She sat down before them, and beginning at the beginning, told them the whole story--her forced and mysterious marriage and its very unpleasant sequel.

"That I ever escaped," she concluded, "I owe, under Providence, to Mr.

Ingelow. Guardy, I would have spared you if I could; but, you see, it was impossible. Of course, we won't prosecute your wife or her cousin.

I am almost satisfied, now, that I know I am not Guy Oleander's wretched wife."

"But, heavens above, Mollie Dane!" cried the bewildered Mr. Walraven, "whose wife are you?"

"Ah, guardy, I would give a great deal to know that."

"Whom do you suspect?"

"I suspect no one now."

There was a shade of sadness in her tone, and her eyes wandered wistfully over to the young artist.

"Upon my soul!" exclaimed Mr. Walraven, "I never heard or read of the like. It's perfectly astounding. Did you ever hear anything so extraordinary, Sir Roger?"

The baronet had been sitting like a man stunned by a blow. Now he turned his eyes from Mollie's for the first time, and tried to speak.

"I am utterly bewildered," he said. "The whole story sounds like an impossibility--incredible as a fairy tale."

"It is quite true, nevertheless," said Mollie.

"And you are a wedded wife?"

"I am."

"You're nothing of the sort!" burst out Carl Walraven. "You're free--free as air. It would be outrageous, it would be monstrous, to let such a marriage bind you. You are free to wed to-morrow if you choose; and let the villain come forward and dispute the marriage if he dare!"

"He speaks the truth," said Sir Roger, eagerly. "Such a marriage is no marriage. You are as free as you were before, Mollie."

"Perhaps so," said Mollie, calmly. "Nevertheless, I shall never marry."

"Never?"

It was Sir Roger's despairing voice.

"Never, Sir Roger. I never was worthy of you. I would be the basest of the base to marry you now. No; what I am to-night I will go to my grave."

She stole a glance at Hugh Ingelow, but the sphinx was never more unreadable than he. He caught her glance, however, and calmly spoke.

"And now, as Miss Mollie has had a fatiguing journey lately, and as she needs rest, we had better allow her to retire. Good-night."

He had bowed and reached the door ere the voice of Carl Walraven arrested him.

"This very unpleasant business, Mr. Ingelow--Sir Roger," he said, with evident embarra.s.sment, "in which Mrs. Walraven is concerned--"

"Will be as though it had never been, Mr. Walraven," Hugh Ingelow said, gravely. "Once more--good-night."

He quitted the room.

Sir Roger Trajenna turned to follow, a sad, crushed old man.

Mollie shyly and wistfully held out her hand.

"Try and forget me, Sir Roger--try and forgive me. I have been a foolish, flighty girl; I am sorry for it. I can say no more."

"No more!" Sir Roger said, with emotion, kissing the little hand. "G.o.d bless you!"

He, too, was gone.

Then Mollie turned and put her arms round her guardian's neck.

"Dear old guardy, I am sorry for you. Oh, I wish you had never married that hateful Blanche Oleander, but lived free and happy with your mother and your Mollie. But it's too late now; you must forgive her, I suppose.

I detest her like the mischief; but we must all keep the peace."

"I suppose so, Mollie," with a dreary sigh. "You can't wish I had never married more than I do. It's a righteous punishment upon me, I suppose.

I've been the greatest villain unhung to the only woman who ever did love me, and now this is retribution."

He groaned dismally as he rose and kissed Mollie good-night.

"Go to your room, Mollie, and let us forget, if we can."

"Ah!" said Mollie, "if we can. Guardy, good-night."

CHAPTER XXV.

MIRIAM'S MESSAGE.

Next morning, at breakfast, Mrs. Walraven did not appear. She was very ill and feverish, her maid reported, and quite unable to leave her bed.

Mr. Carl Walraven heard this sad account of his wife's health with a grimly fixed countenance. He looked as though he had pa.s.sed a restless night himself, and looked worn and haggard and hollow-eyed in the bright morning sunshine.

Mollie, on the other hand, was blooming and brilliant as the G.o.ddess Hebe. Past troubles sat lightly on buoyant Mollie as dew-drops on a rose. She looked rather anxiously at her guardian as the girl quitted the breakfast-room.

"You didn't mention Blanche's illness, guardy. Tea or chocolate this morning?"

"A cup of tea. I didn't mention her illness because I wasn't aware of it. I haven't had the pleasure of seeing Madame Blanche since we parted in the dining-room last night."

"Indeed!" said Mollie, stirring her chocolate slowly.

"And what's more," pursued the master of the house, "I don't care if I never see her again."

"Dear me, guardy! Strong language, isn't it?"