Perhaps I blushed at the mention of this marriage; but he immediately continued:—
"On dit, my pretty widow, that this girl, Lansdale, has cut you out. Barnhurst once was sadly taken with you; so I've heard. How is it? All talk, I suppose?"
I felt myself growing pale, although the blood was boiling in my veins. But before I could reply, there was a ring at the front door, followed by the sound of a hasty footstep, and the next moment, to my utter surprise, Fanny Lansdale rushed into the room. Without seeming to notice the presence of Dudley, she rushed forward, and fell on her knees before me, her bonnet hanging on her neck, her hair floating about her face, and that face bathed in blushes and tears.
"Oh, Marion! Marion!" she gasped,—"some slanderer has told father a story about you and Herman,—a vile, wicked story,—which you can refute, and which I am sure you will! For—for—"
She fell fainting on my knee. The violence of her emotions, for the time, deprived her of all appearance of life. Her head was on my lap; one hand sought mine, and was joined to it in a convulsive clasp.
Oh, who shall say that those crimes which make the world shudder but to hear told, are the result of long and skillful planning, of careful and intricate scheming? No, no; the worst crimes—those which it would seem might make even the heart of a devil, contract with horror—are not the result of long and deliberate purpose, but of the temptation of a moment—of the fatal opportunity!
As her head rested on my lap, a voice whispered in my ear:
"Your rival! Retire for a few moments, in search of hartshorn, or some such restorative, and leave the fainting one in my care."
I raised my head and caught the eye of Gerald Dudley. Only a single look, and the fiend was in my heart. I rose; the fainting girl fell upon the floor; I hurried from the room, and did not pause until I had reached my own chamber, and locked the door. Pressing my hands now on my burning temples, now on my breast, I paced the floor, while, perchance, fifteen minutes—they seemed an eternity—passed away.
Then I went slowly down stairs, and entered the back parlor. Gerald was there, standing near the sofa; his face wearing an insolent scowl of triumph. The girl was stretched upon the sofa, still insensible, but—I dare not write it—opposite Gerald stood Herman Barnhurst, who had followed Fanny to the house, and arrived—too late. His face was bloodless.