Once more the train stopped. This time a hand whiter than that of the guard, was reached through the door, and a face that made her heart leap with a panic of joy and fear, looked into hers. She scarcely touched this proffered hand, but flitted out to the platform, like a bird let loose in a strange place. This was a way-side station, and it happened that no person except those two left the train at this particular point. Still they parted like chance pa.s.sengers, and there was no one to observe the few rapid words that pa.s.sed between them in the small reception-room.

When the train was out of sight, and all the bustle attendant on its arrival had sunk into silence, these two young persons entered a carriage that stood waiting, and drove swiftly toward a small town, clouded with the smoke of factories, that lay in the distance. Through the streets of this town, and into another, still more remote, they drove, and at last drew up in a small village, to which the spire of a single church gave something of picturesque dignity.

To the door of this church the carriage went, after avoiding the inhabitable portion of the village by taking a cross-road, which led through a neighboring moor. Into the low-browed entrance Walton Hurst led the girl. The church was dim, and so damp that it struck a chill through the young creature as she approached the altar, where a man, in sacred vestments, stood with an open book in his hand, prepared for a solemn ceremony.

Two or three persons sauntered up to the church-door, attracted by the unusual presence of a carriage in that remote place, and some, more curious than the rest, came inside, and drew, open-mouthed, toward the altar, while the marriage ceremony was being performed.

When the bride turned from the altar, shivering and pale with intense excitement, two or three of these persons secured a full view of her face, and never forgot it afterward; for anything more darkly, richly beautiful than her features had never met their eyes.

Ruth was indeed lovely in this supreme moment of her life. The pallor of concentrated emotion gave depth and almost startling brilliancy to those great eyes, bright as stars, and soft as velvet, which were for one moment turned upon them. All else might have been forgotten in after years; but that one glance was burnt like enamel on more than one memory when Walton Hurst's marriage was made known to the world.

The vestry was dark and damp when they entered it, followed by a grim old clerk, and at a more respectful distance after them came three or four of the villagers, who only saw the shadowy picture of a man and woman bending over a huge book--the one writing his name with a bold dash of the hand, the other trembling so violently that for a moment she was compelled to lay the pen down, while she looked into her husband's face with a pathetic plea for patience with her weakness.

But the names were written at last, and the young couple left the church in haste, as they had entered it--the bride with a bit of paper held tightly in her hand, the bridegroom looking happy and elated, as if he had conquered some enemy.

As they drove away, two or three of the villagers, who had been drawn into the church, turned back from the porch, and stole into the vestry where the clerk stood by his open register, examining a piece of gold that had been thrust into his hand, with a look of greedy unbelief.

The clerk was saying,

"See, neighbor Knox, it is gold--pure gold. Did any one ever see the like? There is the face of Her Majesty, plain as the sun in yon sky.

Oh, if a few more such rare windfalls would but come this way, my place would be worth having."

The sight of this gold only whetted the villagers' curiosity to fresh vigor. They became eager to know what great man it was who had come among them, with such shadow-like stillness, leaving only golden traces of his presence in the church; for the clerk hinted, with glee, that the pastor had been rewarded fourfold for his share in the ceremony. Then one after another of these persons looked at the register. It chanced that the record was made on the top of a blank page; thus the two names were rendered more than usually conspicuous.

This was the record:

WALTON HURST--RUTH JESSUP.

CHAPTER XIV.

ON THE WAY HOME.

"My darling--my wife! Look up and tell me that your joy is equal to mine," said Hurst, when he and his bride were seated in the carriage.

"No! that is impossible; but say that you are happy, my Ruth!"

"Happy!" said the girl. "Oh, Walton, it is cruel that I can be so; but I am--I am!"

The young man took her hands in his, and kissed them with pa.s.sionate warmth.

"You will never repent, Ruth?"

"Repent that I am your wife! That you--" Here the girl's great earnest eyes fell and were shaded at once by lashes black as themselves.

"Well, darling, what more?"

"That you are my husband."

