“You can’t see her face,” said Atkins. “I think it is Miss Wynde.”
At this moment the bride with a sweep of her hand, threw back her vail. As her bright, dark face, so like a gipsy’s and with a glow of happiness upon it, met the gaze of the spectators, Sir Harold stifled a groan.
Lord Towyn stared at the pretty brown face, with its fluctuating color, and the softly melting black eyes, and a dead pallor covered his face.
If this young girl was the chosen bride of Rufus Black, where was Neva? Why had Rufus given her up? The wildest fears for her life and safety possessed him.
The marriage went on. The four pursuers who had come to interrupt the proceedings sat in their high-backed pew as if utterly stupefied. What objection could they raise to the marriage of Rufus Black to a stranger who came to the church escorted by her friends? Why should they object to such a marriage? They heard the questions and answers as in a trance. The name of Lalla Bird sounded strangely upon their ears. And when the minister said, “I now pronounce you man and wife, and whom God has joined together let not man put asunder,” Sir Harold Wynde and the young earl looked at each other with terrified, inquiring eyes, that asked the question that filled their souls alike: Where was Neva?
After the prayer that followed the ceremony, the minister went into the vestry, followed by the newly married pair, the steward and his wife, and good Mrs. Peters.
The casual spectators of the wedding stole silently out of the church.
“Well, I’ve come up here on a fool’s errand,” muttered Ryan, in a tone of chagrin.
“Perhaps not,” said Lord Towyn. “Rufus may be able to give us some clue to his father’s whereabouts, if we approach him judiciously. I am going into the vestry to see him.”
“And I too,” said the baronet, rising.