Initials Only [94]
knew her, never saw her, never -"
"He met her at Lenox."
The name produced its effect. He stared, made an effort to think, repeated Lenox over to himself; then suddenly lost his hold upon the idea which that word suggested, struggled again for it, seized it in an instant of madness and shouted out:
"Yes, yes, I remember. I sent him there -" and paused, his mind blank again.
Poor Doris, frightened to her very soul, looked blindly about for help; but she did not quit his side; she did not dare to, for his lips had reopened; the continuity of his thoughts had returned; he was going to speak.
"I sent him there." The words came in a sort of shout. "I was so hungry to hear of her and I thought he might mention her in his letter. Insane! Insane! He saw her and - What's that you said about his loving her? He couldn't have loved her; he's not of the loving sort. They've deceived you with strange tales. They've deceived the whole world with fancies and mad dreams. He may have admired her, but loved her, - no! or if he had, he would have respected my claims."
"He did not know them."
A laugh; a laugh which paled Doris' cheek; them his tones grew even again, memory came back and he muttered faintly:
"That is true. I said nothing to him. He had the right to court her - and he did, you say; wrote: to her; imposed himself upon her, drove her mad with importunities she was forced to rebuke; and - and what else? There is something else. Tell me ; I will know it all."
He was standing now, his feebleness all gone, passion in every lineament and his eye alive and feverish, with emotion. "Tell me," he repeated, with unrestrained vehemence. " Tell me all. Kill me with sorrow but save me from being unjust."
"He wrote her a letter; it frightened her. He followed it up by a visit -"
Doris paused; the sentence hung suspended. She had heard a step - a hand on the door.
Orlando had entered the room.
XXXIII
ALONE
Oswald had heard nothing, seen nothing. But he took note of Doris' silence, and turning towards her in frenzy saw what had happened, and so was in a measure prepared for the stern, short sentence which now rang through the room:
"Wait, Miss Scott! you tell the story badly. Let him listen to me. >From my mouth only shall he hear the stern and seemingly unnatural part I played in this family tragedy."
The face of Oswald hardened. Those pliant features - beloved for their gracious kindliness - set themselves in lines which altered them almost beyond recognition; but his voice was not without some of its natural sweetness, as, after a long and hollow look at the other's composed countenance, he abruptly exclaimed:
"Speak! I am bound to listen; you are my brother."
Orlando turned towards Doris. She was slipping away.
"Don't go," said he.
But she was gone.
Slowly he turned back.
Oswald raised his hand and checked the words with which he would have begun his story.
"Never mind the beginnings," said he. "Doris has told all that. You saw Miss Challoner in Lenox - admired her - offered yourself to her and afterwards wrote her a threatening letter because she rejected you."
"It is true. Other men have followed just such unworthy impulses - and been ashamed and sorry afterwards. I was sorry and I was ashamed, and as soon as my first anger was over went to tell her so. But she mistook my purpose and -"
"And what?"
Orlando hesitated. Even his iron nature trembled before the misery he saw - a misery he was destined to augment rather than soothe. With pains altogether out of keeping with his character, he sought in the recesses of his darkened mind for words less bitter and less abrupt than those which sprang involuntarily to his lips. But he did not find them. Though he pitied his brother and wished to show that he did, nothing but the stern language suitable to the stern fact he wished to impart, would leave his lips.
"And ended the pitiful struggle of the moment with one quick, unpremeditated blow," was what he said. "There is no
"He met her at Lenox."
The name produced its effect. He stared, made an effort to think, repeated Lenox over to himself; then suddenly lost his hold upon the idea which that word suggested, struggled again for it, seized it in an instant of madness and shouted out:
"Yes, yes, I remember. I sent him there -" and paused, his mind blank again.
Poor Doris, frightened to her very soul, looked blindly about for help; but she did not quit his side; she did not dare to, for his lips had reopened; the continuity of his thoughts had returned; he was going to speak.
"I sent him there." The words came in a sort of shout. "I was so hungry to hear of her and I thought he might mention her in his letter. Insane! Insane! He saw her and - What's that you said about his loving her? He couldn't have loved her; he's not of the loving sort. They've deceived you with strange tales. They've deceived the whole world with fancies and mad dreams. He may have admired her, but loved her, - no! or if he had, he would have respected my claims."
"He did not know them."
A laugh; a laugh which paled Doris' cheek; them his tones grew even again, memory came back and he muttered faintly:
"That is true. I said nothing to him. He had the right to court her - and he did, you say; wrote: to her; imposed himself upon her, drove her mad with importunities she was forced to rebuke; and - and what else? There is something else. Tell me ; I will know it all."
He was standing now, his feebleness all gone, passion in every lineament and his eye alive and feverish, with emotion. "Tell me," he repeated, with unrestrained vehemence. " Tell me all. Kill me with sorrow but save me from being unjust."
"He wrote her a letter; it frightened her. He followed it up by a visit -"
Doris paused; the sentence hung suspended. She had heard a step - a hand on the door.
Orlando had entered the room.
XXXIII
ALONE
Oswald had heard nothing, seen nothing. But he took note of Doris' silence, and turning towards her in frenzy saw what had happened, and so was in a measure prepared for the stern, short sentence which now rang through the room:
"Wait, Miss Scott! you tell the story badly. Let him listen to me. >From my mouth only shall he hear the stern and seemingly unnatural part I played in this family tragedy."
The face of Oswald hardened. Those pliant features - beloved for their gracious kindliness - set themselves in lines which altered them almost beyond recognition; but his voice was not without some of its natural sweetness, as, after a long and hollow look at the other's composed countenance, he abruptly exclaimed:
"Speak! I am bound to listen; you are my brother."
Orlando turned towards Doris. She was slipping away.
"Don't go," said he.
But she was gone.
Slowly he turned back.
Oswald raised his hand and checked the words with which he would have begun his story.
"Never mind the beginnings," said he. "Doris has told all that. You saw Miss Challoner in Lenox - admired her - offered yourself to her and afterwards wrote her a threatening letter because she rejected you."
"It is true. Other men have followed just such unworthy impulses - and been ashamed and sorry afterwards. I was sorry and I was ashamed, and as soon as my first anger was over went to tell her so. But she mistook my purpose and -"
"And what?"
Orlando hesitated. Even his iron nature trembled before the misery he saw - a misery he was destined to augment rather than soothe. With pains altogether out of keeping with his character, he sought in the recesses of his darkened mind for words less bitter and less abrupt than those which sprang involuntarily to his lips. But he did not find them. Though he pitied his brother and wished to show that he did, nothing but the stern language suitable to the stern fact he wished to impart, would leave his lips.
"And ended the pitiful struggle of the moment with one quick, unpremeditated blow," was what he said. "There is no