Within a month we were wed on a certain October day in the church of St. Margaret’s at Westminster.  Once it was agreed all desired to push on this marriage, and not least Blanche herself.  Sir Robert Aleys said that he wished to be gone from London to his estates in Sussex, having had enough of the Court and its ways, desiring there to live quietly till the end; I, being so much in love, was on fire for my bride, and Blanche herself vowed that she was eager to become my wife, saying that our courtship, which began on Hastings Hill, had lasted long enough.  For the rest, there was nothing to cause delay.  I cancelled Sir Robert’s debt to me and signed a deed in favour of his daughter and her offspring, whereof I gave a copy to his lawyer and there was nought else to be done except to prepare my house for her which, with money at command, was easy.

No great business was made of this marriage, since neither his kin nor Sir Robert himself wished to noise it about that his only child, the last of his House, was taking a merchant for her husband to save her and him from wreck.  Nor did I, the merchant, wish to provoke talk amongst those of my own station, especially as it was known that I had advanced moneys to these fine folks of the Court.  So it came about that few were asked to the ceremony that was fixed for an early hour, and of these not many came, because on that day, although it was but October, a great gale with storms of rain began to blow, the greatest indeed that I had known in my life.

Thus it chanced that we were wed in an almost empty church while the fierce wind, thundering against the windows, overcame the feeble voice of the old priest, so that he looked like one acting in a show without words.  The darkness caused by the thick rain was so deep, also, that scarce could I see my bride’s lovely face or find the finger upon which I must set the ring.

At length it was done and we went down the aisle to find our horses whereon we must ride to my house in Cheapside, where there was to be a feast for my dependents and such of my few friends as cared to come, among whom were not numbered any grand folk from Westminster.  As we drew near the church door I noted among those who were present those two gaudy ladies between whom Deleroy had sat at that meal after the business of the loan was settled.  Moreover, I heard one of them say: 

“What will Deleroy do when he comes back to find his darling gone?” and the other answer with a high laugh: 

“Seek another, doubtless, or borrow more money from the merchant, and——­” Here I lost their talk in the rush of the wind through the opened door.

In the porch was old Sir Robert Aleys.

“Mother of God!” he shouted, “may the rest of the lives of you two be smoother than your nuptials.  No Cheapside feast for me, I’m for home in such fiend’s weather.  Farewell, son Hubert, and all joy to you.  Farewell, Blanche.  Learn to be obedient as a wife and keep your eyes for your husband’s face, that is my counsel to you.  Till we meet again at Christmastide in Sussex, whither I ride to-morrow, farewell to both of you.”