While Florence Heriton, her lips quivering, her eyes glittering with excitement, was thus earnestly addressing her lover, Mr. Aylwinne had continued to stand before her, an agitated but attentive listener.
But when she ceased speaking, a spasm of pain contracted his features, and, dropping heavily into his chair, he covered his face with his hand.
“Why do you speak of this?” he asked, in low, uncertain tones. “Let it suffice that I have long known all; and pray do not recur again to a topic so fraught with misery to both of us.”
“You speak in riddles!” she retorted, her excitement and determination to be enlightened increasing with his evident reluctance to satisfy her. “You speak in riddles! I have never had anything to conceal, as you would seem to imply. Tell me your meaning frankly; for that man has aroused within me doubts and fears which nothing but your explanation can allay.”
He rose, and, coming toward her, would have taken her in his arms.
She stepped back and prevented this; but, without noticing the repulse, he said affectionately:
“My Florence, if in the first paroxysm of my natural grief and distress I permitted myself to think harshly of you, a more intimate knowledge of my darling’s character has made me repent this. I am satisfied that you were deceived—misled—that you never really knew what you were doing. And now let us say no more, for I lose all self-command when I think of your wrongs.”
Again Florence put back the hands that were extended to clasp her.
“Not yet. I must and will know what all this means! Tell me, Frank, I conjure you, what you have heard from this man!”
“Do you still persist? Why should you, when you see how painful it is to me? Have you never imagined that that fellow was deep in all his master’s secrets?”