The handsome stranger who accompanied the young girl made known his errand as briefly as possible, asking if he could perform the marriage ceremony which would make his companion his wife at once.
The rector smiled benignly.
“As quickly as the words can be uttered, my good sir,” he replied, as he invited them to step inside the house.
The little parlor, with its simple, meager furnishings; the tall, handsome man by her side, with almost the ghastliness of death on his face; and the kindly, old minister, book in hand, ever afterward seemed like a weird dream to little Jess. She did not even hear the name her bridegroom uttered in so low a voice, and he saw that she did not; and he promised himself that he would surprise her with the startling truth that he was John Dinsmore on their way home.
She heard the words which the minister uttered, and which her companion repeated after him: then she was dimly conscious of repeating the same words—though the name she uttered was John Moore—and then, as the hand of her bridegroom clasped her cold, fluttering fingers, she heard the old minister solemnly say, in a still more far-off hazy voice:
“I pronounce you man and wife; and those whom God hath joined together let no man put asunder.”
Even in that supreme moment the deathly pale bridegroom made no offer to kiss the little bride who clung to him as tightly as if in affright.
The minister noticed this omission of the usual custom of newly-wedded pairs and marveled at it—the bride was so young, so sweet and so fair.
The good man was rather astounded at the amount of the bank note which the bridegroom placed in his hands.
He watched them depart, as they had come, down the high road; and over and over again he asked himself the question whether or not the handsome man loved the girl whom he had just wedded.