“None that you did not cause yourself; your unfounded jealousy, your determination to humble me, drove me to the step I took.”
The expression of his countenance somewhat changed; he had averted his face so that she could not read its meaning, and over it passed no sign of relenting, but a look more wholly triumphant than it had yet worn. When he turned to Lady Alice it was changed to one of mildness and sorrow.
“You will drive me mad, Alice,” he uttered, in a low, deep voice. “May heaven forgive me if I have mistaken you; you told me you loved me.”
“I told you the truth,” she rejoined, quickly.
“But how soon that love changed,” he said, in a half-doubting tone, as if willing to be convinced.
“It never changed!” she replied, vehemently. “You doubted—you were jealous, and left me. I never ceased to love you.”
“You do not love me now?” he asked.
She was silent; but a low sob sounded through the room, and Charles Mardyn was again at her feet; and, while the marriage-vows had scarce died from her lips, Lady Alice Daventry was exchanging forgiveness with, and listening to protestations of love from the son of the man to whom, a few hours before, she had sworn a wife's fidelity.
It is a scene which needs some explanation; best heard, however, from Mardyn's lips. A step was heard along the passage, and Mardyn, passing through a side-door, repaired to Clara's apartment. He found her engaged on a book. Laying it down, she bestowed on him a look of inquiry as he entered.
“I want to speak to you, Clara,” he said.