“And the cause?”
Constance strove to suppress her tears. “You can do nothing, Mr. Huntley; nothing whatever. Thank you all the same.”
“He has made this accusation upon Arthur the plea for breaking off his engagement?”
“I could not marry him with this cloud upon me,” she murmured. “It would not be right.”
“Cloud upon you!” hastily ejaculated Mr. Huntley. “The accusation against Arthur was the sole cause, then, of your parting?”
“Yes; the sole cause which led to it.”
Mr. Huntley paused, apparently in thought. “He is presented to Hazeldon Chapel, I hear. Did his rupture with you take place after that occurrence?”
“I see what you are thinking,” she impulsively cried, caring too much for Mr. Yorke not to defend him. “The chief fault of the parting was mine. I felt that it would not do to become his wife, being—being—” she hesitated much—“Arthur’s sister. I believe that he also felt it. Indeed, Mr. Huntley, there is no help for it; nothing can be done.”
“Knowing what I do of William Yorke, I am sure that the pain of separation must be keen, whatever may be his pride. Constance, unless I am mistaken, it is equally keen to you.”
Again rose the soft damask blush to the face of Constance. But she answered decisively. “Mr. Huntley, I pray you to allow the subject to cease. Nothing can bring about the renewal of the engagement between myself and Mr. Yorke. It is irrevocably at an end.”