“I tell you, Bertha Vale,” hissed her husband in her ear, “if you ever cross my path again, you shall bitterly rue it!”
Her eye fixed itself unwaveringly on his as he spoke, while her small hand freed her arm from the grasp he had taken on it. She did not speak, and casting one pitying glance on Clara, glided out of the room. Brentford stared after her as she went, then walked to the window, to see, apparently, whether she went into the street. There he stood, motionless, for several minutes, then, placing himself, with folded arms, before the faded form upon the sofa, demanded,
“What did she say to you?”
She raised her pallid face from the hands in which it had been hidden, and said sorrowfully,
“I cannot tell what she did say, but she made me know that I have been deceived, and I want to go home.
“Yes, yes, I must go home,” she murmured to herself.
“No, no, she lied, I say. You shall not go—would you go and desert your own Brentford, dearest?”
“You are not mine,” said she, putting away the arm with which he would have encircled her, “you are another woman’s. I want to go home.”
She raised herself and strayed toward the table, where her bonnet lay. Brentford sprang after her and seized her hand, pouring forth a torrent of remonstrance, denial, invective, and command, in the utmost confusion. But Clara’s inexorable will was, for once, her good angel; and, whether he raved or implored, she was still firm. Although so weak and trembling that she could hardly support herself, she suffered him to see nothing but cold, strong resolve; but as she opened the door to go, and saw his look of dark despair, she hesitated, and gave him her hand, saying—
“I do forgive you, Brentford.”