“Let me wish you all joy—­Mrs.—­Arranstoun!” he said.

The little bride laughed her rippling laugh.  This brought her back to earth and the material, jolly side of things, it was so funny to hear herself thus called.

“Oh! that does sound odd!” she cried.  “I shall never call myself that—­why, people might know I must be something connected with this castle, and they would be questioning, and I couldn’t have a scrap of fun!  You have got another name—­you said it just now, ’Michael Howard Arranstoun’—­that will do.  I shall be Mrs. Howard!  It is quite ordinary—­and shall I be a widow?  I’ve never thought of all this yet.  Oh! it will be fun.”

Every second of the time her charm was further affecting Michael—­he was not conscious of any definite intention—­only to talk to her—­to detain her as long as possible.  She was like a breath of exquisite spring air after Violet Hatfield.

Mr. Fergusson here came in from the chapel with the certificate—­and his presence seemed a great bore, and after thanking him for his services, Michael poured him out some wine to drink their healths, and then the butler announced that the brougham was waiting at the door to take the old gentleman home.

Sabine had stood up on his entrance and came forward to wish him good-bye; now that the certificate was there she intended to go herself by the balcony steps as soon as he should be safely off by the door.

“Good-bye, my dear young lady, I have known your husband since he was born, and with all his faults he is a splendid fellow; let me wish you every happiness and prosperity together and may you be blessed with many children and peace.”

Sabine stiffened—­she felt she ought to enlighten the benevolent old man, who evidently did not understand at all that she was going to trip off—­not as he, just to her own home, but out of Mr. Arranstoun’s life forever—­but no suitable words would come, and Michael, afraid of what she might say, hurried his chaplain off without more ado and then returned to her and shut the door.

Now they were absolutely alone and the clock struck ten in the courtyard with measured strokes.

“Let us begin supper,” he said, with what calmness he could.

“But I ought to go back at once,” his bride protested; “the Inn may be shut and then what in the world should I do?”

“There is plenty of time, it certainly won’t close its doors until eleven—­have some soup—­or a cold quail and some salad—­and see, I have not forgotten the wedding-cake—­you must cut that!”

Sabine was very hungry; she had had to pretend her head was aching too much to go with her elders to the ruins of Elbank and had retired to her room before they left, and had had no tea, and such dainties were not to be resisted, especially the cake!  After all, it could not be any harm staying just this little while longer since no one would ever know, and people who got married always did cut their own cakes.  So she sat down and began, he taking every care of her.  They had the merriest supper, and even the champagne, more of which he gave her, did not taste so nasty after the first sip.