If Cecil had been angry with his wife when he first entered the house,
his interview with his mother did not tend to lessen his resentment.
She told him at once the story she had heard from Louise Barry relative
to her summary ejectment from the house.
“Did you hear of anything so low, so ill-bred?” she exclaimed.
And the fastidious Cecil shuddered.
“And to think that this ill-natured, treacherous creature was your
wife--will be your wife again! Oh, Cecil, is it necessary, do you
think, this sacrifice of yourself?”
“Mother!”
That word and the stern glance of his proud blue eyes made her quail.
He looked wan, wasted, wretched. She had never seen her handsome Cecil
look so ill, and it made her wrath all the more bitter against her who
had caused it, but she dared say no more, for he went on, rebukingly:
“I hardly expected this from you, my mother. Say that she deserves no
mercy for her treachery to poor John Keith and to me, and I will agree
with you; but you must be aware--Charley says he told you--that there
is another question involved now--a point of honor.”
“Unfortunately, yes,” she answered, sighing.
He went on, with grave seriousness:
“The little one that is coming to me had no part in the sin of its
ignorant young mother, and should not bear the consequences of her
treachery. Neither would it be right that a shadow should rest on the
mother that the world might visit on the child. Therefore, it is best
that I should go through another ceremony with her, to make all things
secure for honor’s sake.”
“You will live with her again?”
With a slight flush he answered:
“Nominally, yes. That is to say, she will be an inmate of my home,
and I shall treat her with respect before my household and before the
world. But, beyond that, we shall be as utter strangers.”
“She ought to be thankful for even that grace. Few would have granted
so much, but the honor of the Laurens is above everything else. Still,
it will be a hard life for you, my son.”
“If I can not endure it, I will travel,” he replied.
“You will be an exile for the sake of that girl, your life spoiled,
your heart empty--oh, it is cruel!” she exclaimed.
“Do not pity me, mother, I can not bear it!” he said, hastily, then
rising: “I think I must get Charley and go out as we have to make
arrangements for that private ceremony in the morning. Of course you
know it must be managed so that it may never come to the world’s ears?”
“I know. I will see to all that, but I think you had better ask the
Barrys to be present,” she said.
“I will ask them,” he replied.
The door opened, admitting Doctor Charley.
“I am ready to go with you, Cecil, to see about the license and the
minister.”
“Thank you,” then with inexpressible bitterness: “Let us be quite sure
to have the right name this time.”
“All right. I asked her and she wrote it down for me here,” handing
Cecil a card on which he read in a familiar chirography that made his
heart throb fiercely, the simple name:
“Mary Ernestine Trueheart.”
Charley continued, kindly:
“Her age is about eighteen. She could not have been much more than a
child when you first saw her, Cecil?”
“Mrs. Barry said she was five-and-twenty,” he replied, and there
flashed over him a remembrance of the times when Molly had declared she
was not yet seventeen.
“She almost betrayed herself, then,” he thought, but he said nothing
more to his brother, only when they were leaving the house.
“We will call on the Barrys,” he said. “Mother thinks they should be
present at the ceremony tomorrow.”
“I do not think Lou--I mean Molly--would like it, Cecil,” Doctor
Charley said, quickly, but his brother answered, morosely:
“It does not matter. We are not arranging the ceremony to please _her_,
Charley.”
“But why humiliate her further? She is wretched enough already.”
“Not half so wretched as I am,” Cecil answered, with sudden sharp anger.
Doctor Charley could be obstinate, too, although he was so much
sweeter-tempered than his brother.
“Very well, ask the Barrys if you like, but I am not going with you to
call on them,” he replied quietly.
Cecil resented the refusal.
“By Jove, Charley, you go too far in taking her part,” he said sharply.
“You seem to forget that Mrs. Barry and the niece are the wronged ones.”
“I forget nothing,” said Doctor Charley sturdily. “But I think that
if the Barrys had been good, true-hearted women, they would not have
crossed the seas to hunt down a poor girl who had committed a fault
through love, that no intermeddling of theirs could set straight. Much
better have let it all alone.”
Cecil stared at him in surprise and displeasure.
“I must have found it out sometime--when I went home if not sooner,” he
said.
“Poor Molly would never have let you find it out--women are so
clever--but they took her by surprise,” Doctor Charley returned.
“I wanted to know if there was anything wrong! I do not fancy being
deceived,” sternly.
Doctor Charley looked almost contemptuously.
“So you thank the Barrys for your misery,” he said dryly. “Very well,
call on them by all means then, and thank them for their friendship, in
having put asunder what God had joined together. Perhaps things will
come out so that you will get the real Louise Barry for your wife at
last. I have no doubt that old woman and her niece will help you to
torture poor Molly into an early grave.”
“Charley?” rebukingly.
“Well?”
“What have I done that you should be so hard on me in my trouble?”
“You have turned against the woman you swore to love, honor and
protect, and you have earned my contempt by your weakness,” fearlessly.
“What is there in a name that you should hate her so? She is the same
girl you loved and married, call her by what name you will!”