A quick flush of jealousy overspread the youth’s face. His eyes glared at Mrs. Peters with a hunted expression.
“She won’t marry again until I die, or the law has freed her from me,” he exclaimed. “I would never have proposed marriage to Miss Wynde, had I not supposed Lally to be dead. She is my wife, madam, and I’ll declare her to be such until she herself forbids me to do so. If she marries any other man I’ll kill him!”
The young man’s jealous fury was succeeded by an instant and terrible despair.
“Forgive me,” he said humbly. “What am I, to talk of controlling Lally’s movements? I have forfeited all claim upon her and upon her forgiveness. If she refuses to take me back, I can only go to perdition. If she will stretch out her hand to save me, I will be her slave. Will you not take a brief message to her from me, madam—only a few words?”
Mrs. Peters fancied she heard a light step in the hall. She listened, but convinced of her mistake, said nervously and hastily:
“I cannot convey your message, sir. I entreat you to leave Miss Bird in peace. I repeat that you cannot see her under this roof.”
“How summarily you dispose of the happiness and the very destiny of a fellow-being!” said Rufus despairingly and reproachfully. “I would see her in your presence—”
“You cannot. You have prolonged this interview beyond bounds, sir. Take my advice and go back to Miss Wynde. I must bid you a good-evening, Mr. Black. You can go out at this garden door, if you please.”
Mrs. Peters threw open the garden door, and a gust of chill wind swept in, nearly extinguishing the lights. Rufus hesitated, but the door remained open, and Mrs. Peters looked so grim and stern that he obeyed her without a murmur, and went out in a dead silence, his wild eyes giving her a last look of reproach and despair.
A minute later, she heard his cab roll away from the house.