The old man turned and strode back, while, hardly knowing what he did, Guest followed him between the two rows of curious faces to where Myra stood, perfectly firm and self-contained, while Edie was trembling visibly, and clinging to Miss Jerrold’s arm.
As Sir Mark reached his daughter there was a loud whispering in the church, which was suppressed by several hushes! as one of the clergymen approached the wedding party, all present being eager to catch his words as the contretemps was now grasped.
“Will you step into the vestry for a few minutes? Some trifling mishap, perhaps—to the carriage or one of the horses. Perhaps an error about the time.”
“No, no,” said the admiral sternly. “We will wait here, sir. No; Myra, take my arm; you shall not submit to this.”
She was deadly pale, but she made no movement to obey.
“Not yet,” she said in a low voice. “We must wait.”
“It is impossible, I tell you!” cried the admiral loudly, for his rage and mortification would have their way. “My dear girl! Hold up your head; the shame is not yours. Guest, take my sister and niece to the other carriage.” Then, snatching Myra’s hand, he led her back to the door, his grey beard and moustache seeming to bristle as his eyes flashed rage and defiance from side to side, till they reached the portico, where a man stepped forward.
“The bells, sir?” he whispered deferentially; “the ringers are all here?”
That was the last straw—a brazen one.
With an angry snort the admiral caught the man by the shoulder and swung him out of the way, signalling directly after for his carriage, which, as the coachman and footman had not expected to be wanted for some time yet, stood right away, with the servants chatting by the horses’ heads.