“Lady Wynde,” said Atkins—“Lady Wynde—how can I speak the words to you who love her so, Sir Harold—She has married again!”
Every vestige of color died from the baronet’s face, and he lay back upon his chair fainting. Atkins rang for water and brandy. He bathed Sir Harold’s face and chafed his hands, and poured brandy down his throat, the tears on his own cheeks. Presently Sir Harold gasped for breath, and looked up at him with a dazed and stunned expression.
“Say that over again, Atkins,” he said feebly. “I don’t quite understand.”
“I said, Sir Harold,” said the solicitor, every word giving him a pang, “that Lady Wynde had married again.”
Sir Harold gave a strange cry, and covered his face with his hands.
“Don’t take it so, Sir Harold,” cried Atkins. “You’ve had a happy escape from her. She’s a heartless, unprincipled—”
Sir Harold put up his hand.
“Don’t!” he said pleadingly. “You hurt me, Atkins. She thought me dead, my poor Octavia. Who—who did she marry!”
“A gamester and adventurer named Craven Black. During the past month, Sir Harold, I have devoted much time to the study of Mrs. Craven Black’s antecedents. Forgive me, Sir Harold, but in this hour you must know all the truth. I am like the physician who cuts deeply to extract a ball. Sir Harold, the woman you married was never fit to be taken into your family; she was never fit to be placed as step-mother and guardian over a pure young girl—”
“Atkins, she is my wife. Mine still, although another claims her. I will not hear a word against her.”