"Her mother always was a fool," said Uncle Edward irascibly. Here at least was a safe object upon which to vent his indignation! "The biggest fool that ever lived! What on earth men found to like in her I never could understand. Oh yes, I'll give the girl away. If you're so set on getting married at once, I'd better stop and see that it's done properly. Lucy never did anything properly in her life."
"Thank you," said Jake. "You are most kind-and considerate."
"Mark you, that doesn't mean that I approve," warned the old man. "It's a hare-brained scheme altogether, but I suppose I owe it to my family to see that it's done on the square."
Jake had suddenly become extremely suave. "That is very benevolent of you, sir," he said.
"I regard it as my duty," said Uncle Edward gruffly.
He had never been called benevolent before, and the term was not altogether to his liking. It seemed safer to accept it, however, without question. There was an unknown element about this young man that was in some fashion formidable. An odd respect mingled with his first contempt. The fellow might be a bounder, – he was not absolutely decided upon that head-but, as he himself had modestly stated, he had some points. By marrying him, his young niece was about to commit a very rash act, but it was possible-just possible-that it might not lead to utter disaster. It was not a marriage of which he could approve, but the man seemed solid, and certainly he himself had no urgent desire to take in the girl and her cripple brother. Altogether, though he did not like to think that his advice had been ignored, and though at the back of his mind there lurked a vague uneasiness not unmixed with self-reproach, it seemed that matters might have been considerably worse.
"Don't you tyrannize over her now!" he said to Jake at parting. "You've got a fighting face, young fellow-my-lad. But you bear in mind, she's a woman, and-unless I am much mistaken-she is not the sort to stand it."
"I don't fight with women, sir," said Jake somewhat curtly. "I've other things to do."
Uncle Edward smiled a dry smile. "And you've a few things to learn-yet," he remarked enigmatically.
CHAPTER XVII
THE WEDDING MORNING
It was very dark and draughty in the church. Maud was shivering from head to foot. Her heart felt as if it were encased in ice. Now and then it beat a little, feebly, as if trying to break free, but the awful cold was too much for it. She did not know how to keep her teeth from chattering. Her hands lay in her lap, numbed and nerveless. She wondered if she would ever manage to walk as far as the dimly lit altar where Jake would be awaiting her.
It was evidently draughty there also. The candles flickered fitfully. Uncle Edward was eyeing the candles with obvious disapproval. She hoped he would manage to suppress it at close quarters. She was sure she would have to laugh if he didn't, and laughter, she felt, would be fatal.
How different this from the wedding-day which once she had dared to picture for herself! It was like a mocking fantasy, a dreadful travesty of that which might have been. Like an arc of prismatic colours it hung before her-the vision of that other wedding-the wedding of her dreams; the sunshine and the laughter and the flowers! The shining altar, the waiting bridegroom, his flashing smile of welcome! She saw it all-she saw it all!
How dear he had been to her! How, unutterably dear! And she remembered how in those far-off days he had always called her his Queen Rose.
Her heart gave a swift throb that was anguish. She stood up with a quick, involuntary movement. She had not dreamed that this long-past trouble possessed the power to hurt her so. She cast a desperate glance around her. This waiting in the cold and the dark had become intolerable. A wild impulse to flee-to flee-was upon her. The door was quite near. She turned towards it.
But in that moment Uncle Edward cleared his throat and rose.
"Here comes your precious bridegroom!" he said. "I suppose they're ready at last. We had better get moving."
And then it was that Maud's knees abruptly refused to support her, and she sank down again white and powerless on the chair by the door.
Jake's sturdy figure was coming down the aisle. She watched it with eyes that were wide and fixed.
He came straight to her, bent over her. "I'm real sorry you've been kept waiting," he said, in his womanly drawl. "It's the parson's doing. He forgot all about us. And there was no fire either. I had to force the door of the stoke shed to light it."
He bent a little lower over her, and suddenly she felt his hand against the icy cold of her cheek. She started back from it.
"Jake, I-can't come yet. I'm so cold." Stiffly her pale lips whispered the words; her whole body seemed bound in a very rigour of cold. And through it all she still thought she could hear phantom echoes of that other wedding that once had seemed so near.
"Where is your mother?" said Jake.
There was a hint of sternness in the question. Uncle Edward answered it.
"I'm expecting them every minute. I drove up first to fetch Maud. Lucy is a hopeless fool. She's never in time for anything."
Even as he spoke, there came the rush of wheels on the hard road outside and the hoot of a motor horn.
The sound as it reached Maud, seemed to galvanize her into sudden energy. She rose, white to the lips but resolute. "I am ready," she said.
Jake gave her a straight, hard look, and turned without another word. He went back up the aisle, square, purposeful, steady, and took up his stand by the waiting clergyman.
Maud's hand pressed her uncle's arm with urgency. "Let us go! Let us go!" she said. "I can see my mother-afterwards."
The old man also gave her a shrewd glance, but he also said no word. Only as he stumped up the aisle beside her, he took the girlish hand upon his arm and held it hard in his gnarled fingers.
They had reached the chancel steps where the clergyman awaited them ere the opening of the door and the sound of fluttering feet announced the arrival of Maud's mother. A heavier tread and a man's loud whisper and barely muffled laugh testified to the presence of Giles Sheppard also.
Uncle Edward cleared his throat ferociously, releasing Maud's hand with a mighty squeeze as Jake came to her side. Then he turned with deliberation and scowled upon the advancing couple.
Maud did not turn. Her face was white and still as the face of a marble statue. Her eyes stared blankly at the flickering candles on the altar. Had Jake lighted those candles, she wondered, as well as the fire in the stoke shed?
She heard her mother's step behind her, but still she did not move; and after the briefest pause the clergyman began to read the service.
It was all horribly unreal. The only thing of which she was vividly and poignantly conscious was the cold. She heard Jake's voice beside her, very calm and steady, and when her turn came she spoke with equal steadiness, for somehow she seemed to be imbued with his strength. But she was too frozen, too ice-bound, to feel any meaning in the words she uttered. She spoke them like an automaton, through lips that would scarcely move.
Jake's hand, warm and purposeful, holding her own, sent a faint, faint glow through her; but it did not reach her heart. She thought it had ceased to beat long ago, and she wondered how soon he would realize that he was wedded to a dead woman, what he would say when he knew. For Jake was so essentially full-blooded, so burningly alive. He was the most virile person she had ever met. Standing there by his side, she could feel the warmth of him. She thought it was that alone that kept her from turning into a solid block of ice.
When she knelt, his hand came under her elbow and supported her; when she rose, it lifted her. When the dreadful nightmare service was over at last, his arm was round her, and by its aid alone she stumbled stiffly to the vestry.
The young curate who had married them looked at her with nervous solicitude. He had been recently married himself, and he had a painfully vivid memory of the agonies thereof.
He set a chair for her, and Jake put her down into it. Then he stood up and took command of the situation.
"Get