Dolly’s face was red as fire. A lump rose in her throat; she started in horror. Then he had found out the Truth. He had probed the Mystery.
“Something that makes you sorry you promised to marry me?” she cried aloud in her despair. Heaven faded before her eyes. What evil trick could Mamma have played her?
As she stood there that moment—proud, crimson, breathless—Walter Brydges would have married her if her father had been a tinker and her mother a gipsy girl. He drew her toward him tenderly. “No, darling,” he cried, kissing her, for he was a chivalrous young man, as he understood chivalry; and to him it was indeed a most cruel blow to learn that his future wife was born out of lawful wedlock. “I’m proud of you; I love you. I worship the very ground your sweet feet tread on. Nothing on earth could make me anything but grateful and thankful for the gift of your love you’re gracious enough to bestow on me.”
But Dolly drew back in alarm. Not on such terms as those. She, too, had her pride; she, too, had her chivalry. “No, no,” she cried, shrinking. “I don’t know what it is. I don’t know what it means. But till I’ve gone home to London and asked about it from mother—oh, Walter, we two are no longer engaged. You are free from your promise.”
She said it proudly; she said it bravely. She said it with womanly grace and dignity. Something of Herminia shone out in her that moment. No man should ever take her—to the grandest home—unless he took her at her full worth, pleased and proud to win her.
Walter soothed and coaxed; but Dolores stood firm. Like a rock in the sea, no assault could move her. As things stood at present, she cried, they were no longer engaged. After she had seen her mother and talked it all over, she would write to him once more, and tell him what she thought of it.
And, crimson to the finger-tips with shame and modesty, she rushed from his presence up to her own dark bedroom.
CHAPTER XXI
Next morning early, Dolly left Combe Neville on her way to London. When she reached the station, Walter was on the platform with a bunch of white roses. He handed them to her deferentially as she took her seat in the third-class carriage; and so sobered was Dolly by this great misfortune that she forgot even to feel a passing pang of shame that Walter should see her travel in that humble fashion. “Remember,” he whispered in her ear, as the train steamed out, “we are still engaged; I hold you to your promise.”