The whisper was like whispering in general,—more distinctly audible than the rest of the speech. Olivia Marchmont heard it.
"Mad until to-day," she cried; "but not mad to-day. O Edward Arundel! a hideous wrong has been done by me and through me. Your wife—your wife—"
"My wife! what of her? She—"
"She is alive!" gasped Olivia; "an hour's walk from here. I came on foot. I was tired, and I have been long coming. I thought that I should be in time to stop you before you got to the church; but I am very weak. I ran the last part of the way—"
She dropped her hands upon the altar-rails, and seemed as if she would have fallen. The rector put his arm about her to support her, and she went on:
"I thought I should have spared her this," she said, pointing to Belinda; "but I can't help it. She must bear her misery as well as others. It can't be worse for her than it has been for others. She must bear—"
"My wife!" said Edward Arundel; "Mary, my poor sorrowful darling—alive?"
Belinda turned away, and buried her face upon her mother's shoulder.
She could have borne anything better than this.
His heart—that supreme treasure, for which she had rendered up thanks to her God—had never been hers after all. A word, a breath, and she was forgotten; his thoughts went back to that other one. There was unutterable joy, there was unspeakable tenderness in his tone, as he spoke of Mary Marchmont, though she stood by his side, in all her foolish bridal finery, with her heart newly broken.
"O mother," she cried, "take me away! take me away, before I die!"