“Ah, now we are coming to it at last!” cried the Rector; “names in novels, when they are founded on anything, generally follow the names of the aristocracy. Now here’s the question: Is this a secret marriage, and the bride some poor young lady who doesn’t know what she is doing, some girl running away with her brother’s tutor or some fiddler or other, to her own ruin, poor thing, without knowing what she is about?” “Dear me, William! what an imagination you have got!” said Mrs Marston, and she sat down in her surprise and drew the book towards her; but then she added, “Why should they come to St Alban’s in that case? There are no musicians living in this parish. And poor people do give their children such grand names nowadays. That poor shirtmaker in Cotton Lane, don’t you remember? her baby is Ethel Sybil Celestine Constantia--you recollect how we laughed?” “Family Herald,” said the Rector with a careless wave of his hand, “and all Christian names, which makes a great difference. It was her last batch of heroines, poor soul; but do you think a poor needlewoman would think of Pendragon and Plantagenet? No; mark my words, Mary, this is some great person; this is some poor deceived girl, throwing away everything for what she thinks love. Poor thing, poor thing! and all the formalities complied with, so that I have no right to stop it. Sayers is an idiot!” cried Mr Marston. “I should have inquired into it at once had I been at home, with a name before my eyes like that.” “Dear me!” said Mrs Marston; there is not much in it, but she repeated the exclamation several times. “After all,” she said, “it must be true love, or she would not go that length; and who knows, William, whether that is not better than all their grandeur? Dear, dear me! I wish we knew a little about the circumstances. If the gentleman is of this parish couldn’t you send for him and inquire into it?” The Rector was pacing up and down the room in very unusual agitation. It was such a crisis as in his peaceful clerical life had never happened to him before. “You know very well he is not of this parish,” Mr Marston said. “I suppose he must have slept here the requisite number of nights; and besides, he knows I have no right to interfere. The banns are all in order. I can’t refuse to marry them, and what right have I to send for the man or to question him? No doubt he would have some plausible story. It is not to be expected, especially if it is the sort of thing I think it is, that he should tell me.” “Dear, dear!” repeated Mrs Marston. “A clergyman should have more power; what is the good of being a clergyman if you cannot stop a marriage in your own church? I call that tyranny. Do you mean to tell me you will be compelled to marry them, whether you approve of it or not?”