Unhappily, Adèle's tale carried conviction. But "None are so blind as those who will not see." Arthur could not believe, because he would not. He did not answer for a few moments, then he turned, with a light laugh that sorely belied a certain haggard look in his young face: "You had better turn novelist, Adèle. Your plots would certainly be first-rate. Why, you have reared a mountain of certainty out of a grain of conjecture. I don't believe it," he continued fiercely. But in his very fierceness was the contradiction of his words. "You pretend to care for her, and yet you can listen to all these foolish tales!"
It was rather an unkind accusation, since Adèle had been doing her very utmost to show how implicitly she believed in Margaret's innocence and truth; but pain blinded Arthur for the moment, and made him cruel and unjust.
Adèle saw how it was with him, and she did not even appear to resent his words. "Sit down again, Arthur dear," she said gently. "I am as anxious as you can be to get to the bottom of this mystery, but if we would do anything we must be calm and have our wits about us."
"Say, rather, I must," returned Arthur, throwing himself down on a small chair at her feet and seizing one of her hands in a sudden access of penitence. "What a brute I am, exciting you in this way, my poor pale little cousin! Adèle, you are wise and kind: I put myself in your hands. What shall I do?"
Adèle's lips quivered as if with a sudden pain, but the answer came out clear and firm: "Go and see her, Arthur; find out the truth about all this. I think when you have once heard her story you will be in no further difficulty."
Arthur started up, his eyes glittering: "Shall I, Adèle? Can I? What if I offend her?"
"You will not, Arthur. Take my advice; this time, I think, it coincides with your own will. Pass me my writing-desk, dear. Here! this is the address I have kept from you so long. Take it, my poor old fellow, and go."
He took it up and looked at it with gleaming eyes, for behind it he seemed to see the vision for which he had been thirsting so long. Adèle had thrown herself back upon the sofa; she looked pale and exhausted. From the little piece of paper Arthur had been studying so earnestly he turned his eyes to her. Something in her pale face touched him. He felt a sudden pang of self-reproach, and kneeling down by her side he pressed one of her hands to his lips: "Adèle, you are an angel! I say it in sober earnest, worthy of one far better and worthier and nobler than I. Dear little cousin, I will take your advice. You shall see me again only when my fate is sealed—when I have seen her. Forgive me, and keep a little corner of your heart for me till my return."
"Good-bye, dear."
It was all Adèle could say for the tears that would not be restrained. But she was happier. There was a feeling of settled calm in her heart to which it had long been a stranger. She had done what she could; she was willing to leave the rest.