But the hand with which she had suddenly clutched Lesley's arm trembled, and her lips were very white.
For a minute, for five, for ten minutes, the bridal party waited, but Oliver did not come. A messenger came back to say that he had not been at the club since the previous day. And then Maurice's hot temper blazed up. He left his sister and spoke to his old friend, Miss Brooke.
"Do not let Ethel make herself a laughing-stock," he said. "The man insults us by being late, and shall account to me for it, but she must be got out of this somehow. Can't you take her away?"
"Let her go to the vestry," said Miss Brooke. "You had better not take her away just yet—look at the crowd outside. I will get Lesley to persuade her."
Ethel made no opposition. She went quietly into the vestry and sat down on a seat that was offered to her, waiting in silence, asking no questions. Then there was a short period of whispered consultation, of terrible suspense. She herself did not know whether the time was short or long. She could not bear even Lesley's arm about her, or the support of Maurice's brotherly hand. Harry Duchesne's dark face in the background seemed in some inexplicable sort of way the worst of all. For she knew that he loved and admired her, and she was shamed by a recreant lover before his very eyes.
After a time Maurice was called out. A policeman in plain clothes wanted to speak to him. They had five minutes' conversation together, and then the young doctor returned to the room where Ethel was still sitting. His face was as white as that of his sister now, and she was the first to remark the change.
"You have heard something," she said, springing to her feet and fixing her great dark eyes upon his face.
"Yes, Ethel, my poor darling, yes. Come home with me."
"Not till you tell me the truth."
"Not here, my darling—wait till we get home. Come at once."