"Leave this house, at once, as you value your life," cried an agitated voice,—"You know my father,—know that he will shrink from no crime, when his darker nature is aroused,—you have foiled the purpose which was more than life to him. There is danger for you in this house! away!"
"Frank!" was all that Nameless could ejaculate, as he saw her stand before him, lividly pale, her hair unbound, and the golden cross rising and falling upon her heaving bosom. There was a light in her eyes, which he had never seen before.
"No words," she continued in broken and rapid tones,—"you must away at once. You are not safe from poison,"—a bitter, mocking smile,—"or steel, or any treachery, as long as you linger in this house. But this is no time for masquerade attire,—in the next room you will find the apparel which you wore, when first you entered this house, together with a cloak, which will protect you from the cold. You have no time to lose,—give me that bauble," and she tore the chain from his neck and the golden cross from his breast,—"away,—you have not a moment to lose." She pointed to the door.
"Frank!" again ejaculated Nameless, and something like remorse smote his heart, as he gazed upon her countenance, so sadly changed.
"Will you drive me mad? Go!" again she pointed to the door.
Nameless disappeared.
"And you,—" she took the hands of Mary within her own, and raised them to her breast, and gazed long and earnestly into that virgin face,—"You, O, I hate you!" she said her eyes flashing fire, and yet the next moment, she kissed Mary on the cheeks and forehead, and pressed her to her bosom with a frenzied embrace. "You are worthy of him," she said slowly, in a low voice, again perusing every line of that countenance,—"I know you, although an hour ago, I did not know that you lived;" once more her tones were rapid and broken,—"know your history, know who it was that lured you to this place, and know the desolate condition of your father. Your husband has money, but it will not be safe for him to attempt to use it for some days. Take this,—conceal it in your bosom,—nay, I will take no denial. Take it child! That money and purse are not the wages of pollution,—they were both mine, in the days when I was pure and happy."
Scarcely knowing what to do, Mary, whom the wild manner of Frank, struck at once with pity and awe, took the purse, and hid it in her bosom.
"I now remember you," said Mary, her eyes filling with tears, as she gazed into the troubled face of Frank,—"Father painted your picture, and afterward you sought us out in our garret, and left your purse upon the table, with a note stating that it contained the balance due on your portrait. O, it was kind, it was noble,—"
"Do not speak of it, child," Frank said in rapid and abrupt tones,—"Had I not been convinced that you and your father were dead, I would have visited you often. That is, if I could have concealed from you what I was, and the way of life which was mine."