Part 19 (2/2)

”Millicent! Millicent! are you awake?”

It was the evening of the first day of the trial; and Miss Almsford, sitting in her chamber warming her pretty feet before the fire, recognized the voice and answered,--

”Yes, Bab, come in.”

It was very late, past twelve o'clock; but Barbara brought news of a visitor, who would keep them both from their sleep an hour longer. Mr.

Galbraith was downstairs and must speak with her. Miss Almsford gave a little tired sigh, and, folding her white wrapper about her shoulders, caught the thick tangle of hair together with a silver arrow, and, without glancing at the mirror, left the room and joined the young lawyer in the library.

”I am so sorry to disturb you, Miss Almsford; I know you must be tired, but I could not get here sooner. Miss Barbara, do not be offended, but I must ask you to let me see Miss Almsford alone for a few minutes; would you mind waiting in the next room?”

When they were alone, the young man seemed at a loss how to open the interview which he had sought. Millicent, tired by the events of the exciting day, did not seem inclined to help him. After a long and rather awkward pause, she turned wearily to her visitor and said,--

”It is about the trial, of course?”

Galbraith bowed an a.s.sent.

”About the statement made by that man--” She shuddered, as if unable to p.r.o.nounce his name. The young man silently a.s.sented again.

”Well, there is nothing to be said by me beyond what I have already said: it is an infamous lie! It is so apparent a fabrication that I should hardly have thought it necessary for you to give yourself the trouble to come so far, merely to hear me repeat what I a.s.serted this afternoon.”

”It is your honest opinion, then, that Mr. Graham has been slandered?”

”My _honest_ opinion, Mr. Galbraith? I do not know how to give any other. Are you come to make me angry? You had better not, for we Italians are more easily roused to anger than soothed. I am so tired, too; can you not spare me?”

Her voice dropped from the deep, indignant tone, to a pleading note like that of a tired child. Maurice Galbraith, leaning quietly against the mantel-shelf, with downcast eyes and calm face, seemed strangely moved by the words of the woman who stood before him, so white and so beautiful. He turned toward her; and when he next spoke, a tenderness had crept all unawares into his face, which shone with a light whose meaning she could not fail to understand. His very voice seemed a caress addressed to her ear, so low and gentle was it.

”My child, you do not understand me. _I_ to make you angry, to add one annoyance to your life, which is so sad? Ah! you little know how gladly--” He stopped suddenly, warned, by the rising flush on her cheek, that he was saying other words than those which he had come to speak,--”you little know how gladly I would have spared you the question which it was necessary for me to ask. I am now answered.”

”But you do not believe me? I see that--”

”I would believe you if all the angels in heaven should deny your truth.”

She looked at him curiously; she was infinitely touched by his emotion.

He cared for her; he loved her with a pa.s.sion which she could understand. He would gladly--oh, how gladly!--have folded her life about with a protecting care, keeping the very winds of heaven from her face if they should blow too roughly; have taken her in his strong arms, stood between her and all the world, given her all and been content with the giving, asking for nought but the right to protect her. That she did not love him he knew; that she cared for another he more than imagined; and yet he would have been content to try and win her regard by a life's devotion.

Of all this he spoke not one word, as he stood looking into her face with burning, tender eyes. He did not speak, and yet he knew that he was understood. The woman gave a little weary sigh; it was in vain! To her there was but one man in all the world. He said no word, but stepped toward her with outstretched, pleading hands, with tender love and pity, asking nothing, giving all without questioning, without doubt. She, who had befriended so many, and was yet without a friend, who had been tempest-tossed and s.h.i.+pwrecked before her life-journey had fairly begun, knew what it was that lay in Maurice Galbraith's outstretched hands,--the love of a life, a haven of peace and quiet. He was about to speak, to let the love which was troubling his heart pour itself out in a flood of words at the portal of her ear; but with a movement she checked him. The repellent gesture of her hand, her averted head and downcast eyes, answered him. He understood her as well, better perhaps than if he had spoken and she had answered. It left him another chance, too; later, when he had shown her how faithfully he could wait, he might speak the words which she now refused to hear. So both were glad that they had spoken only with their eyes. She had been spared the pain of putting into words that which it would have been hard for him to hear; and he was glad that she had not spoken the cold truth which he read in her face. When she spoke again, it was to ignore that silent prayer and its denial. She took up the thread of the conversation where they had dropped it:--

”I am glad that you are convinced of this truth; and I trust that you will bring the others, Henry Deering most of all, to feel as you do.”

The tender look of love died out from Maurice Galbraith's face. He turned gloomily away from the fair woman whose beauty was not for him.

”I cannot tell, I do not know; what man can judge another? I said that I believed you; did I imply that I trusted him?”

Of all cruel griefs endured by Millicent Almsford, this was the most bitter,--that her lover, through her fault, should be misjudged; that in the eyes of others he should suffer. She realized now in what a light he had appeared to Galbraith, to Hal and Barbara, to all the small circle who had seen their friends.h.i.+p flower into love, and that flower tossed to the earth before it had ripened to its fruition. His sudden disappearance, her own too obvious grief, to what could they attribute it but to his faithlessness? And now that this base slander had been cast upon him, they believed it. He was compromised, dishonored in their eyes; and the fault was hers. As the full significance of all this struck her, she groaned aloud, clasping her hands together over her grieved heart as if in mortal agony. How could she right him in their eyes? How could she dissipate the cloud which darkened his stainless honor?

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