It was indeed himself. He entered the church hurriedly—very pale—with beads of dew standing on his brow.
“Are they married? Am I too late—are they married?” cried he.
Some uncontrollable feeling made Nathanael move to his wife's side, and snatch her hand.
“Yes,” said he, meeting his brother's eye, “we are married.”
Major Harper sank into one of the vestry-chairs, muttering something, inaudible to all ears save those which seemed fatally gifted with preternatural acuteness—the young bridegroom's. Nathanael fancied—nay, was certain—that he heard his brother say, “Oh, my poor Agatha.” He looked suddenly at his bride, whose weeping had changed into silent but violent trembling. He dropped her hand, then with a determined air again took possession of it, saying sharply to his brother:
“What is the reason of all this? Is anything amiss?”
“No, nothing—have I said anything?”
“Then why startle us thus? It is not right, Frederick.”
“Hush—perhaps he is ill,” whispered Anne Valery.
Major Harper looked up, and among the many inquiring eyes, met hers. It seemed to fix him, sting him, rouse him to self-command.