With some difficulty, the young man restrained his frightened steed and rode forward to the side of the phaeton.
It was Cecil Grant, as she had suspected, and she noted with a throbbing heart how handsome he looked, sitting so straight in the saddle, the moonlight on his pale, eager, excited face.
Did no pang of remorse touch her cruel heart for her treachery toward this man whom she called friend?
Alas, no; she only rejoiced in her sin that left him still free to love and win, if every effort did not fail.
“Amber, is it you?” he cried, excitedly. “Good Heaven! why are you returning, and alone? Where is Violet?”
Oh, what love and even worship breathed in his tone as he pronounced that name! It thrilled Amber’s heart with rage, but she held it in check and said, quickly:
“Cecil, we waited more than half an hour in the chapel and you did not come. Why were you so tardy?”
“I will explain later, Amber. Let us go on to Violet now. She must be very uneasy over my detention.”
“Uneasy does not express it, Cecil; she was bitterly angry,” Amber replied, with a hard, bitter laugh.
“Angry with me, my sweet little Violet! I can scarcely believe it, for surely she would know that I was unavoidably detained. But let us hasten to her so that I can beg her pardon, for I am eager, oh, so eager, Amber—to call my little love my wife.”