"John, come and sit down," she said. "Raving won't do any good. We must be seemly, whatever we are." She felt the eye of the priest. "Who told you, Mr. Taylor?"
"The justice of the peace. They were married about an hour ago, less than half a mile from here."
She led the Major to a chair, and he sat down heavily. "She shall never darken my door again," he declared, striving to stiffen his shoulders, but they drooped under his effort.
"Don't say that, dear; don't say that. It is so cold and cruel."
"But I do say it—ungrateful little wretch. It rises up within me and I can't keep from saying it."
The priest stepped forward and raised his hand. "May the blessings of our Heavenly Father rest upon this household," he said. The woman looked a defiance at him. He bowed and was gone. Jim Taylor stood with his head hung low. Slowly he began to speak. "Major, you and your wife are humiliated, but I am heart-broken. You are afflicted with a sorrow, but I am struck down with grief. But I beg of you not to say that she shan't come home again. Her marriage doesn't alter the fact that she is your daughter. Her relationship toward you may not be so much changed, but to me she is lost. I beg you not to say she shan't come home again."
Mrs. Cranceford tenderly placed her hand on the giant's arm. He shook under her touch.
"I will say it and I mean it. She has put her feet on our love and has thrown herself away, and I don't want to see her again. I do think she is the completest fool I ever saw in my life. Yes, and we loved her so. And Tom—it will break his heart."
In the dusk the wife's white hand was gleaming—putting back the gray hair from her husband's eyes. "And we still love her so, dear," she said.
"What!" he cried, and now his shoulders stiffened. "What! do you uphold her?"