“Ah, try not to hate me! I have suffered terribly for my fault, as you shall learn presently,” said the Madame in piteous tones. “But how shall I tell of all my wicked unkindness to that poor child! I wrote a notice of the marriage of Rolfe Heywood, giving a fictitious name to the bride, and sent it to a paper published in New York. I was a subscriber, and when the number with the notice came I showed it to Ethel, saying, ‘You see I was right. Rolfe Heywood cared nothing for you, and is already united to another.’”
“She turned deathly white, seemed about to faint, but recovering herself a little, hastily left the room.
“‘Now,’ I thought, ‘she will presently give up and marry Adrian.’ But she would not hear of it, and avoided him whenever she could without absolute rudeness.
“‘No, she’ll never give up while she knows Rolfe Heywood is alive,’ I said to my husband one day.
“‘Then we must make her believe him dead,’ he answered.
“I was afraid to publish a false report of his death, but we got one printed on a slip of paper that had the appearance of having been cut from a newspaper, and I gave it to my sister. She swooned, and looked so deathlike, seemed so utterly crushed for days and weeks afterward, that I could scarcely refrain from telling her the whole truth. But the fear of my husband’s displeasure, and the thought that if I did Rolfe Heywood would get her after all, restrained me. So I kept my secret, and tried to make all other amends in my power by being very kind and sympathizing.
“Ah, her gratitude for it was quite touching—almost harder to withstand than her grief!
“She seemed gradually to recover from the shock, but was never again the light-hearted, merry creature she had been before Rolfe Heywood went away.”
“And she learned at last to love—?” Ethel broke off without pronouncing the name.
“She finally gave up to us and married him,” sighed the Madame. “How much she loved him, if at all, I do not know. I tried to believe her not unhappy, and she made no complaint.