CHAPTER VII.
THE WEDDING NIGHT.
Adrian Rowton kept his word to the letter. His iron will seemed to bend all things to his wishes. Nancy Follett forgot her father’s dying injunctions. Long John in his lair in London remained passive. Samson did not dare to utter a word. Rowton went backwards and forwards day by day from London to Andover. The special licence was procured—the rector was asked to come to church to perform his duty; and on a certain dull morning early in December, when the snow lay on the ground and the world was steeped in a winter’s fog, Nancy Follett stood by Adrian Rowton’s side and was made, with the full blessing of the Church, his lawful wedded wife.
The marriage was so unusual, so sudden and unexpected, that early as the hour was, the little church was filled. The men and women of the neighbourhood, who had noticed the girl in church with the interest people will always give to a mysterious, little known person, came to see her wedded. She made a very beautiful bride. Her white dress, perfectly simple and unbridal in its material, but enhanced the extreme fairness of her face; excitement had lent colour to her cheeks and made her dark grey eyes look almost black. Adrian Rowton’s height and magnificent physique were commented on by everyone. As he walked down the church with Nancy’s hand resting on his arm, he nodded to his friends, but Nancy kept her eyes lowered; she did not know anyone, and did not care to receive the smiles of strangers. The bridal pair went back to the Grange, where Nancy hastily changed her white dress for a somewhat shabby-looking travelling costume—it was the best she could make up at short notice—and in a carriage and pair the couple started for the railway station en route for Paris.
They arrived at their destination late that night and went straight to the Grand Hotel, where Rowton had telegraphed for rooms. They found a bedroom, dressing-room and a large salon at their service. Nancy felt intensely happy, but also queerly restless and excited. She walked about her salon and looked out of the window into the courtyard below. Large parties of smartly-dressed people were sitting there, a fountain playing in the middle; the place looked gay, very gay, and a splendid string band was playing martial music. Winter as it was, the night was clear and full of stars, the atmosphere was destitute of the faint suspicion of fog which almost always hangs over England in winter. Nancy opened the window and looked out; Rowton went and stood by her side.
“What do you think of Paris the gay?” he said.
Something in his tone made her start. She drew in her head, turned round and faced him.
“Why did you bring me to Paris for my honeymoon?” she asked suddenly.
“What do you mean, Nance?” he answered.
“What I say,” she replied. “Why did you bring me here? I had forgotten.”
She covered her face with her trembling hands; she shook from head to foot.