“I suppose I may go now,” said he; and as there was no answer, he groped his way to the door, flung it open, and took his departure.
During all this service Edith had been in a condition verging upon half unconsciousness. The low murmur of voices, the hurried words of the clergyman, the whispers of the bridegroom, were all confused together in an unintelligible whole, and even her own answers had scarce made any impression upon her. Her head seemed to spin, her brain to whirl, and all her frame to sink away. At length the grating of the opening door, the clergyman's departing footsteps, and the slight increase of light roused her.
She was married!
Where was her husband?
This thought came to her with a new horror. Deep silence had followed the clergyman's departure. She in her weakness was not noticed. Dudleigh, the loving, the devoted, had no love or devotion for her now. Where was he? The silence was terrible.
But at last that silence was broken—fearfully.
“Come,” said a voice which thrilled the inmost soul of Edith with horror unspeakable: “I'm tired of humbugging. I'm going home. Come along, Mrs. Dudleigh.”
The horror that passed through Edith at the sound of this voice for a moment seemed to paralyze her. She turned to where the voice sounded. It was the man beside her who spoke—the bridegroom! He was not Dudleigh—not Little Dudleigh! He was tall and large. It was the witness. What frightful mockery was this? But the confusion of thought that arose was rudely interrupted. A strong hand was laid upon hers, and again that voice spoke:
“Come along, Mrs. Dudleigh!”
“What is—this?” gasped Edith.