What right had Lorin to extract such a promise—Lorin, to whom drink offered no temptation? What right had such a man to make rules of conduct for others? Doubtless he was sitting comfortably by the fire in his well-furnished rooms, thinking of Lina Grahame, and writing letters to her, or reading hers to him, or perhaps sketching her portrait. Warmth and comfort, the glow of the fire, and sweet thoughts of his love for him; the cold and dirty streets, the fog and frost, the flaring lights of a gin palace, and the thought of a woman's scorn, for his cousin. Very soon Lorin would marry, and then his, Wallace's, surreptitious visits to his uncle's house would be forbidden altogether. He could hear the voice in which she would speak the order concerning them.
"Lorin dear, you must really keep your cousin away. His very appearance is a disgrace to you. He is not fit to enter a gentleman's house."
In some such words she would speak, in that voice which to Wallace was like an echo from the past. And to-morrow she would tell Lorin about his disreputable cousin's visit, while she twined her arms about his neck and clung to him as she had clung to Wallace that evening when she had mistaken his identity.
He could feel the clasp of her fingers upon his shoulders now, and the silky softness of her hair as he stroked it, and the quiver that ran through her frame as he clasped her supple waist. She loved Lorin—there was little doubt of that. Passionate love thrilled through her touch, thrilled in her voice when she murmured—
"You have come at last!"
No good woman had ever loved him—no good woman had ever clung to him and welcomed his coming with such whole-hearted delight. What had that little witch woman prophesied about him?
"Your past has been stormy. Your future looks black. Only one thing can save you—the love of a pure, good woman."
The fact that he was really married seldom if ever troubled him. If it came into his mind at all, the remembrance provoked only curses on the head of his missing wife. Had she only proved reasonable, he might now have been installed with her in that very house at Hampstead which would soon be prepared for the reception of Lorin and his bride. Wallace cursed them both as he thought of them and of the happiness that awaited them. Fate had been against him, luck had been against him. His evil instincts, his ungovernable temper, his hatred of authority and love of violent pleasures, had been born with him and had led him on to the ship-wreck of his life.
Only the love of a good woman could save him, Mrs. Vandeleur had said. But good women looked at him with the eyes of Lina Grahame.