“Oh, Charley, it isn't that—it's dreadfully serious—” she said, with a wild little laugh that was almost hysterical.
“I wouldn't have it less than that,” he said gravely.
Afterward Betty could remember standing before the church in the fierce morning light; she heard Mr. Bowen's voice, she heard Charley's voice, she heard another voice—her own, though she scarcely recognized it. Then, like one aroused from a dream, she looked about her—she met Charley's glance; his face was radiant and she smiled back at him through a sudden mist that swam before her eyes.
Mr. Bowen led her toward the church door. As they neared it they caught the clatter of hoofs, and Tom Ware on a hard-ridden horse dashed up; he was covered with dust and inarticulate with rage. Then a cry came from him that was like the roar of some mortally wounded animal.
“I forbid this marriage!” he shrieked, when he could command speech.
“You're too late to stop it, Tom, but you can attend it,” said Norton composedly.
“You—you—” Words failed the planter; he sat his horse the picture of a grim and sordid despair.
Mr. Bowen divided a look of reproach between his wife and daughter; his own conscience was clear; he had told no one of the purpose of Norton's call the night before.
“I'll tie the horses, Betty,” said Norton.
Ware turned fiercely to Bowen.