All in a minute, as it seemed, he was putting on her first finger the
splendid solitaire diamond from his own hand.
“Will you wear this for an engagement ring, or shall I buy you a new
one?” he asked.
“I prefer this because you have worn it,” she answered, frankly, and
blushing very much, at which Cecil was delighted.
To herself she said, sadly:
“That is the truth, but there is another reason still for my
preference. I must not put him to the expense of a new ring, for this
will do for the few days that I shall be able to keep up the farce of
an engagement.”
She sat silent, twisting the costly gem uneasily about her finger, when
suddenly she saw coming toward her across the lawn Mrs. Barry, attended
by Agnes Walker, her maid.
The sight roused Molly from the dream of bliss into which she was
falling. She pulled the ring from her finger.
“Here, take it back; I--I can’t marry you. Don’t tell Aunt Thalia,
please,” she faltered, desperately.
Cecil took the ring and her hand with it, and pushed the jewel back on
the slim, rosy finger.
“My darling, what a bashful little goose you are!” he returned,
laughingly; and just then Mrs. Barry came up and found him holding the
little hand tightly in his own.
“Louise, I was so uneasy about your long absence, I took Agnes and came
to hunt you; but if I had known that Cecil was with you, I should not
have been alarmed,” she said.
Molly muttered something incoherently, and tried to wrest her hand from
its captor, but Cecil held it up triumphantly before Mrs. Barry, who
laughed in glee as she caught the glitter of the diamond.
“Engaged!” she exclaimed, gladly.
“Yes,” he replied, jubilantly. “Will you give us your blessing, Aunt
Thalia?”
“With all my heart,” replied the old woman. “Louise, do not look so
bashful and frightened, my dear, for I am very much pleased at your
choice;” and she actually kissed the little bit of white forehead that
was visible above the arm with which Molly had hidden her face.
Agnes Walker, too, looked very proud and pleased, and uttered a few
words of congratulation that would have delighted Molly if this had not
been, as she said to herself, “all a dreadful sham.”
She sat like one in a dream, listening to Mrs. Barry’s cracked voice in
its complacent chatter.
“Of course you will not go abroad so soon now, Cecil?”
“I am afraid I ought to go. Mother and father will expect me, and I
promised to go as soon as I had attended to that business. But--it will
be hard to go now. I have a bright idea. Can not you and Louise go with
me?”
Molly’s heart leaped wildly, then calmed again as Mrs. Barry shook her
head.
“I am too old to cross the sea again. I want to die in my native land,”
she said.
“Louise, then--with a maid, of course?” he said, but again the old
woman shook her head.
“I’m afraid it would not be exactly proper then,” she replied.
“Then I shall write to my folks that I shall delay my return until my
bride is ready to accompany me,” he replied, with a tender smile at
Molly, who replied, in a fright:
“No, no, I’m too young yet.”
“Nonsense!” said Mrs. Barry, sharply. “Why, Louise Barry, in _my_ young
days a girl of five-and-twenty was considered an old maid, and here you
are talking of being too young. Don’t mind her, Cecil. I’ll order her
wedding things at once, and she shall be ready as soon as you wish.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Barry!” exclaimed the prospective bridegroom, radiant.
But Molly muttered, frantically:
“I know Aunt Lucy will not be willing!”
“Lucy Everett has nothing to do with it. I shall not ask her advice,
nor Cecil her consent. If you love Cecil, there is no more to do but
to marry him and settle down,” proclaimed Mrs. Barry with the air of
an autocrat, and she added, after a minute, sharply: “I don’t think
I shall even invite Lucy Everett to the wedding, for she would want
to bring that Trueheart girl, and _she_ shall never with _my_ consent
cross the threshold of a Barry!”
“As for the wedding things, don’t they order them always from Paris?
Then, what more will Louise need but a traveling-dress, since we will
go straight to Europe on our wedding-tour. She can get all the dresses
she wants, then,” said Cecil Laurens, eagerly.
“That is true,” said the old lady, adding slyly: “What a hurry you are
in all at once, Cecil!”
He flushed and laughed, then said, with a fond glance at Molly:
“I am in a hurry for my happiness; but then you know, Mrs. Barry, I
have been a spoiled boy always, and never had patience enough to wait
for anything I wanted!”
“You never _had_ to wait, being one of Fortune’s favorites, always!”
she replied, indulgently.
And Molly thought, with a hushed sigh:
“He will hate me one day, because he will meet his first disappointment
through me!”
