She turned from one to the other, challenging them to mock at her superstition; and then she laughed.
"My dear!" she said. "I'll never forget his face when I was raging at him.—I blamed him, you may be sure. Or his voice when he called to me—'She has written!' I could get no more out of him till I lost my patience and cried—'Then for Heaven's sake read the letter and tell me what she says!' And when he said—'She says she has found out that my marriage was illegal' I could only exclaim—'Thank goodness!'"
She laughed again at her picture of his amazement.
"I shocked him awfully," she said. "But I was transported. It had solved a riddle.... 'So that was the mysterious American business,' I said, 'that is what was the matter! And she has rushed off and set you free and all the rest of it, you undeserving laggard! If that's all it can soon be mended.'—And then he woke up from his stupefaction. But it was I who thought of the Bishop. It was I who suggested a special licence. I am the head conspirator, Susan,—and I'll go and put on my things."
She went, glancing back to them as she reached the door.
"Don't let her out of your sight, Barnaby," she said warningly, and left them together.
The girl stayed where she was, quite still; gazing down from the dizzy height of the window on the restless world in the streets below. Barnaby was limping across to her side. She felt his touch on her shoulder.
"There's the church down there," he said. "Like an island in a whirlpool, isn't it? But all the roar and the rush dies down like the noise in a dream when you get inside. It's wonderfully dim and dark in there, and they're dusting the pews for us,—and there are a few lilies on the altar. And we'll just walk into it hand in hand."
Her breath came hurriedly, like a sob.
"Are you—sure?" she said.