At last she came, radiant sunshine falling down on her as she emerged from the doors on to the terrace, her fingers laid upon her father’s arm, towering over him in height, and looking, in her plain trained gown of white satin, taller and more commanding than she had ever yet appeared. Sir Philip’s face was set like a mask. It was impossible to say what were his feelings, but his cold heart in reality was aflame with astonishment, indignation, and rage.
Stella had kept him waiting in the hall, watch in hand; had then sauntered leisurely down the broad oak staircase in her wedding-gown, attended at a distance by the two frightened satellites, Ellen and Dakin, and by old Margaret, whose features wore a scared and troubled look. Miss Cranstoun had offered no apologies to her father for keeping him waiting, but had coolly crossed to where he was standing, and looked at him with shining eyes, in which some strange laughter seemed hidden, from behind her veil.
“What are you waiting for?” he had asked in his harshest tones.
“Your arm, of course.”
There was more than defiance, there was an insolence in her tone and manner utterly new to him. Nevertheless, there was no time to be lost in reprimands or punishments now. He dreaded beyond all things lest she might make a scene in church before Lady Northborough and the Duke. Her fear of him and constraint in his presence seemed to have vanished. Some subtle change had come over her state of mind toward him. She actually shook his arm impatiently as he stood a moment, pale with anger, regarding her.
“Get on to the church,” she muttered, roughly. “Don’t waste time.”
The grasp of her fingers tightened on his arm. This time it was actually she who was hurting him, as she clutched his skin through his coat. He glanced at her quickly, and then at the faces of the women behind her. The idea which possessed their brains entered his also, and he asked himself whether grief and harsh treatment could have temporarily deprived his daughter of her reason.
As Sir Philip led the bride along the terrace toward the church door, a murmur of admiration ran through the crowd. Her face had lost its pallor; through the tulle veil a bright color showed in her cheeks, and contrasted with the intense purple-blue of her restless, gleaming eyes. Two persons her gaze sought in the crowd about the doors. First they lighted upon old Sarah Carewe, and that look in her eyes which was almost a smile deepened and broadened. Next, her gaze sought out Stephen Lee, and seemed to read in one piercing glance, as she passed close to him, the hopeless passion for her which consumed him. As though by accident, she dropped her lace handkerchief at the church door. One or two persons among the crowd pressed forward to pick it up, and among them Stephen, who, as he transferred it to the bride’s hand, felt, to his utter astonishment, that she had slipped a piece of paper into his fingers.
Speechless with amazement, he watched her enter the church; the doors were clanged to behind her, and every eye was fixed upon her as she walked proudly up the aisle, leaning on her father’s arm. Lady Northborough could hardly refrain from a little cry of admiration. Her son’s description had prepared her for something ethereal, thin and pale to a fault; but this queenly young creature, with the proud little dark head, the perfect figure, and startlingly brilliant coloring, was no subject for pity, but rather for wondering admiration.
“Gad! Where did the girl get her good looks from?” muttered the old Duke, who had occasionally an awkward habit of thinking aloud.