There was a shuffle of feet, and somebody stepped forward beside her.
Nancy found herself holding Leslie's hand. Her mind seemed to be a whirling wilderness of amazed protest. What was she to do? Why hadn't she spoken before? She wouldn't be married like this—she wouldn't—she wouldn't! It was hateful of Leslie! She'd—she'd—What was it the man wanted her to say?
"I, Nancy, take thee, George—wedded husband—have and to hold——"
Somehow she had stumbled through the responses, and then she was kneeling beside Leslie, and her hand was still in his.
It was too late now. She was married—married—married, and all the protests in the world would be worse than useless. Even the parson's drone seemed to ring with a note of finality.
"Those whom God hath joined together let no man put asunder."
Of what happened immediately after, Nancy never had any very clear idea. She remembered signing a book, and shaking hands with two complete strangers, and being congratulated by the old clergyman. And at last she and Leslie were alone.
It was then that Nancy began to cry.
"Don't, dearest, don't!" said Leslie.
He took her in his arms, and kissed her wet eyes and quivering lips.