Her father stood near the door as she entered. He was struck with the dry, stony expression of her face, and started forward to her side. He spoke in a whisper, but with startling earnestness.
“I adjure you, my daughter,” he said, “tell me—are you willing to go on with this matter? Say but a word, and it shall be broken off.”
Kate lifted her eyes to his with a sudden movement, and the glance they gave was full of unutterable love. It was such, if we may say so without presumption, as a martyred spirit might have turned to heaven from the stake. It thrilled every nerve in that father’s frame. That same sad, sweet smile, too, was on her face, as she placed her hand in his, and said,
“Let it go on, dear father. I am only faint and nervous. I shall soon be better.” Ay! better in the grave.
His doubts were only half resolved, but he could say no more, and together they advanced to the temporary altar, where the bridegroom and priest stood awaiting them.
Kate felt a choking in the throat, as her eyes first fell on Major Lindsay, and it seemed to her, for an instant, as if her knees were failing her. But she remembered that her father’s eyes were bent anxiously on her, and from that moment there was no longer any faltering on her part.
The buzz which attended her entrance had now subsided, and a deep hush fell on the room. Every ear was strained to catch the first sound of the minister’s voice. A watch might have been heard to tick.
“Dearly beloved,” began the minister, in the time-hallowed form of the Episcopal church, “we are gathered together here in the sight of God—”
He had proceeded thus far, when such a sudden and startling burst of tumult arose from the distant street, that he raised his eyes, with a look of alarm, from his book. It was like the confused ringing of bells, half-drowned in the shouts of people. All at once the town-bell itself, close at hand, took up the uproar, and its iron tongue was heard clanging hurriedly and fiercely on the night.
The male part of the company sprang to their feet.