"Never mind, dear," said Beverly, and he bent forward and kissed her hands—"I will love you always!"
"Oh, my God!"—and in that ejaculation, all the agony of her soul found utterance,—"Oh, my God! my child!"
Beverly knelt at her feet, and kissed her clenched hands, and endeavored to soothe her with professions of undying love; but she tore her hands from his grasp—
"My husband! How can I ever look into his face again!"
Had you seen that noble form, swelling in every fiber; had you seen the silken robe, heaved upward by the agony which filled her bosom; had you seen the look, so wild—remorseful—almost mad—which stamped her face,—you would have felt the emphasis with which she uttered these terrible words, "My husband! How can I ever look into his face again!"
"Your husband," whispered Beverly, with something of the devil in his eyes, "your husband, even now, is on his way to Boston, where the chosen mistress of his heart awaits him. His brother is at the point of death, is he? ha, ha, Joanna! 'Twas a good excuse, but, like all excuses, rather lame—when found out. The poor, good, dear Joanna, sits at home, pining at her husband's absence, while he, the faithful Eugene, consoles himself in the arms of his Boston love!"
"It cannot be! it cannot be!" cried Joanna, beating the carpet with her foot, and pressing her clenched hands against her heaving breast.
"Do you see this, darling?" and, throwing the robe of the white monk aside, he disclosed his "flashy" scarf, white vest and gold chain. "Do you see this, pet?" and from beneath his white vest he drew forth a package of letters.—"Her letters to her dear Eugene! How she loves him—how she pities him, because he is not married to a sympathetic soul,—how she counts the hours that must elapse before he comes! It is all written here, darling!"
Joanna took the package and passed it absently from one hand to the other. "Yes, yes, I read them yesterday! It is true, beyond hope of doubt. He loves her!—he loves her!"
"And you,"—Beverly arose and seated himself by her side, winding his arm about her waist. "And you, like a brave, noble woman, whose dearest affections have been trampled upon,"—he wound his left hand amid the rich masses of her golden hair,—"you, like a brave, proud heart, whose very May of life has been blighted by a husband's treachery,—have avenged yourself upon him!"