"If I could pray now,"--she thought--"What should I pray for?"
And then it seemed that something wild and appealing rose in her heart and clamoured for an utterance which her tongue refused to give,--her bosom heaved,--her lips trembled,--and suddenly a rush of tears blinded her eyes.
"Oh, if I were only LOVED!" she murmured under her breath--"If only someone could find me worth caring for! I would endure any suffering, any loss, to win this one priceless gift,--love!"
A little smothered sob broke from her lips.
"Father! Mother!" she whispered, instinctively stretching out her hands--"I am so lonely!--so very, very lonely!"
Only silence answered her, and the dumb perfume of the altar flowers. She rose,--and stood a moment trying to control herself,--a pretty little pitiful figure in her dainty, garden-party frock, a soft white chiffon hat tied on under her rounded chin with a knot of pale blue ribbon, and a tiny cobweb of a lace kerchief in her hand with which she dried her wet eyes.
"Oh dear!" she sighed--"It's no use crying! It only shows what a weak little idiot I am! I'm lonely, of course,--I can't expect anything else; I shall always be lonely--Roxmouth and Aunt Emily will take care of that. The lies they will tell about me will keep off every man but the one mean and slanderous fortune-hunter, to whom lies are second nature. And as I won't marry HIM, I shall be left to myself--I shall be an old maid. Though that doesn't matter-- old maids are often the happiest women. Anyhow, I'd rather be an old maid than Duchess of Ormistoune."
She dabbed her eyes with the little handkerchief again, and went slowly out of the church. And as she stepped from the shadow of its portal into the sunshiny open air, she came face to face with John Walden. He started back at the sudden sight of her,--then recollecting himself, raised his hat, looking at her with questioning eyes.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Walden!" she said, affecting a sprightly air-- "Are you quite well?"
He smiled.
"Quite. And you? You look---"
"As if I had been crying, I suppose?"--she suggested. "So I have. Women often cry."
"They do,--but---"
"But why should they?--you would say, being a man,"--and Maryllia forced a laugh.--"And that's a question difficult to answer! Are you going into the church?"