Dora Thorne [113]
mine?"
"Certainly not," she said, wondering still more.
"I have all your affection, your confidence, your trust; you have never duped or deceived me; you have been open, truthful, and honest with me?"
"You forget yourself, Lionel," she said, with gentle dignity; "you should not use such words to me."
"Answer!" he returned. "You have to do with a desperate man. Have you deceived me?"
"Never," she replied, "In thought, word, or deed."
"Merciful Heaven!" he cried. "That one can be so fair and so false!"
There was nothing but wonder in the face that was raised to his.
"Lillian," he said, "I have loved you as the ideal of all that was pure and noble in woman. In you I saw everything good and holy. May Heaven pardon you that my faith has died a violent death."
"I can not understand you," she said, slowly. "Why do you speak to me so?"
"I will use plainer words," he replied--"so plain that you can not mistake them. I, your betrothed husband, the man you love and trust, ask you, Lillian Earle, who was it you met tonight in your father's grounds?"
He saw the question strike her as lightning sometimes strikes a fair tree. The color faded from her lips; a cloud came over the clear, dove-like eyes; she tried to answer, but the words died away in a faint murmur.
"Do you deny that you were there?" he asked. "Remember, I saw you, and I saw him. Do you deny it?"
"No," she replied.
"Who was it?" he cried; and his eyes flamed so angrily upon her that she was afraid. "Tell me who it was. I will follow him to the world's end. Tell me."
"I can not, Lionel," she whispered; "I can not. For pity's sake, keep my secret!"
"You need not be afraid," he said, haughtily. "I shall not betray you to Lord Earle. Let him find out for himself what you are, as I have done. I could curse myself for my own trust. Who is he?"
"I can not tell you," she stammered, and he saw her little white hands wrung together in agony. "Oh, Lionel, trust me--do not be angry with me."
"You can not expect me," he said, although he was softened by the sight of her sorrow, "to know of such an action and not to speak of it, Lillian. If you can explain it, do so. If the man was an old lover of yours, tell me so; in time I may forget the deceit, if you are frank with me now. If there be any circumstance that extenuates or explains what you did, tell it to me now."
"I can not," she said, and her fair face drooped sadly away from him.
"That I quite believe," he continued, bitterly. "You can not and will not. You know the alternative, I suppose?"
The gentle eyes were raised to his in mute, appealing sorrow, but she spoke not.
"Tell me now," he said, "whom it was you stole out of the house to meet--why you met him? Be frank with me; and, if it was but girlish nonsense, in time I may pardon you. If you refuse to tell me, I shall leave Earlescourt, and never look upon your false, fair face again."
She buried her face in her hands, and he heard a low moan of sorrow come from her white lips.
"Will you tell me, Lillian?" he asked again--and he never forgot the deadly anguish of the face turned toward him.
"I can not," she replied; her voice died away, and he thought she was falling from her chair.
"That is your final decision; you refuse to tell me what, as your accepted lover, I have a right to know?"
"Trust me, Lionel," she implored. "Try, for the love you bear me, to trust me!"
"I will never believe in any one again," he said. "Take back your promise, Lillian Earle; you have broken a true and honest heart, you have blighted a whole life. Heaven knows what I shall become, drifted from you. I care not. You have deceived me. Take back your ring. I will say goodbye to you. I shall not care to look upon your false, fair face again."
"Oh, Lionel, wait!" she cried. "Give me time--do not leave me so!"
"Time will make little difference," he answered; "I shall not leave the Hall until tomorrow morning; you can write to me if you wish me to remain."
He laid the ring upon the
"Certainly not," she said, wondering still more.
"I have all your affection, your confidence, your trust; you have never duped or deceived me; you have been open, truthful, and honest with me?"
"You forget yourself, Lionel," she said, with gentle dignity; "you should not use such words to me."
"Answer!" he returned. "You have to do with a desperate man. Have you deceived me?"
"Never," she replied, "In thought, word, or deed."
"Merciful Heaven!" he cried. "That one can be so fair and so false!"
There was nothing but wonder in the face that was raised to his.
"Lillian," he said, "I have loved you as the ideal of all that was pure and noble in woman. In you I saw everything good and holy. May Heaven pardon you that my faith has died a violent death."
"I can not understand you," she said, slowly. "Why do you speak to me so?"
"I will use plainer words," he replied--"so plain that you can not mistake them. I, your betrothed husband, the man you love and trust, ask you, Lillian Earle, who was it you met tonight in your father's grounds?"
He saw the question strike her as lightning sometimes strikes a fair tree. The color faded from her lips; a cloud came over the clear, dove-like eyes; she tried to answer, but the words died away in a faint murmur.
"Do you deny that you were there?" he asked. "Remember, I saw you, and I saw him. Do you deny it?"
"No," she replied.
"Who was it?" he cried; and his eyes flamed so angrily upon her that she was afraid. "Tell me who it was. I will follow him to the world's end. Tell me."
"I can not, Lionel," she whispered; "I can not. For pity's sake, keep my secret!"
"You need not be afraid," he said, haughtily. "I shall not betray you to Lord Earle. Let him find out for himself what you are, as I have done. I could curse myself for my own trust. Who is he?"
"I can not tell you," she stammered, and he saw her little white hands wrung together in agony. "Oh, Lionel, trust me--do not be angry with me."
"You can not expect me," he said, although he was softened by the sight of her sorrow, "to know of such an action and not to speak of it, Lillian. If you can explain it, do so. If the man was an old lover of yours, tell me so; in time I may forget the deceit, if you are frank with me now. If there be any circumstance that extenuates or explains what you did, tell it to me now."
"I can not," she said, and her fair face drooped sadly away from him.
"That I quite believe," he continued, bitterly. "You can not and will not. You know the alternative, I suppose?"
The gentle eyes were raised to his in mute, appealing sorrow, but she spoke not.
"Tell me now," he said, "whom it was you stole out of the house to meet--why you met him? Be frank with me; and, if it was but girlish nonsense, in time I may pardon you. If you refuse to tell me, I shall leave Earlescourt, and never look upon your false, fair face again."
She buried her face in her hands, and he heard a low moan of sorrow come from her white lips.
"Will you tell me, Lillian?" he asked again--and he never forgot the deadly anguish of the face turned toward him.
"I can not," she replied; her voice died away, and he thought she was falling from her chair.
"That is your final decision; you refuse to tell me what, as your accepted lover, I have a right to know?"
"Trust me, Lionel," she implored. "Try, for the love you bear me, to trust me!"
"I will never believe in any one again," he said. "Take back your promise, Lillian Earle; you have broken a true and honest heart, you have blighted a whole life. Heaven knows what I shall become, drifted from you. I care not. You have deceived me. Take back your ring. I will say goodbye to you. I shall not care to look upon your false, fair face again."
"Oh, Lionel, wait!" she cried. "Give me time--do not leave me so!"
"Time will make little difference," he answered; "I shall not leave the Hall until tomorrow morning; you can write to me if you wish me to remain."
He laid the ring upon the