The hooded figure rose at his bidding, and he saw the face in the lamplight.
“You!” he gasped. “You!”
“Yes, Fareham, it is I. Cannot you take a kind view of a foolish business, and believe there has been only folly and no dishonour in the purpose that brought me here?”
“You!” he repeated. “You!”
His bearing was that of a man who staggers under a crushing blow, a stroke so unexpected that he can but wonder and suffer. He set down the lamp with a shaking hand, then took two or three hurried turns up and down the room; then stopped abruptly by the lamp, snatched the anonymous letter from his breast, and read the lines over again.
“‘An intrigue on foot——’ No name. And I took it for granted my wife was meant. I looked for folly from her; but wisdom, honour, purity, all the virtues from you. Oh, what was the use of my fortitude, what the motive of self-conquest here,” striking himself upon the breast, “if you were unchaste? Angela, you have broken my heart.”
There was a long pause before she answered, and her face was turned from him to hide her streaming tears. At last she was able to reply calmly—
“Indeed, Fareham, you do wrong to take this matter so passionately. You may trust my sister and me. On my honour, you have no cause to be angry with either of us.”
“And when I gave you this letter to read,” he went on, disregarding her protestations, “you knew that you were coming here to meet a lover. You hurried away from me, dissembler as you were, to steal to this lonely place at midnight, to fling yourself into his arms. Tell me where he is hiding, that I may kill him; now, while I pant for vengeance. Such rage as mine cannot wait for idle forms. Now, now, now, is the time to reckon with your seducer!”
“Fareham, you cover me with insults!”