Yes, Mr. Thorndyke had been a fool, and was repenting in sackcloth and ashes. To gratify a passing fancy for a pretty face may be a very pleasing thing—to take revenge upon a man who has interfered with one's little plans, may also be a pleasing thing, but to cut off one's own nose to spite one's own face, is something one is apt to regret afterwards. It was Mr. Thorndyke's case. He had taken Richard Gilbert's bride from him at the very altar, as one may say, and he had gloated over his vengeance, but what was to hinder Norine Bourdon from rising, strong in her wrongs and betrayal, and ruining him for life? She was the gentlest, the most yielding of human beings now, and she loved him; but is it not those whom we have once loved best, we learn afterwards to hate most bitterly? He had cruelly, shamefully wronged and deceived her—what right had he to look for mercy in return? As he had sown, so must he reap.
She scarcely turned at his approach. How pale she was, and the large dark eyes she lifted were full of a child's startled terror.
"Norine," he abruptly began, "there is no help for it—I must go to New York to-morrow."
Her lips trembled a little.
"To-morrow," she repeated, under her breath—-"so soon!"
"Rather short notice, I admit, but then you see it—it isn't for a lifetime. All husbands and wives part once in a while and survive it. Come, Norine," with irritated impatience, "don't wear that woe-begone face! I'm not to blame, I can't help it. You don't suppose I want to leave you. But here's Liston—my uncle's man. You heard him yourself. You saw the letter commanding my return."
"The letter," she repeated, looking at him; "there were two!"
"Ah—yes—two, so there were. But the other was merely a note from a friend. I leave at noon to-morrow, so see that my valise is packed, and everything all right, that's a good child. And do try to get rid of that white, reproachful face, unless you want it to haunt me like the face of a ghost."
He spoke with irritated petulance—at war with her, with himself, and his smouldering ill-temper breaking forth. It was the first time he had ever spoken sharply to her. A faint flush rose to her cheeks. She clasped both hands around his arm and looked up in his moody, discontented face with piteous imploring eyes.
"Don't be vexed, Laurence; I don't mean to reproach you, indeed, and I know you cannot help it. Only, dear, I love you so much, and—and it is our first parting, and I have been so happy here—so happy here—"