Sarah Woodham shook her head.
“They will soon be back,” she said. “I’m going to stay to meet the new master.”
“Why does not something happen to stop this hateful match?” she muttered to herself. “My poor girl. My poor, dear girl.”
The carriage sped on through the driving rain, and the little party descended at the church gate, where a few fishermen were gathered in their yellow and black oilskins to follow them, dripping, into the little church, while it seemed to Claude that it was only the other day that her father was borne to his resting-place. And there they were, standing face to face before God’s altar, she pale, sad and composed, having to give her whole love and life to the pale trembling man who faced her, and who, though she knew it not, exhaled a strong odour of the spirits he had taken to enable him to go through the task.
But Claude saw nothing, realised nothing but the words of the clergyman, repeating every response in a low, earnest tone right on to the end, when, as the last words of the service was uttered, there was the sound of some one drawing a long, deep breath.
It was only Gellow’s way of congratulating himself on the fact that his money and much more were safe at last.
“Now!” he muttered, as he hugged himself. “Now you may have DT, or anything you like.”
The book was signed, and the few fishermen and women who had braved the storm began to go clattering out of the church as Glyddyr, making an effort to look happy and content, held his arm to his newly-made bride to lead her down the little nave.
“Father, dear, it was your wish,” said Claude softly, and, with a sigh, she raised her eyes towards the faint light which came through the west window.
Then she stopped short, gazing wildly at where Chris Lisle stood like a black silhouette against the dim lattice panes, as he had stood with folded arms right through the service.