“Not Julia Denham now, nor Julia Mason, the deserted wife; but Madame la Comtesse Morauville, à votre service.”
“I cannot understand,” said Florence confusedly. “Have you seen your cousin?”
Julia dropped the veil over her face and looked round uneasily.
“No, nor do I wish to see her. I could not bear—that is, our paths in life are different, and she would not think as I do—we never agreed. I am here to serve you, Miss Heriton, not to see Susan.”
“Me!”
“Yes, and myself. I have comprehended enough from an advertisement addressed to me to know that my presence was necessary here. The rest has been explained by Mr. Aylwinne, your friend.”
Florence, with rising color, now gazed at her eagerly.
Julia smiled reassuringly.
“Poor child! It was hard that your happiness should suffer! See, here are two of the letters I had from my worthless husband, and here the certificate of the marriage it suited him to deny, and here are your father’s notes imploring the return of the money intrusted to him. Take them all, Miss Heriton, and may they restore your felicity. Bid Susan clear the brand from my name, and—Heaven bless you both!”
She would have turned away directly, but Florence held her dress.