Slowly, reluctantly, she drew her arm from her father’s and followed him. Those near delicately drew back and moved away, leaving the two alone. She opened the envelope and looked at the paper it had inclosed.
It was a formal acknowledgment of fifty thousand pounds having been paid into the Wainford Bank in her name.
For a second, a second only, the deep pallor of her face changed, and her lips quivered, and with a look—not at him, but at her father—she thrust the paper in the bosom of her dress.
“Are you satisfied?” he whispered, bending over her as if to look at the bouquet.
Her lips opened, but no sound came; and, with the same vacant expression in the lovely eyes, she got away from him to the protection of her father’s arm again.
“Are we all—er—ready?” asked the smooth voice of the bishop.
“Quite ready,” said Bartley Bradstone, his voice sounding harsh and dry.
The bishop inclined his head, and the procession started for the altar.
White to the lips, with the look in her eyes of one from whom all that life holds of good or bad had passed forever, Olivia stood and uttered her marriage vows.
Only once throughout the ceremony did she show any sign of feeling or of life itself, and that was at the moment when Bartley Bradstone’s hand took hers. Then, unseen by any one but himself, a shudder ran through her, causing the hand he held to shake as if with palsy. It was only for a moment; the next she was the statue again, and she walked with firm, unfaltering steps down the church to the vestry.