His gaze was bent upon her, his eyes seemed drawn beyond his control; he trembled, and caught his breath. But he broke the spell. He sat up. He found his voice, thick and low:
“Don’t tempt me. I am his friend; you are his wife.”
She looked to right and left, then turned and took hold of his arm.
“Listen to me!” she commanded. “Bend down your head,—lower, lower!” She looked in his face intently; she put her own close and said, “I am not his wife!”
A dumb, incredulous stare was his reply. He frowned and shook his head.
“You don’t believe me?” she cried. “Come home, I will show you.”
She turned her horse, struck him with the whip, and plunged recklessly down the steep path. He could not overtake her till she reined up and walked through the village street.
“Go into the parlor,” she said, “and wait till I come.”
She ran up-stairs. She asked for Lawrence. He was out,—would not be back till eight. She looked at her watch. Not quite seven. From a locked drawer she took a locked jewel-box and from under the lining a written paper with a printed slip pinned to it.
She came down and into the parlor with her hand in her pocket, walked up to Loramer where he stood before the fire, gave him the paper, and sat down to watch him. It was a certificate of marriage between Cora Brainard and Clarence A. Harlow, dated three years back, and signed by an eccentric clergyman, across the mountain. A feeling of sickness came over Loramer.