“And now,” she went on, “you tell me you believed that he cared for me, and suggest that but for this idea things might have been different. But they would not have been. You are a hard, cold, heartless creature, Myra. He was too poor for you, and not likely to buy you diamonds and pearls like Mr Barron does. Promise me pearls, would he! Insulting me as he did this morning! Why, I would rather have Malcolm Stratton without a penny than Mr Barron with all the West Indies and East Indies, too, for a portion. Malcolm is worth a hundred millions of him, and I hope you are happy now, for I shouldn’t wonder if you’ve broken the poor fellow’s heart.”
Myra could bear no more, and turning sharply toward her cousin she stretched out her hands imploringly, as her pale face, with its wild looking, dilated eyes seemed to ask for help. But the look was not seen, for, bursting into a fit of weeping, Edie cried:
“But it’s too late now! I hope you’ll be happy, dear, and uncle satisfied; but you will repent it, I am sure, for I don’t believe you love Mr Barron the slightest bit.”
As she spoke those last words she left the room, and Myra was alone with thoughts which grew and swelled till she felt half suffocated, while, like some vibrating, echoing stroke of a distant knell, came the repetition of those two words, quivering through every nerve and fibre of her being:
“Too late—too late—too late!”
For the bud of love had been lying dormant in her breast, waiting to expand, and it was opening fast now, as she felt, but only to be withered as its petals fell apart.
Hurried on by Barron’s impetuous advances, approved as a suitor by her father, her betrothed’s courtship had carried all before it. His attentions had pleased her, and she had reproached herself at times after he had complained that she was cold. One evening, when assailed by doubts of herself, she had appealed to her father and asked him if he wished her to marry Mr Barron, and she recalled his words when she had dreamily said that she did not think she loved him.
“Why, of course I wish it, my darling,” he cried; “and as to the love—oh, that will come. Don’t let schoolgirl fancies and romances which you have read influence you, my child. You esteem Mr Barron, do you not?”
She had said that she did, and then let herself subside into a dreamy state, principally taken up by thoughts of the change, the preparations for that change, and visions of the glorious country—all sunshine, languor, and delights—which Barron never seemed to tire of painting.
But now the awakening had come—now that it was too late!