But this was no time for brooding over the subject.  He affixed his own signature, which was the last one on the list, and then joined the bridal party, who were now leaving the church.

At the door a signal change took place in the order of the procession.

Lord Vincent, with a courtesy as earnest and a smile as beaming as gallantry and the occasion required, handed his bride into his own carriage.

Judge Merlin, Ishmael, and Beatrice rode together.

And others returned in the order in which they had come.

Ishmael was coming out of that strange, benumbed state that had deadened for a while all his sense of suffering—­coming back to a consciousness of utter bereavement and insupportable anguish—­anguish written in such awful characters upon his pallid and writhen brow that Beatrice and her uncle exchanged glances of wonder and alarm.

But Ishmael, in his fixed agony, did not perceive the looks of anxiety they turned towards him—­did not even perceive the passage of time or space, until they arrived at home again, and the wedding guests once more began to alight from the carriages.

The party temporarily separated in the hall, the ladies dispersing each to her own chamber to make some trifling change in her toilet before appearing in the drawing room.

“Ishmael, come here, my lad,” said the judge, as soon as they were left alone.

Ishmael mechanically followed him to the little breakfast parlor of the family, where on the sideboard sat decanters of brandy and wine, and pitchers of water, and glasses of all shapes and sizes.

He poured out two glasses of brandy—­one for himself and one for Ishmael.

“Let us drink the health of the newly-married couple,” he said, pushing one glass towards Ishmael, and raising the other to his own lips.

But Ishmael hesitated, and poured out a tumbler of pure water, saying, in a faint voice: 

“I will drink her health in this.”

“Nonsense! put it down.  You are chilled enough without drinking that to throw you into an ague.  Drink something, warm and strong, boy! drink something warm and strong.  I tell you, I, for one, cannot get through this day without some such support as this,” said the judge authoritatively, as he took from the young man’s nerveless hand the harmless glass of water, and put into it the perilous glass of brandy.

For ah! good men do wicked things sometimes, and wise men foolish ones.

Still Ishmael hesitated; for even in the midst of his great trouble he heard the “still, small voice” of some good angel—­it might have been his mother’s spirit—­whispering him to dash from his lips the Circean draught, that would indeed allay his sense of suffering for a few minutes, but might endanger his character through all his life and his soul through all eternity.  The voice that whispered this, as I said, was a “still, small voice” speaking softly within him.  But the voice of the judge was bluff and hearty, and he stood there, a visible presence, enforcing his advice with strength of action.