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“Ignorant imbeciles!” ejaculated Doña Isabel, but so low that no one distinctly caught her words. “And this marriage as you call it, in what language was it performed?”

“Oh, in English,” answered Mademoiselle La Croix, readily. “The priest knew no other. Immediately after the ceremony the bell sounded, the groom and bride separated, the people streamed in, and Holy Mass was celebrated, thus consecrating the marriage. Reassure yourself, Doña Isabel, all was right; the good priest gave a certificate in due form, which doubtless will be found among John Ashley’s papers.”

In spite of the stony yet furious gaze with which Doña Isabel had listened to these particulars, the governess had gathered confidence as she proceeded, and ended with a feeling that the most jealous doubter must be convinced, the most inveterate opponent silenced.

But far otherwise was the effect of her narrative upon Doña Isabel; she had been deceived by her own daughter, befooled by her hirelings. Her keen intelligence declared to her at once the fatal irregularity of the ceremony. It indeed vindicated the purity of Herlinda, but could it save her from dishonor? Thoughts of vague yet terrible meaning tormented her. The horrors of a past day returned with fresh complications to menace and torture her; and even had it been possible at that moment for her by one word to prove her daughter the honorable widow of John Ashley, it would have caused her a thousand pangs to have uttered it; and could one single word have brought him to life, she would have condemned herself to perpetual dumbness. A frenzy of shame and baffled intents possessed her. But her thoughts were not of these. She knew that this marriage as it stood was void; it met the requirements of neither Church nor State. Yet—yet—yet—there were possibilities: her family were powerful, her wealth was great.