The day wore on; Sir Oswald remained alone in the library, seated before a table, with his arms folded, his gaze fixed on empty space—a picture of despair.
The clock had struck many times; the hot afternoon sun blazed full upon the broad Tudor windows, when the door was opened gently, and some one came into the room. Sir Oswald looked up angrily, thinking it was one of the servants who had intruded on him.
It was his wife who stood before him, dressed in the white robes she had worn at the picnic; but wan and haggard, white as the dress she wore.
"Oswald," she cried, with outstretched hands, and the look of one who did not doubt she would be welcome.
The baronet sprang to his feet, and looked at that pale face with a gaze of unspeakable indignation.
"And you dare to come back?" he exclaimed. "False-hearted adventuress—actress—hypocrite—you dare to come to me with that lying smile upon your face—after your infamy of last night!"
"I am neither adventuress, nor hypocrite, Oswald. Oh, where have your love and confidence vanished that you can condemn me unheard? I have done no wrong—not by so much as one thought that is not full of love for you! I am the helpless victim of the vilest plot that was ever concocted for the destruction of a woman's happiness."
A mocking laugh burst from the lips of Sir Oswald.
"Oh," he cried, "so that is your story. You are the victim of a plot, are you? You were carried away by ruffians, I suppose? You did not go willingly with your paramour? Woman, you stand convicted of your treachery by the fullest evidence. You were seen to leave the Wizard's Cave! You were seen clinging to Victor Carrington—were seen to go with him, willingly. And then you come and tell me you are the victim of a plot! Oh, Lady Eversleigh, this is too poor a story. I should have given you credit for greater powers of invention."
"If I am guilty, why am I here?" asked Honoria.