Part 7 (2/2)

”What thou or any other man would do--give the woman a chance to defend herself.”

”Aye, I thought as much,” the other replied with an air of angered impatience. ”She will, with her arms about thy neck, explain fast enough, and to thy satisfaction.”

”Dost thou forget,” the son inquired, ”that I am a Monteagle, and have implanted in me that pride and temper which can illy condone, even in those they love, deceit and falsity? Have no fears for me,” he added, advancing with a determined step toward the door.

”Where art thou going, my son?” asked the other in an alarmed tone.

”To face this woman with the accusations thou hast just uttered against her.”

”Stay; go not in thine anger, for some mischief may be wrought. Wait until thy temper cools; see her not again, but write.”

”I am not a killer of unarmed adversaries,” retorted Effingston; ”again, I repeat, have no fear for me.”

”Well, well; G.o.d's will be done; it may be for the best,” the other said with a sigh, turning away his head.

The son hesitated for a moment; then quickly kneeling before his father and taking his hand, exclaimed: ”I humbly ask thee to forget my hot words, and again I crave thy pardon for the same. They were spoken in wrath, on hearing the image of my love fall cras.h.i.+ng to the earth.”

Then springing to his feet, before Monteagle had opportunity to reply, he hurriedly left the room.

Once on the street, Effingston strode without pause in the direction of Elinor's house. What a difference in his feelings now, contrasted with what they had been when he had traversed that way before. He had outlined his course of action,--to simply tell her what his father had seen, and demand an explanation. If she were guilty, even his love and her woman's wit could not, he thought, hide the fact from his eyes; and if it all were true and he had been duped, what then?

He prayed that pride would come to his aid and steel his nerves, and prompt his tongue to speak. With these thoughts in his mind, and looking neither to the right nor left, he hurried on his way to her dwelling. How changed each familiar object seemed to him. As he knocked at the door and listened, a footstep sounded in the hall. Ah, how many times had his heart leaped at the same sound. The door opened, and she who was all the world to him stood on the threshold;--she whom he must soon accuse of hideous duplicity. How very beautiful she looked. On seeing Effingston, Elinor uttered a low, startled cry. He noted the action, for love, when coupled with suspicion (and the two can live together) is not blind, but terribly vigilant.

”Elinor, I must speak with thee, and alone,” he exclaimed.

The girl regarded him with a half frightened look. She had been all day engaged in a bitter fight with self, and knew not how to tell him they must part forever. Now he stood before her. She realized to some extent what the agony of the separation which must soon come would be to her, and knowing full well the depth of his love, measured his sufferings by her own. Wild thoughts had pa.s.sed through her mind of doing something which would turn that love to hate, and she felt she could better bear that than know he lived and suffered. But now as she looked upon him both will and fort.i.tude fast weakened. Again she was the simple loving woman.

”Wilt thou enter?” she asked in a constrained voice, scarce knowing what she said.

He crossed the threshold and pa.s.sed into the little room which held for him the most tender recollections.

”Elinor, I have come----” he began; then, gazing at the beautiful face before him, he advanced toward her with outstretched arms--all resolution gone; ”O my darling, I have wronged thee--thou canst tell, I know, and explain all.”

She shrank from his touch, fearing lest her little firmness should take flight.

”Why dost thou shrink from me?” cried he, swept by a sudden fear which made his lips dry and his cheeks burn. ”O my G.o.d, can it then be thou dost know the purport of my question?”

”I know not what thou meanest,” she stammered, astonished at his words, even amidst her sufferings; ”if thou hast aught to ask, pray say on.”

He watched the trembling figure for a moment, interpreting her emotion as detected guilt, and the demon of jealousy, which, strange to say, is often led forth by love, burst out, prompting him to speak words which after uttering, he would have given worlds to unsay.

”Then, know,” he cried, ”that I have discovered thy methods, and that I have been duped and dragged on to further some h.e.l.lish scheme of thine and his. I've swallowed thy pretty words and thought them sweet.

Now I know all; 'twas but last night thou wert in his arms, and rightly thou belongest there; the report is true, thou art none other than the mistress of Sir Thomas Winter. Aye, tremble in thy guilt, thou Magdalene; thou canst not deny it.”

As he uttered the accusation, she raised her arm as if to ward off some sudden blow, then let it fall at her side, standing speechless, benumbed and horrified at the terrible words he had hurled at her. The disgrace and the infamy of them she did not at once grasp, but gradually her mind began to comprehend all that he had said. The room swam about her, and she caught at a chair for support, vainly trying to make some reply. Again he repeated: ”Thou canst not deny it; guilt is written in thine every action.”

As she aroused herself there flashed upon her mind the act of two short days ago, when she had fallen upon her knees and prayed G.o.d that this man before her might be spared the cruel pangs of that separation which must inevitably come. And had not that prayer been answered? Had not he just uttered accusations, which, if not denied, would end his love for her--now and forever? Believing her to be vile and infamous, pride and manhood would soon come to his aid. But what did the acknowledgment mean to her? His utter contempt; he would always believe that he had been her dupe--hers, who would gladly give her very life for him. But what mattered it? Thinking this to be true, he will soon, manlike, dismiss her from his thoughts, and give his love to another, who, pray G.o.d, may make his life all happiness and gladness. She turned her eyes toward the wall on which hung the image of Christ nailed to a cross. Could she not crucify herself, for this love of hers? Slowly the resolution formed. Again he repeated: ”Canst thou deny it?” And she answered: ”Thou sayest it!”

”It is true?” he cried.

<script>