"Ah, love, you are as good as you are beautiful!" he whispered.
"Before you spoke thus, I had no thought save of my duty to Eugene."
"Eugene, who betrayed you!"
"Yes, to Eugene, who betrayed me, and to my child. After you spoke, I saw life in a new light. The world did not seem to me, any longer, to be the scene of dull quiet home-like duty, but of pleasure,—mad, passionate pleasure,—may be, illicit pleasure, purchased at any cost. And letter after letter which you brought me, accompanied by proof which I could not doubt, only served to complete the work,—to wean me from my idol,—false, false idol, Eugene,—and to teach me that this world was not so much made for dull every-day duty, as for those pleasures which, scorning the laws of the common herd, develop into active life every throb of enjoyment of which we are capable."
"Yes, yes, love," interrupted Beverly, pressing his lips to hers.
"And thus matters wore on, until you brought me the last, the damning letter. He was going to Boston to see his dying brother,—so he pretended,—but in reality to see the woman for whom he had proved faithless to me. When you brought me this letter I was mad,—mad,—O, Beverly——"
"It was enough to drive you mad!"
"And yesterday, impelled by some vague idea of revenge, I consented to go with you to a place, where, as you said, we would see something of the world,—where, in the excitement of a masked ball, I might forget my husband's faithlessness, and at the same time show that I did not care for his authority. Some idea of this kind was in my mind, and last night when he kissed me, and so coolly lied to me, before his departure, O, then Beverly, then, I was cut to the quick. You came after he had gone, and,—and—I went with you—"
"You did dearest Joanna," said Beverly, pressing her closer to his side.
They passed from the light into the shadows together.