"Treachery! What? How? I don't understand--Belle, what is the matter?"
For she had thrown herself between him and her husband, and stood with one hand on his breast as if to push him back. "He shall not go; he does not understand!" she cried passionately. "I tell you he shall not go until I have told him all. He does not know, he does not understand; it is not fair--Philip!--"
"--Don't heed her, Marsden; it's all fancy, and there is no time for words. I tell you they are at the dam,--the fools!" cried John, his self-control seeming to give way at the very thought of danger to the work of his hands. "Belle, let him go! I command you,--I entreat--"
But she stood firm, every fibre of her nature tense in this final conflict, a conflict not so much between the two men, as between her instincts and her beliefs. And yet, the sense of personal injury so long repressed made her words reckless. "You have taken everything from him--everything that makes life worth living--even his love. And because of that he has given up everything without a word; and now you ask his honour, his life, in a bad cause; but you shall not have it! Philip! if you love me,--if you love your own good name,--stay where you are. It is I who command it!"
With an oath John Raby dashed past her to the office, but ere Philip had time to do more than unclasp, as gently as he could, the arms she had flung about his neck, her husband was back again, revolver in hand, his clear face blurred by anger; sheer, animal anger.
"Belle!" he cried, beside himself with uncontrolled passion, "don't add this folly to your other foolishness. Think! I am your husband; so choose between us. Choose between us I say, or by God--"
She interrupted him in tones so bitter that no escape remained from their finality. "Choose? Yes! I have chosen at last--at last! Philip shall not suffer."
His answer came swiftly! "Then stay with your lover; I might have known I was a fool to trust a woman."
Ere the echo of his voice died away he was out in the storm again, leaving those two in a silence worse than the words just spoken. He had disengaged her arms, but her hands had tightened themselves on his, and so they stood face to face, looking into each other's eyes. But in his lay a pity and tenderness before which hers failed and fell.
"You must not go," she whispered, low and fast. "I have not told you, and I ought to have told you. He had no right to use your name, to be so hard; and they may kill you. I have a right to tell you,--surely I have a right to so much?"