“I should hate him!”
And in that dark hour of agony Adah felt that she did hate him. She knew now that what she before would not believe was true. He had not made her a lawful wife, else he had never dared to take another. She was a degraded creature, Willie a child of sin, and he had made them so. It was the bitterest dreg she had been forced to take, and for an instant, she forgot the God she served, forgot every thing save the desire to curse the man talking so calmly of her, as if her ruin were nought to him. But anon, the still small voice she always obeyed spoke to her tumultuous spirit, and the curse on her lips died away in the faint whisper, “Forgive me, Father, and forgive him, too.”
She did not hear him now, for with that prayer, all consciousness forsook her, and she lay on her face insensible, while at the very last he did confess to Anna that Lily was his wife. He did not say unlawfully so. He could not tell her that. He said,
“I married her privately. I kept it from you all until she died. I would bring her back if I could, but I cannot, and I shall marry ’Lina.”
“But,” and Anna grasped his hand nervously, “I thought you told me once, that you won her love, and then, when mother’s harsh letters came, left her without a word. Was that story false?”
The doctor was wading out in deep waters, and in desperation he added lie to lie, saying, huskily—
“Yes, that was false. I tell you I married her, and she died. Was I to blame for that?”
“No, no, oh, no. I’d far rather it were so. I respect you more than if you had left her. I am glad, so glad not that she died, but that you are not so bad as I feared. Sweet Lily,” and Anna’s tears flowed fast to the memory of the poor girl whose early grave she saw in fancy some where in a beautiful Greenwood.
There was a knock at the door, and Jim appeared, inquiring if the doctor would have the carriage brought round. It was nearly time to go, and with the whispered words to Anna, “I have told you what no one else must ever know,” the doctor descended with his sister to the parlor, where his mother was waiting for him. The opening and shutting of the door caused a draught of air, which, falling on the fainting Adah, restored her to consciousness, and struggling to her feet, she tried to think what it was that had happened. She remembered it soon, and with a shudder listened to know if George was still in the adjoining chamber. All was quiet there. He had gone, and tottering into the room, she knelt by the chair where she knew he had sat. Then, as the last expiring throe of her love for him swept over her, she essayed to wind her trembling arms around the chair, as she would once have twined them about him.
“Oh, George! George!” she gasped, calling him still George, for, she almost hated that other name.