“I may weep,” he said, at last. “My God, I may weep for the man I called friend! Weep for my murdered love, and for the man who slew her! Friend and brother I called him, and he killed her!”
“There may be some mistake,” she whispered. The white lips could scarcely frame the words.
“There is none,” he replied. “Ronald Alden slew his wife and has hidden the proof of his crime here.”
“It cannot be!” she repeated, in a hoarse whisper.
“It is so; my own instinct tells me I have tracked the murderer at last!”
She raised her white face to him in an agony of entreaty that knew no words.
“You will not, you cannot, betray him!” she said. “You cannot, Kenelm Eyrle! He is your friend. You could not be so false to friendship. He is your best-trusted, best-loved.”
“Hush!” he said, sternly. “If the child who slept in my bosom—if the brother who shared my life—had done this deed, I would denounce him. I would show him no more mercy than I would to the man who has deceived you and has deceived me.”
CHAPTER XLVII.
A WIFE’S LOVE.
“Kenelm,” said Lady Alden, raising her earnest eyes and clasping her hands, “you cannot be cruel; you cannot forget every tie that binds you to Ronald. Oh, why, my God! why did I bring that fatal box here? You cannot forget all that Ronald was to you. He left his wife and children in your charge, and you would rob them of all their natural protectors—of husband and father! Oh, Kenelm! you must not do it. No man could live and be so cruel.”