"Oh!" Daffodil exclaimed, "if great-grandfather could see me!"
Jeffrey Andsdell took her in his arms and kissed her. This was, indeed, a true marriage, and could there ever be a sweeter bride?
She was smiling and happy, for every one was pleased, so why should she not be! She even forgot the young man pacing about the Fort wishing—ah, what could he wish except that he was in Andsdell's place? For surely he was not mean enough to grudge her any happiness.
She walked up the church aisle on her lover's arm and next came her parents. Once Andsdell's lips compressed themselves, and a strange pallor and shudder came over him.
Her father gave her away. The clergyman pronounced them man and wife. Then friends thronged around. They were privileged to kiss the bride in those days.
"My wife," was what Jeffrey Andsdell said in a breathless, quivering tone.
They could not rush out in modern fashion. She cast her smiles on every side, she was so happy and light-hearted.
They reached the porch just as a coach drove up at furious speed. A woman sprang out, a tall, imperious-looking person, dressed in grand style. Her cheeks were painted, her black eyes snapped defiance. One and another fell back and stared as she cried in an imperious tone, looking fiercely at the bride, "Am I too late? Have you married him? But you cannot be his wife. I am his lawful, legal wife, and the mother of his son, who is the future heir of Hurst Abbey. I have come from England to claim him. His father, the Earl of Wrexham, sends for him, to have him restored to his ancestral home."
She had uttered this almost in a breath. Daffodil, with the utmost incredulity, turned to her husband and smiled, but the lines almost froze in her face. For his was deadly white and his eyes were fixed on the woman with absolute terror.
"It is God's own truth," she continued. "I have your father's letter, and you will hardly disown his signature. Your son is at Hurst Abbey——"