His face was half averted, but Lally knew him, and a deathly faintness seized upon her. He was well dressed and possessed an air of elegance that well became him. His hair was worn long under an artist’s broad-brimmed hat, and his features from a side view were sharp and thin. His mouth and chin seemed to have gained firmness and character during the past few months, but in the latter feature was still prominent the dimple Lally had loved, and which, pretty in a woman, is nearly always a sign of weakness and irresolution in a man.
Rufus turned slowly toward the girlish figure in black, his gaze seeking the shopman. A low, strange cry broke from Lally’s lips. Rufus heard it and looked at her. Her heavy crape vail was thrown back over her bonnet, and her small face framed in the heavy black folds was so white, so eager, so piteous, that Rufus thought it a vision—an optical illusion—a freak of his imagination. He recoiled in a species of terror.
“Rufus! Oh, Rufus!” cried the deserted young wife in a wild, involuntary appeal.
Mrs. Peters heard the name, and comprehended the identity of the young man. She came and stood by Lally’s side, warning off Rufus by her harsh face and angry eyes.
“Come, my dear,” she said, “let us go.”
“Rufus! Oh, Rufus!” moaned the poor young wife again, seeing nothing but the anguished, horrified face of her husband, hearing nothing but his quick breathing.
Rufus slowly passed his hand over his forehead.
“My God!” he murmured. “Lally’s face! Lally’s voice!”
Mrs. Peters took the hand of her young mistress, attempting to lead her from the shop, which but for them and the amazed shopman was happily deserted. But Lally stared at her young husband in a species of fascination, and he returned her gaze with one of horror and amazement, and the old woman’s efforts were fruitless.
“My dear, my dear!” whispered Peters anxiously. “Come with me. Come, my darling! He abandoned you. Pluck up a spirit, Miss Lally, and leave him alone!”