Joanna stood there, holding the curtain with her uplifted hand, her eyes bright, her face flushed with unnatural excitement. Again she laughed loud and long—the echoes of her laughter sounded strangely in that marriage chamber.
"What,—what does this mean?" cried Beverly, at last finding words—"is this a dream——a——" He certainly was in a fearful fright, for he could not proceed.
"Why, so cold, love?" she said, smiling, "it is our marriage bed, you know—"
"Joanna, Joanna," he cried,—"are you mad?" and in his fright, he looked anxiously toward the door.
She took a package from her breast and flung it at his feet.
"Go," she cried, "but first take up your forged letters—"
"Forged letters?" he echoed.
"Forged letters," she answered,—her voice was changed,—her manner changed,—there was no longer any passion on her face,—pale as marble, her face rigid as death, she confronted him with a gaze that he dared not meet. "Go!" she cried, "but take with you your forged letters. Yes, the letters which you forged, and which you used as the means of my ruin. You have robbed me of my honor, robbed me of my husband,—your work is complete—go!"
Her face was white as the dress which she wore,—she pointed to the threshold.
"Joanna, Joanna," faltered Beverly.