“If you insist on seeing this, I will show it to you; but I swear to you that I will never permit you to enter this house again; I swear it. Do you believe me?”
“Yes.”
“If you will trust me, I will give you your notes, love you for the rest of my life—marry you to-morrow.” She went to the table, picked up the envelope, and stood waiting. “What shall I do?”
He rose unsteadily, catching at the mantel. No use—he was beaten.
“Will you get me the notes?”
He saw her shake then, violently, from head to foot, but her eyes never wavered. She nodded, and was gone.
He stood leaning against the mantel, his dark head buried in his arms. Beaten! He would never know what was in that envelope—never, never. She could talk to all Eternity about faith and trust; he would go wondering all his life through. If he had stood his ground—if he had claimed the envelope and she had been proven innocent, he would have lost her but he would have found his faith. He had sold his soul to purchase her body. The painted clock struck once, and he raised his head——
No, no, he was mad. She was right—entirely, absolutely right—she was just and merciful, she who might have scourged him from her sight for ever. What reason in heaven or earth had he to distrust her? Because her voice was silver and her hair was gold? Because violets scattered their fragrance when she stirred? Oh, his folly was thrice damned. If he had a thousand proofs against her, he should still trust her. What was it that that chap Browning said?
“What so false as truth is
False to thee?”
That was what love should be—not this sick and faltering thing——