The others went on, leaving her to follow in the last carriage with her father. The contractor, forewarned, spoke little to her. Only once he had occasion to ask her a question, and then she answered in a strained, unnatural voice. She appeared, so far as could be seen under her heavy veil, to be crying. "Well, this is going to be a damned cheerful wedding," said Mr. Hodskiss, and lapsed into sulkiness. The wedding was not so quiet as had been anticipated. The village had got scent of it, and had spread itself upon the event, while half the house party from G--- Hall had insisted on driving over to take part in the proceedings. The little church was better filled than it had been for many a long year past. The presence of the stylish crowd unnerved the ancient clergyman, long unaccustomed to the sight of a strange face, and the first sound of the ancient clergyman's voice unnerved the stylish crowd. What little articulation he possessed entirely disappeared, no one could understand a word he said. He appeared to be uttering sounds of distress. The ancient gentleman's infliction had to be explained in low asides, and it also had to be explained why such an one had been chosen to perform the ceremony. "It was a whim of Clementina's," whispered her mother. "Her father and myself were married from here, and he christened her. The dear child's full of sentiment. I think it so nice of her." Everybody agreed it was charming, but wished it were over. The general effect was weird in the extreme. Lord C--- spoke up fairly well, but the bride's responses were singularly indistinct, the usual order of things being thus reversed. The story of the naval lieutenant was remembered, and added to, and some of the more sentimental of the women began to cry in sympathy. In the vestry things assumed a brighter tone. There was no lack of witnesses to sign the register. The verger pointed out to them the place, and they wrote their names, as people in such cases do, without stopping to read. Then it occurred to some one that the bride had not yet signed. She stood apart, with her veil still down, and appeared to have been forgotten. Encouraged, she came forward meekly, and took the pen from the hand of the verger. The countess came and stood behind her. "Mary," wrote the bride, in a hand that looked as though it ought to have been firm, but which was not. "Dear me," said the countess, "I never knew there was a Mary in your name. How differently you write when you write slowly." The bride did not answer, but followed with "Susannah." "Why, what a lot of names you must have, my dear!" exclaimed the countess. "When are you going to get to the ones we all know?" "Ruth," continued the bride without answering.