It was a very pale blush, if any, that rose to Olivia’s face; it went paler, indeed.
“There has been nothing said of—a wedding,” she replied.
Aunt Amelia nodded.
“Just so; quite right. But remember, my dear, that nothing is so—so unwise as a long engagement. You never can tell, men are so—so fickle nowadays, and there are so many girls. By the way, how mad those poor Penstone girls will be. I am sure they were both setting their caps at him.”
Olivia rose with a laugh that was almost hysterical, and left Miss Amelia to gloat over Annie’s and Mary’s supposed disappointment in solitude.
The people flocked to the Grange to offer the usual congratulations, and presents poured in to an extent that caused the hall porter some embarrassment, and Olivia received both congratulations and presents with a manner which, though all her dear friends agreed in declaring it perfect, rather puzzled them.
“If she had been married for a year, instead of only going to be, she could not take it more coolly,” said Mary to her sister, as they drove from the Grange after their visit. “I can’t make the darling out quite. Did you notice how pale she was, and how—I don’t know how to describe it—how distraite? I hope I shan’t look like that a few days after my engagement. Do you think she really loves him, Annie? It is so unexpected, isn’t it? I wouldn’t breathe a word of doubt about our darling Olivia, but there was Bertie Granville, for instance—so handsome and nice, and he loved her to distraction, any one could see that. Oh, I wish she were going to marry him, now.”
“Don’t be silly,” retorted Annie. “Why should she marry Mr. Bradstone if she doesn’t want to? You don’t suppose that it was for his money—she, the squire’s only daughter and heiress!”
And this argument of Annie’s was put forward throughout the county whenever any one expressed astonishment that Mr. Bartley Bradstone should have carried off the prize which so many had coveted, or ventured to suggest that his money had something to do with his success. Why should she, the daughter of the wealthy Squire of Hawkwood, want to marry money? And this argument was always found unanswerable.
Mr. Bartley Bradstone bore himself very modestly, considering the greatness of his victory. He was a little louder in his speech, perhaps, and there was a look of elation in his small eyes which was pardonable in a man who had snatched the Rose of Hawkwood before the envious eyes of far better men than himself; but his speech toned down and his look of elation diminished when he was in the presence of his betrothed.