The noise of the stream muffled any sound of footsteps, and it was before she was aware of his approach that she looked up and saw him wading across at the top of the waterfall.

Noontide lights and dwarfed shadows always banished the romantic aspect of her love for Nicholas.  Moreover, something new had occurred to disturb her; and if ever she had regretted giving way to a tenderness for him—­which perhaps she had not done with any distinctness—­she regretted it now.  Yet in the bottom of their hearts those two were excellently paired, the very twin halves of a perfect whole; and their love was pure.  But at this hour surfaces showed garishly, and obscured the depths.  Probably her regret appeared in her face.

He walked up to her without speaking, the water running from his boots; and, taking one of her hands in each of his own, looked narrowly into her eyes.

‘Have you thought it over?’

‘What?’

‘Whether we shall try again; you remember saying you would at the dance?’

‘Oh, I had forgotten that!’

‘You are sorry we tried at all!’ he said accusingly.

‘I am not so sorry for the fact as for the rumours,’ she said.

‘Ah! rumours?’

‘They say we are already married.’

‘Who?’

’I cannot tell exactly.  I heard some whispering to that effect.  Somebody in the village told one of the servants, I believe.  This man said that he was crossing the churchyard early on that unfortunate foggy morning, and heard voices in the chancel, and peeped through the window as well as the dim panes would let him; and there he saw you and me and Mr. Bealand, and so on; but thinking his surmises would be dangerous knowledge, he hastened on.  And so the story got afloat.  Then your aunt, too—­’

‘Good Lord!—­what has she done?’

The story was, told her, and she said proudly, “O yes, it is true enough.  I have seen the licence.  But it is not to be known yet."’

‘Seen the licence?  How the—­’

‘Accidentally, I believe, when your coat was hanging somewhere.’

The information, coupled with the infelicitous word ‘proudly,’ caused Nicholas to flush with mortification.  He knew that it was in his aunt’s nature to make a brag of that sort; but worse than the brag was the fact that this was the first occasion on which Christine had deigned to show her consciousness that such a marriage would be a source of pride to his relatives—­the only two he had in the world.

‘You are sorry, then, even to be thought my wife, much less to be it.’  He dropped her hand, which fell lifelessly.

’It is not sorry exactly, dear Nic.  But I feel uncomfortable and vexed, that after screwing up my courage, my fidelity, to the point of going to church, you should have so muddled—­managed the matter that it has ended in neither one thing nor the other.  How can I meet acquaintances, when I don’t know what they are thinking of me?’