In order to preserve appearances, it was arranged that Mary should feign a sudden illness to necessitate the postponement of the wedding, and while there was great disappointment among the guests and the curious crowds of villagers, there was, in secret, a great rejoicing in Madame Morini’s little boudoir when the glad news was revealed to her.
The pealing bells were stopped. Mary had thrown off her wedding-gown merrily, and when she tossed her orange-blossoms into the grate of the boudoir, she said to George laughingly—
“When we marry privately in London next month, I shall require no white satin—a travelling gown will be sufficient, will it not?”
“Yes, dearest,” he said, kissing her fondly upon the lips, now that she was really his very own. “The dress does not matter when the union of our hearts is so firm and true. You know how fondly and passionately I love you, and how I have suffered in silence at the thought of your terrible sacrifice.”
“I know,” she answered softly, looking up into his eyes trustingly. “I know, George—only too well! Ah! you cannot think how happy I am, now that it is all past—and you are mine?” And then she raised her sweet face and kissed him of her own accord upon the cheek.
Chapter Forty One.
A Woman’s Freedom.
Within a month of the abandoned wedding at Orton, Mary Morini and George Macbean were married quietly at St. James’s Church, in Piccadilly, the Rev. Basil Sinclair assisting, and Billy Grenfell, as full of his bluff humour as ever, acting as best man, while among the various handsome presents the happy pair received was an acceptable cheque from Mr Morgan-Mason for ten thousand pounds—the sum he had offered to George for information as to the actual means by which his brother-in-law met with his death.