"Do you remember this?" I asked, and I took from my pocketbook the withered York and Lancaster rosebud.
She gave it a dark glance, and her crimson face grew pale.
"Too well," she replied, in a low tone.
I threw it down and ground it under my heel; then, removing my hat, I said:
"I am at your mercy. You are the stronger, and your foot is on my neck."
She turned on me instantly, and her face was aflame with her eager imperious demand to know the truth. Taking both my hands in a tense, strong grasp, she looked into my eyes as if she would read my very soul. "Richard," she said, in a voice that was half entreaty, half command, "in God's name, tell me the truth—the whole truth. Do you respect me at heart? Do you trust me? Can you trust me as Mr. Yocomb trusts his wife?"
"I will make no comparisons," I replied, gently. "Like the widow in the
Bible, I give you all I have."
Her tense grasp relaxed, her searching eyes melted into love itself, and I snatched her to my heart.
"What were the millions I lost compared with this dowry!" she murmured.
"I knew it—I've known it all day, ever since you crushed my hand. Oh,
Richard, your rude touch healed a sore heart."
"Emily," I said, with a low laugh, "that June day was the day of fate after all."