She tripped away, but Mollie, who was a dear lover of flowers, lingered in that bower of beauty to examine some rare and exquisite orchids which were in full bloom. Suddenly, as she rounded a corner at the extreme end of the conservatory, some one started up from a seat that was half-concealed by some palms and foliage plants, and she found herself confronted by Philip Wentworth.
She had not dreamed of his being in the house, for she had seen none of the family that evening, and, in truth, he had been there but a few minutes, having had another engagement, but had promised to join his fiancée, Gertrude Athol, before the evening was over. He had been looking for her—had come to the conservatory to seek her, entering by a door leading from the dining room, instead of the hall, when, seeing the two girls, and not wishing to meet them together, he had sought the seat referred to, and concealed himself among the foliage until they should return to the house.
But when he saw Gertrude leave and Mollie loitering among the flowers, a wild desire to talk with her took possession of him, and he arose and stood in her path.
Mollie drew herself haughtily erect, and would have passed him without a word, but he stretched forth his arms and barred her way.
"No, you shall not evade me this time," he cried in a voice tremulous with passion and wounded feeling. "I have the right to vindicate myself, and no criminal is ever condemned without a hearing. Oh, Mollie! Mollie! forgive me—forgive me! I was not myself that night. I own I had been drinking more than was good for me, and I hardly knew what I was about."
Mollie had not intended to exchange a word with him, but the self-reproach in his tones—the misery in his face—appealed to her gentle heart, and she began to be sorry for him. She told herself that she had no right to condemn him utterly, even though she felt that she could never respect or admit him to her friendship again. She recoiled a step or two from him, and her face involuntarily softened.
"If that is so," she began gently, "let it be a lesson to you, and never again make such free use of that which you admit has power to control you."
"I will not, Mollie—I will not, indeed. I promise you," Philip eagerly returned, adding appealingly: "And you will forgive me—say that you will forgive, and let us be friends, as of old, once more."
Mollie's face flushed, and she shrank involuntarily. She knew that she could never receive him as a friend again—she had no wish ever to resume the old relations with any of the family, for their treachery and ill usage had done more to weaken her faith in humanity than anything that had ever occurred in all her experience.
"No," she said, after a moment of thought. "I will be frank with you, Philip—we can never be friends again, as I understand the term. One must have confidence in one's friends—you have destroyed my confidence in you. One must respect one's friends—you have forfeited my respect. It is not easy to tell you this, but you know that I was never guilty of deception, and so I cannot pretend to a friendship that is not real."