“Part?” echoed Mr. Yorke, as the words issued faintly from her trembling lips.
Tears rose to her eyes; it was with difficulty she kept them from falling. “I cannot become your wife while this cloud overhangs Arthur. It would not be right.”
“You say you believe in his innocence,” was the reply of Mr. Yorke.
“I do. But the world does not. William,” she continued, placing her hand in his, while the tears rained freely down her face, “let us say farewell now.”
He drew her closer to him. “Explain this mystery, Constance. Why are you not open with me? What has come between us?”
“I cannot explain,” she sobbed. “There is nothing for us but to part.”
“We will not part. Why should we, when you say Arthur is innocent, and I believe him to be so? Constance, my darling, what is this grief?”
What were the words but a tacit admission that, if Arthur were not innocent, they should part? Constance so interpreted them. Had any additional weight been needed to strengthen her resolution, this would have supplied it.
“Farewell! farewell, William! To remain with you is only prolonging the pain of parting.”
That her resolution to part was firm, he saw. It was his turn to be angry now. A slight touch of the haughty Yorke temper was in him, and there were times when it peeped out. He folded his arms, and the flush left his countenance.