"Had you known my birth, my parentage, from the first, could you have loved me?"
"I do not know," he said candidly; "I only know that I do love you, and that I will not give you up." His face flushed, his eyes kindled. "You must, you shall, be my wife. But we will not talk of it any more to-night: you need rest, and time to recover from the double shock which has come upon you. To-morrow—every day, I shall come, until you learn to look at this as I do. Good-night, Madeline. Think wisely, reasonably, dear."
"I will try; and you will know my decision to-morrow, Roger."
He bent over her, kissed the bright waves of her hair; but she started up, and clasped her arms about him, drawing his lips down to hers in an abandonment of love she had never shown before. Tears rained from her eyes, the stony curves of her mouth melted, and he felt that it was a tacit surrender.
"To-morrow you will listen to me, Madeline," he said with the certainty of conviction.
"Yes; to-morrow," she replied, and turned, weeping, from him.
But when he came next morning Father Vincent met him at the door, while the old lady and Aunt Dilsey hovered in the hall with frightened, excited faces. Fear, vague, indefinite, but chilling, fell upon him. He had spent half the night in thinking and planning; he had felt assured that it needed only time and change of scene to restore Madeline to her former brightness; but even if a cloud should always hang over her, he wished to share its gloom. He could not fully appreciate her position, because he could not look at it from her standpoint. He could understand that it had been a cruel blow to her, but he could not understand how tragical. He felt very hopeful as he walked over to her home, but the face of the priest, those women in the background, startled him.
"What is the matter?" he cried sharply.
"She is gone," said Father Vincent.
"Gone!" he echoed, paling suddenly, and half reeling.