“My poor darling!” The soldier’s strong face betrayed deep feeling. “I wish I could comfort her.” His voice changed. “Miss Eleanor, why does she refuse to see me?” Eleanor hesitated perceptibly. “Wait, let me finish. I have called repeatedly at the Carews’, only to be told that Cynthia is confined to her room; I have written notes which I have given personally to Joshua to deliver, and have never received an answer to one of them.
“I love Cynthia with all my heart and soul,” Lane’s voice shook with feeling, “and I would have sworn, before her uncle’s death, that my affection was returned. I cannot understand her avoidance of me, and her silence cuts deep”—Lane stopped a moment and cleared his throat—“Miss Eleanor, you are Cynthia’s most intimate friend, and you are with her constantly. You must have heard of some reason for her treatment of me.”
Eleanor nodded without speaking. She heartily wished the interview was over.
“Then I implore you to tell me the reason of Cynthia’s silence.”
“Cannot you imagine that for yourself?” began Eleanor; then, as Lane shook his head, she added: “Cynthia is overwrought, every action on Monday night seems distorted——” She again hesitated and bit her lip—“You went to look for her carriage; you were gone a long time, and when she entered the carriage her uncle was sitting there—dead.”
Slowly her meaning dawned on Lane. “Good God! You don’t mean——?” he staggered back, his face gone white.
“Yes.”
“And she thinks that! Cynthia, Cynthia, had you so little faith?” Lane’s agony was pitiful.
“You must not be unjust to her,” cried Eleanor, her loyalty up in arms. “Remember, you had just told her of your fearful quarrel with her uncle; she had also seen you playing with a letter file when you were with her in the library——”