She crushed the letter in her hand and turned impetuously to the girl.
"Where is the person who brought this? I must see her at once. Bring her here; and you, young ladies, let me speak two words to her in private."
The young ladies trooped out, and the bride was left alone, paler than her snowy robes.
A moment, and Lucy was back with the bearer of the letter, a respectable-looking young person enough.
Lucy left her mistress and the girl standing together. Five minutes after the bell rang sharply. Lucy hastened back; on the threshold the bride met and stopped her, with a white, startled face.
"Tell them to postpone the ceremony for an hour, Lucy. Come back here then. For the next hour I wish to be left alone. Tell Mr. Walraven."
She shut the door in the amazed attendant's face. Lucy heard the key turn. A second she stood petrified, then she hastened off to deliver her message.
Mr. Walraven stood aghast. Lucy was plied with questions. Who was the girl? What was she like? What had she said? Where had she come from?
Sir Roger was wildly alarmed at first, but Mr. Walraven reassured him. The company waited, on the qui vive, for they knew not what. Eleven o'clock came. Lucy went up to the bride's room; the door was still fast; she knocked—there was no reply; she called—there was no answer. Then Lucy screamed, and in a twinkling a crowd was around the door. They shook it, they rapped, they called, all in vain. Dead silence reigned.
"Force the door!" exclaimed Carl Walraven, hoarsely.