“Deceived you! What do you mean?”
Stuart met her clear, blue eyes, startled, yet strangely steadfast.
“Why do you say such wicked, such cruel things of me?” she asked.
Stuart hesitated for a moment. A sudden strange fear crept into his heart.
“You may give them other names,” he said, huskily; “I call it deceit, I call it wickedness to act as you did—to laugh at me, to send false, tender messages the while you were fooling another man, and suddenly to leave the village for him, forgetting me and all the words you had spoken only three days before.”
Margery had moved slowly to the table. She still wore the long robe of white serge that she had donned in the morning. She looked up at Stuart, mystified and pained by his words. She put one hand on the table and gazed at her old lover, whose arms were still folded across his breast.
“I do not understand,” she said, distinctly yet faintly. “You accuse me of deceit.”
“Let me recall the past,” returned Stuart, letting his hands drop to his sides, while he moved nearer to her. “On the day we plighted our troth, the words I spoke, Margery, were from my heart, not lightly meant or lightly given, but solemn and serious; while yours——”
“While mine,” she cried, raising her head proudly, “live as truly in my heart now as they did on that day! Ah, what have I said?”
She moved to a chair, and, flinging herself into it, buried her face in her hands, while he stood as he was, hardly realizing what it was that caused the sudden glow within his breast, the unspeakable happiness that possessed him. In a moment, however, Margery rose; pride had come to her aid. She looked at him steadily, her two small hands clasped.