I was not prepared for the shock—it was so entirely unexpected that my faculties seemed benumbed for the time being.
All but my brain—I could still think, although the one refrain that danced with many changes through my mind seemed to be:
“Hildegarde did not marry again—Hildegarde may even yet be my wife! Joy! joy! my wife, my Hildegarde!”
Her father—yes, I remembered now how conscientous she had been upon that matter, and insisted that before our marriage I should know how the old reprobate had brought a certain stigma of disgrace upon his family by eloping with a pretty widow who had fascinated him, and he a parson at that.
At the time I had treated the matter with the contempt it deserved, and stopped the sad tale by kissing the pretty mouth that endeavored to tell it. I was marrying Hildegarde, and not the old sinner who had proven too weak for his vows.
So he had popped up again, and had coaxed much of her fortune away; he had even shown his despicable nature by conspiring to rob his child of the remainder.
Undoubtedly he was as great a scamp as ever went unhung, and no punishment could be too severe for him; but, strange to say, I actually felt a softness toward the reverend fraud, for surely he was a vast improvement over the fascinating Hilary Tempest, the phantom that had long pursued me.
Hope—that shuttlecock of human souls—again soared upward.
Really, the atmosphere had cleared remarkably. If there was no other man in the case, why should I not by degrees win Hildegarde again? All the powers of earth and hell should not, must not, prevail against me.
I had made a beginning—already had she been forced to declare I was not like the man she believed she knew in the past.