The word seemed to flood her heart with sunshine, and her face with burning blushes. Its very sound was full of exquisite shame. Hurst drew that face to his bosom and kissed it with tender reverence.

"Now, my beloved, we are all the world to each other."

"All, all," she murmured; "but, oh, what will my father do?"

"He can do nothing, Ruth. But that his word was so rashly given, and his love for the old family so near a religion, that his consent could never have been attained, even though Sir Noel had himself commanded it--there should have been no secrecy in this."

"Oh, if that had been possible! But Sir Noel never would have seen his heir stoop as he has done for a wife."

"Sir Noel is not like other men of his cla.s.s, my Ruth. His pride is too n.o.ble for small prejudices. Besides, I think he has suspected from the first how dear you are to me; for in a conversation the other day he seemed to hint at a vague approval. But for this I should not have acted without his positive consent."

"But my father never would have given _his_ consent, even if Sir Noel himself had commanded it," said Ruth. "He would rather die than drag down the dignity of the Hursts."

"It was this stiff-necked integrity that forced me to a step that will be more likely to anger Sir Noel than the marriage itself would have done. One glimpse of the truth would have aroused your father to drive me from his house, dearly as he has always loved me. Then would have come this question of young Storms--don't tremble so--are you not my wife?"

"I--I should have been compelled to marry him. He loves me. My father would die for me any minute; but were I fifty times as dear he would sacrifice me to the dignity of the Hursts--to a promise once given,"

said Ruth, lifting her face from the bosom where it had rested.

"But you?"

"I could not have resisted. My father is so loving--so kind. He would have told me of your grandeur, your long descent, of the n.o.ble--nay, royal ladies--that had been mated with the Hursts. He would have crushed me under the weight of my own miserable presumption. He would have told me, in plain speech, what my heart reproaches me with every minute now most of all, when I am daring to be so happy."

"But you are happy?"

"Oh, Walton, it seems like wickedness, but I am; so weak, however, so fearful of what must come. Oh, give me a little time! Permit me to dream a while until some chance or great necessity makes concealment impossible. I have no courage left."

"But this Storms?"

"I have got a little respite from my father; he will not break his word, though I pleaded with him almost upon my knees--but I am not to be hurried. They are to give me time, and now, that I know in my heart that it can never, never be, the terror of him is gone. So let me have just one little season of rest before you break this to my poor father, and make me afraid to look Sir Noel in the face."

Perhaps this sweet pleading found some answer in the young man's wishes, for in speaking of Sir Noel's conversation in the library, he had discovered how little there was in it to warrant the step he had taken. At the best there was much in his rash precipitancy to displease the proud old baronet, though he should be found willing to forgive the mesalliance he had made.

If these thoughts had great influence with Hurst, the terror and troubled eloquence of his bride completed his conviction. Drawing Ruth gently toward him, he kissed her upon the forehead; for this conversation, coming into the midst of their happiness, had subdued them both.

"Be it as you wish, sweet wife. With perfect love and trust in each other, we need be in no haste to let any one share our secret."

"Oh, how kind you are!" exclaimed the girl, brightening into fresh happiness. "This will give me time to study, to add something to the education that will be precious to me now; perhaps I can make myself less unworthy of your father's forgiveness."

"Unworthy?" answered Hurst, wounded, yet half charmed by her sweet humility. "Sir Noel has always looked upon you as a pretty favorite, whom it was a pleasure to protect; and my cousin, the Lady Rose--"

"Ah, how ungrateful, how forward she will think me! My heart grows heavy when her name is mentioned."

"She has always been your friend, Ruth."

"I know--I know; and in return I have had the presumption to think of making myself her equal."

"There can be no presumption in the wife of a Hurst accepting all that he has to give; but let us talk of something else. If our happiness is to be a secret, we must not mar its first dawning with apprehensions and regrets. Some perplexities will arise, for our position will be an embarra.s.sing one; but there is no reason why we should antic.i.p.ate them. It will be difficult enough to guard our secret so well that no one shall guess it."