Like one in a dream, she took the pen, and signed her name, obediently, where they directed. And yet,—could this really be herself,—this silent, submissive creature?
And now, they were out upon the moon-lit road again, seated in the car, while Peterday, his hat in his hand, was speaking to her. And yet,—was it to her?
"Mrs. Belloo, mam," he was saying, "on this here monumentous occasion—"
"Monumentous is the only word for it, Peterday!" nodded the Sergeant.
"On this here monumentous occasion, Mrs. Belloo," the sailor proceeded, "my shipmate, Dick, and me, mam,—respectfully beg the favour of saluting the bride;—Mrs. Belloo, by your leave—here's health, and happiness, mam!" And, hereupon, the old sailor kissed her, right heartily. Which done, he made way for the Sergeant who, after a moment's hesitation, followed suit.
"A fair wind, and prosperous!" cried Peterday, flourishing his hat.
"And God—bless you—both!" said the Sergeant as the car shot away.
So, it was done!—the irrevocable step was taken! Her life and future had passed for ever into the keeping of him who sat so silent beside her, who neither spoke, nor looked at her, but frowned ever at the road before him.
On sped the car, faster, and faster,—yet not so fast as the beating of her heart wherein there was yet something of fear, and shame,—but greatest of all was that other emotion, and the name of it was—Joy.
Now, presently, the car slowed down, and he spoke to her, though without turning his head. And yet, something in his voice thrilled through her strangely.