkpatrick, “And now, Irma Maitland, since your husband has no house or any place to take you to, you had better come to my house in the Sciennes till he can make proper arrangements. It is not at all suitable that a Maitland should be on a common stair like a travelling tinker looking for lodgings.”

Hearing which the neat, shining, dimpling little Advocate turned his bright eyes from one to the other of us, and tapped his tortoise-shell snuffbox with a kind of elvish joy. It was clear that we were better than many stage-plays to him.

As for Irma, she looked at me, but now sweetly and innocently, as if asking for counsel, not haughty or disdainful as had been her wont. The accusation of poverty touched me, and I was on the point of telling her to choose for herself, that I would find her a house as soon as possible, when Amelia Craven thrust herself forward.

Up to this point she had kept silent, a little awed by the great folk, or perhaps by the church, with the red hangings and twinkling, mysterious candles on the altar.

“I do not know a great deal,” she said, “but this I do know, that a wife’s place is with her husband—and especially when the ‘love, honour and obey’ is hardly out of her mouth. She shall come home to my mother’s with me, even if Duncan MacAlpine there has not enough sense to bid her.”

Upon which the Advocate strove (or at least appeared to strive) to please everybody and put everybody in the right. It was perhaps natural that, till arrangements were completed, so young a bride should remain with her family. But, on the other hand, young people could not begin too soon to face the inevitable trials of life. The feelings of the young lady who had expressed her mind in so lively a manner—Miss—Miss—ah yes, Craven—Miss Amelia Craven—did her all honour. It only remained to hear the decision of—of (a smirk, several dimples and a prolonged tapping on the lid of his snuffbox)—Mistress Duncan MacAlpine.

“I will go with my husband,” said Irma simply.

“There’s for you, Frances!” cried the Advocate, turning to his companion with a little teasing “hee-hee” of laughter, almost like the neigh of a horse; “there spoke all the woman.”

But Lady Frances had very deliberately turned about and was walking, without the least greeting or farewell, in the direction of her own house of Sciennes.

“There goes a Kirkpatrick,” said the Advocate, tapping his box cynically; “cry with them, they will hunt your enemies till they drop. Cry off with them, and it’s little you will see of them but the back of their hand.”

He touched my Irma on her soft cheek with the tips of his fingers. “And I wish, for your goodman’s sake,” he said, “that this little lady’s qualities do not run in the female line.”

“I hope,” said Irma, “that I shall always have grace to obey my husband.”

“Graces you have—overly many of them, as it is easy to see,” quoth the gallant Advocate, taking off his hat and bowing low, “but it is seldom indeed that ladies use either Grace or their graces for such a purpose!”