"But I wrote--wrote several times. Do you mean that she did not get my letters?" and the young man paced the room in vehement disorder. "You knew I was alive! I can see that you did. You were expecting me! I can guess it from your delay in letting me in. You would have kept me out altogether if you had dared! I am sure of it by your behaviour. Only you were afraid of a public scandal."
"I did, and I was, lad; and it is yourself would grieve the most, if a word were to light on the good name of the woman you vowed to love and honour."
"The woman who deserts me for another man! But still she is mine! She cannot be another's. Give her back! Give up the name of her betrayer. Who is he? Where are they? Speak!"
The mother had sunk into a chair, her arms propped upon her knees, covering her face and sobbing wildly, while Millicent bent down and strove to soothe her.
"Speak, woman! speak!" he shouted.
"Have you no pity?" It was Millicent who spoke.
"What pity are you showing now to me? Give back my wife! Where have you hidden her? And this man----? She has left me, has she? But he shall not have her! If I had him by the throat----!" and he clenched his teeth in fury.
"Lina never left you. You might know it. You should blush to have thought it. If ever woman was devoted to a man, it was our Lina. When word came that you were lost, she fell senseless on the floor. It was weeks before she recovered her reason; and even then it seemed doubtful if she would survive. We took her North as soon as we dared move her, and in the bracing air and change of scene it seemed as if the vehemence of her grief had spent itself; but the old self seemed to have gone from her as well. She moved about a listless white-faced shadow, indifferent to life and everything. It was heartbreaking to see her--and she not yet eighteen! And mother and I, we were beside ourselves with anxiety. She appeared too feeble to bring back here, and we feared the sight of the familiar scenes would revive her grief, and drive her mad, or kill her. And so, when a gentleman grew interested in her, and slid into a kind of pitiful intimacy that seemed to soothe her, we thanked God for raising us up a consoler. And when, by-and-by, he asked her to marry him, mother and I persuaded her to listen, for we thought that new duties and a new life would draw her thoughts away from her great sorrow, and bring her peace. It was fifteen months, or more, from the time the news reached us of your loss, when she was married; so you have no call to say that her memory was short, or that her love was light to come and light to go. She loved you very truly, and she cherishes your memory yet."
"What did she say when she received my letters?"
"She has received none of them. When mother and I got home after her marriage, we found one awaiting us here. We opened it and we read it, and we burned it--though it went to our hearts to do so."