The wedding morning broke grey and mild, presaging a typical Irish day. After a night of broken and restless sleep, Clodagh woke at six; and slipped out of bed without disturbing Nance.
For the first moment or two she sat on the side of her bed, her hands locked behind her head, her bare feet resting upon the uncarpeted floor. Then suddenly the sight of the long cardboard box that had arrived from Dublin the day before, containing the new grey dress in which she was to be married, roused her to the significance of the hour. With a swift movement she rose, and crossed the room to the window.
The view across the bay was neutral and calm. Over the sea to the east a pale and silvery sun was emerging from a film of mist; while on the water itself a white, almost spiritual radiance lay like a mystic veil. Clodagh took one long, comprehensive glance at the familiar scene; then, as if afraid to trust herself too far, she turned away quickly and began to dress with noiseless haste.
Twenty minutes later, she crept downstairs arrayed in her old black riding-habit.
Where she rode on that morning of her marriage; what strange and speculative thoughts burned in her brain; and what secrets—regretful or anticipatory—she whispered into Polly's sensitive ears, no one ever knew! At half-past eight she re-entered the stable-yard, slipped from the saddle unaided, and threw the mare's bridle to Burke.
For a full minute she stood with her gloved hand upon the neck of the animal that had carried her so often and so well; then, with a sudden, almost furtive movement, she bent forward and pressed her face against the cropped mane.
"Take care of her, Tim!" she said unsteadily—"take care of her! I'll come back some day, you know."
And without looking at the old man, she turned and walked out of the yard.
She met no one on her way to the house; but as she passed across the hall, she was suddenly arrested by the sight of Milbanke descending the stairs, already arrayed in a conventional frock-coat.
Unconsciously she paused. From the first she had vaguely understood that he would discard his usual serge suit on the day of the wedding; but the actual sight of these unfamiliar clothes came as a shock, bringing home to her the imminence of the great event as nothing else could possibly have done. He looked unusually old, thin, and precise in the stiff, well-cut garments—a circumstance that was unkindly enhanced by the fact that he was palpably and uncontrollably nervous.