“I gave myself two hours so that if possible the ceremony might be performed between us. I couldn’t attempt to take you back with me, but I want you to be in the position that I can send for you as soon as I know what will be done with me. I don’t suppose,” he added with bitterness in his tone, “that my father and mother will turn you out of doors because you are true to me.”
“I shall be true to you, Neville,” was Angela’s reply. He took his arm from around her, held her off a little way, and scrutinized her face now pale, now red, her eyes dark and wide and sparkling with emotion. “Are you not afraid?” he asked.
“Afraid? Certainly not. I am no more afraid than you are, Neville.” Hand in hand Neville and Angela returned to the hall. Richard sat on the sofa by his mother, still holding her hand. Mrs. Tremaine no longer wept. Anguish and reproach, fierce and deep, had dried her tears. Lyddon, his heart wrung, could not control his agitation as he paced stealthily up and down a corner of the hall. Half a dozen black faces by this time were watching and peering in at the doors and windows.
As Neville and Angela came in the door, Richard rose. He knew instinctively what Neville was about to say.
“Angela and I think best,” said Neville, “to be married at once, so that she may be able to join me as soon as I can send for her. You must assist us. I have still nearly two hours, and we ought to be able to get a license and Mr. Brand in that time. If my father and mother grudge me the roof of Harrowby under which to marry Angela, perhaps they will allow us at least a foot of ground somewhere outside.”
Mrs. Tremaine rose and stood trembling. A great gulf had opened between her and this eldest son for whom she had given every manifestation of outward affection, and for whom she secretly cherished an idolatry of which she was at heart ashamed as being unjust both to Colonel Tremaine and her other sons. The whole humiliation of it, the horror of Neville being driven from his father’s roof overwhelmed her. The shame, the chagrin of not having Neville accept the code of honor which she had taught him and which his father and brothers had accepted unqualifiedly, was inexpressibly terrible to her. It was as if Neville had coolly committed a forgery and refused to believe it wrong. She saw that it was useless to plead with him and said no word, but her silence, her tremor, her pallor were painfully eloquent enough. Neville came close to her, and the mother and son who loved each other so much looked into each other’s eyes and each saw defiance therein.
Then Richard spoke with authority. “Mother,” he said, “when Neville goes away, he must leave Angela here. No matter what Neville may do this house is the place for his wife, especially if that wife be Angela, who has been a daughter to you and my father.”
Mrs. Tremaine’s eyes turned toward Angela. It came upon her that to keep Angela would be a hold, a thread of communication with Neville, and besides she loved the girl and would not have been capable of casting her out. Richard spoke decisively, however, and no one disputed what he said. He looked at the clock and it was half past two. “Mr. Lyddon,” he said, “will you ride to the rectory and wake Mr. Brand up and bring him here at once? I myself will get the license from Mr. Wynne, the clerk of the court. It is six miles away, but I can do it in an hour and a half.” He turned, and called out to Peter, whose solemn, chocolate-colored face was peering in from the back porch, “Go and saddle the horses at once and bring them up.”
“Thank you,” said Neville briefly. Everything was done properly when Richard took charge. Angela and Neville stood looking at each other uncertain where to go. Neville had been invited to leave his father’s house, and he was not the man to tarry after having received such an invitation. He glanced at Angela’s lovely disheveled hair and then said to her: “You must go and dress to be married, and put a hood on your head, for we shall be married out of doors. I will wait for you outside.”
Angela passed swiftly up the stairs, and Neville walked the length of the hall without once turning. Mrs. Tremaine, usually the calmest and most self-controlled of women, could have shrieked aloud with pain at the sight. Neville almost walked into Mammy Tulip’s arms, those faithful black arms in which he had been cradled. In her place of privilege, she poured forth her love and indignation.