"But why, why?—me, a nobody, why should you want me to marry him?"
Barton's brow gathered. He resumed his seat.
"I will tell you why in a very few words," he said grimly and savagely. There was a look almost of insanity in his eyes. "It is because I seek revenge—revenge against the woman who ruined my life—his mother!"
CHAPTER VI.
MRS. DARROW'S BOMBSHELL.
For a moment Miriam stood aghast at the man's abandoned confession of his feelings. How anyone could nurse such venom in his breast it was beyond her to conceive.
"It is very terrible, this idea of yours, Mr. Barton," she said; "to me very horrible! Do you mean to say that you would make the living suffer for an imaginary wrong done you by the dead? for I cannot but think it is imaginary."
Barton scowled, and gripped the arm of his chair.
"Miriam Crane," he said, "you don't know what you are talking about. Gerald's mother—my sister—ruined my life—ruined it as utterly and hopelessly as ever man's life was ruined. Thirty years ago I had the chance of marrying the woman I loved, of settling down and becoming a decent member of society, of having my wretched hereditary weaknesses curbed by a gentle wife—in a word, the chance of happiness was mine, and this fiend-woman, Flora, sister of my blood, put an end to it. For that, I hated her while she lived. I hate her memory a thousand times more now that she is dead. For me, her son represents her, and he must bear the punishment she escaped."