All turned toward her in surprise.
Her eyes were like coals of fire, her face wore a bluish pallor, her very lips were white as she uttered, hoarsely:
“I beg pardon, but the ceremony must not go on—until—until—I speak—to—Arthur!”
Every word came jerkily between the pallid lips, and her outstretched hand clutched Arthur’s arm.
“Come with me—let me speak to you alone!” she implored.
Every one realized that she was laboring under the most terrible agitation. It seemed plain to all that she meant to forbid the marriage.
Arthur frowned at her—the son whose wishes she had never thwarted—and exclaimed, impatiently:
“Can you not wait till the ceremony is over? Remember, Mr. Dawn may come at any moment.”
“No—I can not wait! Come,” eagerly, “I will not detain you long. Miss Dawn, will you not wait here just a few moments while—I—I—tell Arthur—the truth?”
“Go, Arthur,” answered the girl, faintly; and she sunk upon a chair, trembling in every limb, sure in her heart that something was going to happen.