"I am afraid I cannot say, dear. You plunge too deep for me to follow you," is Dolores' quiet answer.
The second tea gong sounds; they hurry down, to find uncle Dick emerging from the gentlemen's parlor, and just in time to hear his loud jovial voice remark to his companion—"I wonder, in the name of Olympus if my girls intend to come to their supper to-night?"
It is morning—a bright, deliciously warm morning—with light yellowish white clouds floating in the sky, and a soft, light wind coming in, bringing the scent of the salt waves to heal the diseases, and warm or thaw out the cold English tourists who are here seeking the heat of a warmer climate than their own. Dolores and Blondine are sitting on the pretty green bank, in sight of the remains of what the peasants call the "Bath of the Fairies," a Roman amphitheatre. Blondine is supposed to be sketching this picturesque spot; at least it is for that purpose that they have walked two long miles to Cimella this delightful morning. But the sketching is not progressing very rapidly; Blondine loses herself in a day dream. Sitting there under the old elm tree, resting her dark head against its friendly trunk, Blondine forgets the Abbey, likewise all other things worldly. The white lids droop lower and lower over the dark eyes, the breeze whispers a soft, gentle lullaby, all is stillness around. Dolores looks up from her book to ask how the abbey is progressing under Blondine's skilled fingers; but Dolores may save herself the trouble of speaking, for Miss Blondine is asleep. Then a wandering fit seizes Dolores; she wonders what is down yonder; perhaps some pretty cottage hidden from view by those jealous hedges of hawthorn; she will go and see. On and on, over the narrow beaten track goes Dolores, charmed onward by she knew not what; up little hills and down little paths she goes, and yet the ideal cottage she is hunting for fails to present itself.
Suddenly voices make her pause to listen. She is startled, for surely the tones are familiar. Only a hedge of cedar divides her from them, and unintentionally she is forced to listen to a conversation not intended for her ears, or else betray her presence, and Dolores would sooner do anything than stir.
"Do go back, Jantie, do for my sake: you will never regret it. Do make up your mind, for you cannot think how you worry me. I promise you faithfully I will publish the marriage in all the leading journals as soon as I can do so discreetly. Now, dear, you will go back to Scotland, to please me, won't you?" Sir Barry Traleigh's voice is full of tender pleading.
"Never again shall the finger of scorn be pointed toward me. No! I refuse to return home until I am an acknowledged wife. I say no! I shall never be despised for a sin of which I am innocent."
The girl's clear voice is raised in a passionate flow of rage and sorrow. They pass out of hearing, leaving Dolores pale and trembling.
Sir Barry here; and of course it is the girl Blondine had seen with him the previous afternoon; his wife, of whom he was ashamed. Of course she is his wife, and he is persuading her to go home, and promises to acknowledge her before the world some day. Ah! some day! And meanwhile he has been winning her—Dolores—heart; he, the husband of another woman. May Heaven forgive him; she never can. The sun dazzles her eyes, the day has lost its charm; she gets back somehow, to find Blondine awake, and wondering what had happened to her. Blondine's careless laugh is hushed at sight of the utterly wretched, hopeless look on Dolores' face.
"My dear! what is it?" she cries, springing to her feet, and taking Dolores' cold hands in both her warm ones. But Dolores turns her miserable face away from Blondine's enquiring glance.
"Oh, Blondine, Blondine; would to Heaven we had never seen this place. If I were only home—home, where there is no treachery or deception. Oh, Blondine, Blondine!"