Mrs. Barry believed in taking time by the forelock, and, unknown to
the young _fiancé_, she sent an order that very day to New York--an
order for a _recherché_ wedding-dress, a traveling costume in all
its details, several dresses besides, comprising walking, dinner,
and ball dresses, hats and bonnets _ad. lib._, and a dozen outfits
of embroidered lawn and linen underwear. These articles were to be
furnished within three weeks.
“They will be as much as she will need until she gets to Paris. I
will give her a large check to take with her for a _trousseau_ there.
I can afford to be generous as all my money will go to her some day,
and as she is marrying so well,” said the old lady to Agnes Walker,
feeling very complacent over the happy turn events had taken. She was
very fond of the bride-elect from that time forward, and often thought
remorsefully of the time when she had locked the girl into the garret.
Cecil Laurens was greatly altered, too, for the better, by his love.
He ceased to see a single fault in the gay, young girl whom he had at
first condemned. He lavished the whole wealth of his heart upon her,
and he could not fail to see through all her shyness that his love was
fully returned.
Molly had not known herself capable of such depths of passion as
her lover’s devotion roused in her breast. She gave herself up with
feverish delight to the happiness of the flying weeks, salving her
conscience with the thought that her deception would soon be over--that
at the very last she would break off with him even though he would go
away from her hating her memory forever.
But day by day the bonds of love grew stronger. That which she thought
but a garland of roses strengthened into a chain that held her fast. A
mad love made the brave, honest little girl a traitor.
The day that had been set for her marriage dawned, yet she had never
spoken the words that were to save Cecil Laurens from wedding a
deceiver.
“For I could not break it off without telling him the truth, and _that_
would ruin Louise. And how could I part with _him_ now?” she would sigh
to herself when alone, and gradually her love and his made a bond that
she could not break through.
“I should die if I were parted from him now,” she sighed. “Of course
I know that he would find me out some day, and then I should lose him
forever. But I should have a little happiness first. It would not be so
terrible to die of grief, having had my day first.”
Then Molly would sob bitterly until she fell asleep upon her tearwet
pillow. Truly the love to which she clung so desperately was not all
unalloyed pleasure, but perhaps its element of uncertainty made it all
the more precious.
They went back to Ferndale, and Mrs. Barry, in the seventh heaven of
delight, made preparations on a grand scale for a real old-fashioned
country wedding. Invitations were sent out far and near to the friends
of the family. A dozen cooks took possession of the kitchen and
dining-room. Flowers were ordered from a New York florist. The old lady
declared that her niece’s wedding should be the grandest that ever took
place in Greenbrier County.
* * * * *
It was. A hundred guests danced at Molly Trueheart’s wedding with Cecil
Laurens. Ferndale did not look like the “poky old hole” she had called
it two months ago. By the aid of lights and flowers and music it was
temporarily transformed into fairy-land. The trees were illuminated
by picturesque Chinese lanterns. The old house in every corner was
as bright as day, and the light glowed resplendently on the trailing
lengths of Molly’s white satin bridal-dress as she came down the wide
stairway almost an hour later than the time appointed, for at the
very last her conscience had stung her so cruelly that she had hidden
herself in a closet, from which she was dragged forth after vigilant
search by her almost distracted aunt.
“Louise Barry, what do you mean by such a caper? You’ve given me such
a fright as I never had in my life! I’ve a mind to give you a good
shaking!” she vociferated, excitedly, and Molly whimpered, faintly:
“Please forgive me, Aunt Thalia. I--I was so frightened, I thought I’d
rather not--”
“Rather not _what_?” sharply.
“Not--get--married,” sighed the delinquent, and Mrs. Barry burst out
laughing.
“What under the heavens makes girls so silly when they are going to be
married?” she cried, and just then one of the bridesmaids tapped at the
door.
“Is the bride ready yet? It’s almost an hour past the time, and Mr.
Laurens sent me to ask--” she began, but Mrs. Barry cut the sentence
short by opening wide the door.
“She’s ready. Tell the bridesmaids to come in,” she said; and then she
whispered in Molly’s ear: “Behave yourself like a little lady now,
and I’ll never tell Cecil that you were such a baby as to hide in the
closet because you were afraid to have a husband.”
“I’ll behave,” Molly answered, desperately; and so well did she keep
her promise that Mrs. Barry had no occasion to tell her husband of that
hour in which Molly’s good angel had been pleading for the right.