Scammell found that someone, Goodwife presumably, had prepared the dining room for the wedding ceremony. The large table had been pushed aside, leaving the dusty floor clear, while a small table had been put under the window that looked toward the river. It had been covered with a white linen cloth and the whole room made bright with candles.

Scammell was unhappy. He was ashamed of himself, not just for being beaten by the girl, but because she had spoken the truth to him. He had gone to Werlatton first because of the money the marriage would bring him, expecting his bride to be as lumpish and unattractive as Matthew Slythe himself, and then he had seen Dorcas. To his greed was added lust. He knew she did not want the marriage, and he suspected that his wedded life would not be one of unalloyed bliss, yet he could in no way shake off his lust for her. He dreamed at night of the gratification that coupling with her would bring, and he was ashamed of his thoughts.

He had prayed about it. He had asked God to let him see his coming marriage as a partnership of Christian souls, procreating children who would be the next generation of Saints, yet that holy ideal was continually smirched in his head by his desire for her body in his hands.

He took his Bible from his coat pocket and turned to the seventh chapter of I Corinthians. “It is good for a man not to touch a woman,” he read, and he had read the chapter so often in the days since he had met Campion that his eyes scarcely needed to pass over the words. “But if they cannot contain, let them marry; for it is better to marry than to burn.” He could not contain himself, he could not! He moaned slightly, the sudden lust taking away the pain in his foot, and he knew St. Paul was right. He should marry so he did not burn in the flames of hell, for his lust was already burning through him and he was ashamed of it.

It was better, he knew, that he should marry a woman who was as strong in the Lord as himself, yet the chapter in Corinthians offered him comfort for that predicament. “…the unbelieving wife is sanctified by the husband.” That was it, of course! That was the verse that justified this marriage, whatever Campion might think. By marrying her he was sanctifying her, he was saving her soul which he knew needed to be saved, and what greater love could he show her than that? This marriage, though she did not know it, was an act of grace, a work of the spirit, and whatever his reservations about their future or about her attitude to the wedding, he could console himself by knowing that he was saving her soul. One day, he thought, she will be grateful.

The door opened and Grimmett unceremoniously pushed a small, untidy man into the room. “The Reverend Sobriety Bollsbie, sir. That’s Mr. Scammell, Sobriety.”