"I did," answered Olivia.
"You lie!" cried Edward Arundel. "You knew the poor child had spoken the truth. You knew her––you knew me––well enough to know that I should not have detained her away from her home an hour, except to make her my wife––except to give myself the strongest right to love and defend her."
"I knew nothing of the kind, Captain Arundel; you and Mary Marchmont had taken good care to keep your secrets from me. I knew nothing of your plots, your intentions. I should have considered that one of the Dangerfield Arundels would have thought his honour sullied by such an act as a stolen marriage with an heiress, considerably under age, and nominally in the guardianship of her stepmother. I did, therefore, disbelieve the story Mary Marchmont told me. Another person, much more experienced than I, also disbelieved the unhappy girl's account of her absence."
"Another person! What other person?"
"Mr. Marchmont."
"Mr. Marchmont!"
"Yes; Paul Marchmont,––my husband's first–cousin."
A sudden cry of rage and grief broke from Edward Arundel's lips.
"O my God!" he exclaimed, "there was some foundation for the warning in John Marchmont's letter, after all. And I laughed at him; I laughed at my poor friend's fears."
The widow looked at her kinsman in mute wonder.