He was in the
church-porch as she entered it, though there was no time for more than a
hurried hand-clasp.
The church was very hot, and the crush of guests great. She listened to
the marriage service as a prisoner might listen to his death sentence.
The irrevocability of it was anguish to her tortured imagination. And
all the while she was conscious--vividly, terribly conscious--of Tots's
presence, Tots's inscrutable scrutiny, Tots's triumph of possession. He
would never let her go, she felt. She was his beyond all dispute. He had
asked, and she had bestowed, not understanding what she was doing.
There could be no withdrawal now. She could not picture herself asking
for it, and she was sure he would not grant it if she did. He would only
laugh.
There fell a sudden silence in the church--a curious, unnatural silence.
It seemed to be growing very dark, and she wondered, panting, if it were
the darkness that so smothered her. With a sharp movement she lifted her
face, gasping as a half-drowned person gasps. And everywhere above,
around her, were tiny, dancing points of light.
* * * * *
"That's better," said Tots. "Don't be frightened. It's all right."
He rubbed her cheek softly, reassuringly, and then fell to chafing her
weak hands. Ruth lay back against a grave-mound and stared at him. He
was wonderfully gentle with her, almost like a woman.
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