“I fear,” he continued, in the same tone, “my congratulations may not have seemed warm enough on the happy change in your prospects; they were unfeigned, I assure you.” Lady Alice colored.
“These taunts are uncalled for, Mardyn,” she replied, faintly.
“No; that would be unfair, indeed,” he continued, in the same bitter tone, “to Lady Alice Daventry, who has always displayed such consideration for all my feelings.”
“You never seemed to care,” she rejoined, and the woman's pique betrayed itself in the tone—“You never tried to prevent it.”
“Prevent what?”
She hesitated, and did not reply.
“Fool!” he exclaimed, violently, “did you think that if one word of mine could have stopped your marriage, that word would have been said? Listen, Lady Alice: I loved you once, and the proof that I did is the hate I now bear you. If I had not loved you, I should now feel only contempt. For a time I believed that you had for me the love you professed. You chose differently; but though that is over, do not think that all is. I have sworn to make you feel some of the misery you caused me. Lady Alice Daventry, do you doubt that that oath shall be kept?”
His violence had terrified her—she was deadly pale, and seemed ready to faint; but a burst of tears relieved her.
“I do not deserve this,” she said; “I did love you—I swore it to you, and you doubted me.”
“Had I no reason?” he asked.