The firelight flared up again, and he saw her with the lace about her throat. "Let him wait!" he exclaimed passionately; "he had his fair chance and I have mine. I am sorry, but one of us had to win. You can't help that, you poor little dear--that is fate."
He told himself it was indeed fate: he swore to himself that he would be the best husband ever woman had.
But for all that the ceremony damped even his joy. To begin with, Martha wept copiously in a corner, as she had wept ever since Ted had gone in to the kitchen and taken her away unceremoniously from her pastry-making as a witness. At first she had sunk into a chair, and steadfastly refused to budge (on the ground that she couldn't "'ave sech things going on in the 'ouse,") but after a time the importance of being in possession of a dead secret, and her perception that if his lordship was not going to come forward--and he seemed, indeed, inclined to play the back step--this was decidedly the next best thing for her darling, induced her to yield.
"And if you loves 'im and 'e loves you, there ain't no fear, same as there ain't no fear but what good barm and good flour'll make a good batch o' bread--no fear at all my deary dear," she had sobbed consolingly to Aura, who stood quite composed, but very white. Ted, strong and kindly, clasped her hand, and what soul was left over and above his bargain was in his eyes.
The rector, in biretta and cope, read the service unabridged, while Sylvanus Smith, propped comfortably in his arm-chair, averted his face from the sacerdotal symbols, even while he added an unctious "Amen" of his own to "let no man put asunder."
He even essayed a burst of hilarity as he kissed Mrs. Cruttenden, but Ted scarcely availed himself of his privileges. He only stood beside Aura, holding her hand, divided in his heart of hearts whether he should go or whether he should stay.
But in the end prudence triumphed and a sense of duty; for the last month of constant interruptions had not been favourable to business, and if Aura--if his wife--were ever to appear in that pink satin and diamonds, it behooved him to bestir himself.
So Adam Bate, coming in after milking the cows at eight o'clock, found the house silent, curiously silent, with Martha seated on a chair, her feet on the fender, her eyes on the fire.
He cast a glance at the table. It was bare, so after a while he coughed.
"Beant there no supper, Martha, woman?" he asked apologetically.