“Before it is too late, Armstrong,” said Cornel softly. “No word of reproach shall ever come from those who love you.”
He shook his head.
“Listen, dear,” she whispered, but her voice thrilled both. “I come to you a weak woman, but strong in my armour of love and truth. They tell me it is lowering, weak, and contemptible—that I am utterly lost to a woman’s sense of dignity and shame. But they do not know my love for you—yes, my love for you, I say it even before this creature, who cannot know the depth and truth of a true woman’s love—I come, I say, once again to plead, to beg of you to come. Let her go back to her own people; come you to yours, before it is too late.”
“It is too late, girl,” said Valentina gently. “I forgive you all you have said in ignorance that my love is stronger, more womanly, than yours. In Heaven’s sight this is my husband now. We sorrow for you, and can pity. But go now, and leave us in peace. I tell you again—it is too late.”
“Yes,” said Cornel, with a piteous sigh. “God forgive you, Armstrong! I am beaten.” Then, as if inspired, her eyes flashed, and the colour left her cheeks, and she cried wildly, “Yes, it is too late.” There were voices on the stairs coming plainly to them, for Cornel had in ignorance left the door unlatched, so that the sounds were uninterrupted.
“He’s got a lady with him.”
“I know, girl. Stand aside. Do you know who I am?”
“Yes, sir; Count Delly-tory, sir.”
“Yes!” cried Cornel, with a wail of horror; “her husband. Then it is indeed too late.”
“No!” cried Valentina fiercely; “your opportunity for revenge.”