Then there was a silence. He had grown pale as herself, and stood quite motionless looking at the sea. He knew what he had to expect at last.
Norine was still clinging to his arm. He disengaged it abruptly, and without a word or look, walked away from her. A moment she stood—then two little hands clasped the arm once more, a pleading voice spoke, and the sweet, tender face of Norine looked imploringly up at him.
"Laurence—dearest Laurence! I have angered you again. But you asked me a question and I had to answer it. Forgive me."
He turned away from her resolutely.
"There is no forgiveness needed, Norine. I admire your truthful and plain-spoken spirit. Only you see I thought Norine Bourdon a loving, gentle, forgiving little soul, who cared for me so much that she was ready to forgive me seventy-times-seven, and I find, according to her own showing, she is a strong-minded woman, ready to wreak vengeance for the first wrong done her—ready for love or hatred at a moment's notice. It is well you told me—it is always best to understand one another. No, we won't have any tender scenes, if you please, Mrs. Laurence—I have found out exactly what they are worth." He pulled out his watch. "I have business over in Boston, and as it is growing late I will be off at once. If I am very late—as is likely—I must beg you will not sit up for me. Good-afternoon."
He lifted his hat ceremoniously, as to an indifferent acquaintance, and walked deliberately away.
She stood stock still where he had left her, and watched the tall, active figure out of sight. Then she sat down, feeling suddenly weak and faint, and lay back against the green mound. For a moment sea, and sky, and sands swam before her in a hot mist, and then the faintness passed away, leaving her tearless and trembling.
What did he mean?
He had talked of deserting her? Did he mean it? A hand of ice seemed to clutch her heart at the thought. No no, no! he had only been trying her—proving what her love was worth. And she had answered him like that she would hate him and be revenged. He had called her a "strong-minded woman,"—a term of bitter reproach—and no wonder. No wonder he was angry, hurt, outraged. Why had she said such a horrible thing? She hardly knew herself—the words seemed to have come to her instinctively. Were they true? She did know that either—just now she knew nothing but that Laurence had left her in anger for the first time, that he would probably not return until to-morrow morning, the fateful to-morrow that was to take him from her for—how long?
She broke down then, and laying her face against the soft, cool grass, gave way to a storm of impassioned weeping, that shook her like a reed. "The strong-minded woman" was gone, and only a child that had done wrong and is sorry—a weak girl weeping for her lost lover, remained.