In the pale November sunlight of the next morning, in the plain, dark traveling-carriage from Redmon, a little party of four persons drove rapidly along the country-roads to a quiet little out-of-the-way church, some fifteen miles out of town. They were Mr. and Mrs. Paul Wyndham, Mr. Blake, and Miss Rose Henderson; and in the quiet church a quiet ceremony was performed by special license, which made Paul Wyndham and Harriet Wade man and wife, beyond the power of earthly tribunals to dispute. The clergyman was quite young, and the parties were all strangers to him, and he had a private opinion of his own that it was a runaway match. There were no witnesses but the two, and when it was over they drove back again to Redmon, and Harriet's heart was at peace at last. She had a trial to undergo that day—a great humiliation to endure—but it was a voluntary humiliation; and with her husband—hers now—she could undergo anything. The old, fierce, unbending pride, too, that had been her sin and misfortune all her life, had been chastened and subdued, and she owed to the society she had deceived the penance self-inflicted.
Val Blake had all the talking to himself on the way home, and, to do him justice, there wasn't much silence during the drive. He was talking of Charley Marsh, who had come home a far finer fellow than he had gone away, a brave and good and rich man.
They were all to meet that evening at a quiet dinner-party at Redmon—a farewell dinner party, it was understood, given by Mr. and Mrs. Wyndham, before their departure from Speckport to parts unknown. The invited guests were Mrs. Marsh and her son, Dr. Leach, Mr. Blake, and Miss Blair, Father Lennard (the old priest), and Mr. Darcy (the lawyer). A very select few, indeed, and all but Mr. Darcy acquainted with the story of the woman who had died at Rosebush Cottage, and the other story of the true and false heiress. He, too, was to be enlightened this evening, and Harriet Wyndham was publicly to renounce and hand over to her half-sister, Winnifred Rose Henderson, the fortune to which she never had possessed a claim. That was her humiliation; but with her husband by her side, she was great enough for that or anything else.
So the wedding-day passed very quietly at Redmon, and in the pale early twilight the guests began to arrive. Among the first to arrive was Mrs. Marsh and her son; the next to appear was Val, with Laura tucked under his arm; and Laura, with a little feminine scream of delight, dropped into Mrs. Wyndham's arms, and rained upon that lady a shower of gushing tears.
"Oh, what an age it is since I have seen my darling Olly before!" Miss Blair cried, "and I have been fairly dying for this hour to arrive."
Mrs. Paul Wyndham kissed the rosy rapturous face, with that subdued and chastened tenderness that had come to her through much sorrow; and her dark eyes filled with tears, as she thought, perhaps, loving little Laura might leave Redmon that night with all this pretty girlish love gone, and nothing but contempt in its place.
Half an hour after, all the guests had arrived, and were seated around the dinner table; but the party was not a very gay one, somehow. The knowledge of what had passed was in every mind; but Mr. Darcy was yet in ignorance, and he set the dullness down to the recent death of Mr. Wyndham's mother. Once, too, there was a little awkwardness—Wyndham, speaking to Miss Rose, had addressed her as Miss Henderson, and Mr. Darcy stared.
"Henderson!" he exclaimed, "you are talking to Miss Rose, Wyndham! Are you thinking of your courting days and Miss Olive Henderson?"
But Mrs. Wyndham and her half-sister colored, and everybody looked suddenly down at their plates. Mr. Darcy stared the more; but Paul Wyndham, looking very grave, came to the rescue.
"Miss Rose is Miss Rose Henderson! Eat your dinner, Mr. Darcy; we will tell you all about it after."