“I agree to your conditions,” he said, and directly the fragments of the mortgage fluttered, like a miniature snowstorm, from the bride’s white-gloved hands to the floor.
Then she took his arm, and they moved across to the waiting minister, who began to pray.
In the excitement no one noticed a rapping on the open hall door, nor that poor Miss Tuttle, instead of attending the bride as maid of honor, had sunk into a low seat near the door with her handkerchief hiding her veiled face.
The music played on softly, like a sigh, the dim lights flickered forlornly among the fragrant flowers, and the short marriage ceremony of the Methodist Church in less than ten minutes made Leola Mead the bride of Giles Bennett, who had bought her for her beauty like a slave in the Circassian market.
And just as he pronounced the pair man and wife the man who had been knocking unheard at the hall door strode impatiently to the parlor and looked within at the unexpected sight of a wedding party.
He was a middle-aged man of distinguished appearance, with dark eyes, grizzled auburn hair and a face bronzed as from travel. No one saw him as he waited at the door, while the witnesses crowded forward with eager congratulations to the smirking bridegroom and the veiled bride.
Last of all came the one who had been sitting yonder sobbing in her little lace handkerchief, and taking first the hand of Giles Bennett, she exclaimed, earnestly:
“I congratulate you, sir, on winning this rare prize. She will make you very happy, I know.”
Then, with a soft laugh that startled everyone, she threw her arms about the bride, half-sobbing:
“Dear, dear governess, I hate to give you up, even to our kind neighbor, Mr. Bennett, for you have loved him so well, I know it is for your best happiness to leave me!”