“You must be proud of your bride,” she said to Thornton. “Is she not looking beautiful?”
And she whispered to Clytie:
“You must be proud of your husband. Have you ever seen a man to compare with him?”
Thornton held his head erect as he gave Clytie his arm and walked up to the communion rail. He was proud of her. The quiet gray of her broad hat and her cloak threw into relief the rich colouring of her hair and eyes and lips. The past two years had completed her womanly beauty. Irregularities of contour below the eyes had been toned down, the delicacy of modelling of her face had been accentuated, and the new emotions of the past three weeks had filled her great dark blue eyes with a new, mysterious light. Thornton pressed her hand against his side, and whispered, “My darling,” so close to her that she felt his breath warm upon her ear. She looked at him for a moment, her full lips quivering ever so slightly.
“I should like to kiss you,” he whispered again. “You are so beautiful.”
In a few moments it was over. The words compromising a lifetime had been said. The wedding ring gleamed upon her finger. As she passed with the others into the vestry she looked down at it in a daze. There it was and there it must remain till death parted them, a token of submission and obedience. In the vestry there were embraces, congratulations. Thornton kissed her after the gallant fashion of a man who can afford to wait for a warmer caress. Winifred threw her arms round her neck, weeping. Mrs. Farquharson kissed her in her affectionate, motherly way. George kissed her gravely on the forehead and dipped the pen in the ink for her to sign “Clytie Davenant” for the last time. Then they found themselves in the porch again, saying farewell. Caroline laughingly called her “Mrs. Hammerdyke” as they finally parted. And then the little knot of three waved their handkerchiefs as the cab drove off that took her husband and herself towards Victoria.
“You are mine now, my darling,” he said, taking her hand. “All that is most mine.”
“I am glad,” she murmured, returning his pressure. “Yours for always.”
The commissionnaire met them at the station. He had taken their tickets, settled their luggage, engaged a carriage. A bouquet of violets lay upon the seat. Clytie flashed a quick glance at her husband.
“Thank you for thinking. I love them so much.”