"Whether in your unreasoning passion you will believe it or not makes no difference," said Mrs. Marchmont, quietly. "It is true, as I can prove by Addie and Miss Parton."
He took a few hasty strides up and down the room and muttered, "I will take her word against all the world. She shall answer for herself"; and he rang the bell.
When the servant appeared he said, "Please ask Miss Marsden to come here at once."
Mrs. Marchmont regretted Hemstead's action very much, but it was too firm and decided to be prevented. She had planned that after his "eyes had been opened to his folly," and Lottie's frivolity, to say the least, her nephew would, with quiet dignity, cease his attentions, and perhaps shorten his visit. She had a horror of scenes, but feared that one was coming now.
Hemstead admitted Lottie with a silent bow and gave her a chair.
When she saw his grave, pale face, her heart misgave her strangely, and she trembled so that even he noticed it, and also another fact,—she did not meet his eyes. He fastened his upon her, as if he would read her soul, for he now felt that more than life was at stake.
"Miss Marsden," he said, in a low, deep tone, "my aunt has made a strange charge against you, but I said to her, and I now say to you, that I will take your word against all the world. She asserts, and she gives the names of her witnesses, that your action—your kindness towards me from the first—has been but the carrying out of a deliberate and heartless jest. Is it true?"
Lottie's wonted quickness failed her. She had been so happy, she had seemed to have got so far beyond her old, false self, and so established in his affection, that such a reverse did not appear possible. But the evil that at one time she had feared had now come in a form so unexpected and serious that, for a moment, she was stunned and bewildered, and fell into helpless confusion. The nature of the case aggravated her distress. How could she explain? What could she say? In response to his question she only trembled more violently and buried her burning face in her hands.
He saw in this action confirmation of fears that he at first would scarcely entertain, and regarded her a moment with a strange expression upon his face,—anger and pity blended,—and then silently left the room.
The sleigh stood at the door, and the coachman was just starting on an errand to Newburgh.