Her lips formed the word “What?”
“That you promise to see him”—he could not speak Norman’s name—“no more. I will deal with him—will find some means of enforcing his separation from you.”
He waited for an answer, but she did not speak.
“I gather from your silence that you consent?” he said.
She did not contradict him by word or look.
“I have now to speak of the money you brought me. It shall be returned to you. You refused it the night—the night of our marriage; you can not do so now. It shall be transferred back to you, and without the knowledge of the world. To-morrow I leave Belfayre and England; it is not probable that I shall ever return. For me, life is over. I shall never see your face again.” His voice broke at the words, but he mastered it again quickly; he did not see the shudder, the tremor, that shook her as she heard them. “If there is any question you wish to ask me,” he went on in so hoarse and low a voice that she could scarcely hear it, “write to me before I go, and I will answer it. I desire to make every arrangement that will tend to render your future an assured one. God knows I have no desire to punish you! As I said, there has been wrong on both sides; I have acknowledged it. You will deem it but a hollow mockery, but I wish you happiness in the future, forgetfulness of the past.”
His breath was labored, and the words issued from his white lips slowly and painfully. He had never been more conscious of her loveliness than he was at that moment; she looked like an angel of innocence and purity as she stood in her white frock under the soft light of the shaded lamp; and his heart ached with a passionate love which, for the moment, almost overwhelmed his jealousy and his sense of terrible injury and wrong.
If she had only spoken; if she had only said to him: “It is all a mistake! I am innocent; I could not help Norman loving me; he is nothing to me, and never has been. It is you I loved and still love!” If she had said this with her eyes meeting his steadily, he could not but have believed her; she would have been in his arms, and the history of Esmeralda, of Three Star Camp, might very well have closed here.
But she said nothing; there was scarcely room for love in her heart, it was so full of pride and an innocent girl’s resentment and indignation. Perhaps he expected, half hoped, that she would speak, would plead for forgiveness; and he felt in his heart that if she were to do so he must yield and take her back.
When he found she did not speak, he turned to the door and unlocked it. Even then he paused.