“You have not got your trousseau. Most girls think of that.”
“We can get what we want after we are married.”
“You really wish me to say nothing more about my suspicions?”
“I won’t listen—there’s nothing in them. We will marry and I will make you happy—so happy, Dick, that you will forget your nervous terrors.”
“Say yes, then, my darling. Surely you won’t refuse?”
“Not I. I long for you. I do believe you are the only one who can put me right, and your feeling that there is nothing in it gives me a momentary sensation of comfort, but remember I have not told you _why_ I suspect.”
“You shall some day—when we are married, but not now. You are prejudiced; you hate Dr. Tarbot—surely not more than I hate him—but that he should stoop to such a horrible crime—no, Dick, no. Turn your thought away from it. It is wrong.”
“Whenever you like—next week, the week after, whenever you please.”
“The sooner the better,” answered Pelham.
The wedding took place in a fortnight. The marriage was solemnized at St. James’s, Fore Street. This was the church which Barbara and her mother attended on Sundays. Seeing the church open, one or two spectators dropped in. They got quietly into seats, and waited while the service went on. They noticed the firm upright figure of the bride, her clear voice. They noticed the bridegroom also—his tall, erect frame, his gallant bearing. But as the bride and bridegroom left the church together more than one person noticed the shadow on his face.
“What does it mean?” they said. “This is a true love marriage; we have heard the particulars, and the bridegroom has just come into enormous wealth. What does it mean? He does not look a happy man.”
Amongst the spectators were two whose eyes Barbara encountered with an obvious start. Seated in a pew which opened into the center aisle was Dr. Tarbot. He gave both Pelham and Barbara a keen, bright glance. In a distant part of the church Tarbot’s wife also witnessed the ceremony. On this occasion she preferred not to sit with her husband. Tarbot had no idea that she was in the church, but Pelham and Barbara noticed her.
Barbara felt a queer thrill of fear as she glanced for an instant at the light blue eyes.
From the church the pair went straight to Dover, crossed to Calais, spent one night in Paris, and then went on to Switzerland. It was late autumn now, and Switzerland was in all the glory of its autumn coloring. After the first two or three days Barbara determined to cast aside the fear which haunted her—the fear with regard to her husband’s sanity—for she never for a moment gave the least credence to there being any truth in his suspicions, and began to enjoy herself. She was with the man she loved, her best dreams were realized—she was Dick’s forever.