Chapter XVIII
The Guilty One
“Alvord, you shock me—you amaze me! How dare you talk to me of love, when my husband hasn’t been dead a fortnight?”
“What matter, Eunice? You never really loved Sanford—”
“I did—I did!”
“Not lately, anyhow. Perhaps just at first—and then, not deeply. He carried you originally by storm—it was an even toss-up whether he or Elliott or I won out. He was the most forceful of the three, and he made you marry him—didn’t he now?”
“Don’t talk nonsense. I married Sanford of my own free will—”
“Yes, and in haste, and repented at leisure. Now, don’t be hypocritical, and pretend to grieve for him. His death was shocking—fearful—but you’re really relieved that he is gone. Why not admit it?”
“Alvord, stop such talk! I command you! I won’t listen!”
“Very well, dearest, I’ll stop it. I beg your pardon—I forgot myself, I confess. Now, let me atone. I love you, Eunice, and I’ll promise not to tell you so, or to talk about it now, if you’ll just give me a ray of hope—a glimmer of anticipation. Will you—sometime—darling, let me tell you of my love? After such an interval as you judge proper? Will you, Eunice?”
“No, I will not! I don’t love you—I never did and never can love you! How did you ever get such an idea into your head?”