The hours passed, evening came, the night fell. Betty had thrown wide
the casement. Her father and Mary Jones, crouching over the fire, had no
heart to speak to her, or warn her that the night was cold.
A wild stormy wind swayed the branches of the apple-trees, surging and
roaring as it rushed over the downs; the candles flickered and burned
low, and from them dropped those strange waxen off-shoots that old women
call winding-sheets.
At last the church-bell struck twelve, slowly, awfully.
Betty was listening still, her head raised, her finger on her lip.
"Hush!" she said, with a strange smile. "Do you hear the white horse's
hoofs?"
They listened. Distinctly on the ear came the sound of a horse
galloping, coming nearer and nearer, passing the door, on and on without
pause, the sound of the hoofs growing faint and fainter till lost in the
far distance.
Betty held out her arms. "Mary!" she said. "Mary!" Her voice was a
strange harsh whisper, out of which all tone had passed. "Mary, he
gallops away."
CHAPTER VIII.
After the lapse of another three days, it was determined that there
should be no further delay of the marriage, and one morning without pomp
or parade of any kind, Mr. Ives took his bride into Wancote, and they
returned home man and wife.
The only wedding-guest was the parson's old friend Dr.
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