"I came because I promised to cleave to you through health and sickness, poverty and wealth, and I must keep that vow till you absolve me from it. Forgive me, but I knew misfortune had befallen you, and, remembering all you had done for me, came, hoping I might comfort when other friends deserted you."
"Grateful to the last!" I sighed, low to myself, and, though deeply touched, replied with the hard-won calmness that made my speech so brief,—
"You owe me nothing, Effie, and I most earnestly desired to spare you this."
Some sudden hope seemed born of my regretful words, for, with an eager glance, she cried,—
"Was it that desire which prompted you to part from me? Did you think I should shrink from sharing poverty with you who gave me all I own?"
"No, dear,—ah, no!" I said, "I knew your grateful spirit far too well for that. It was because I could not make your happiness, and yet had robbed you of the right to seek it with some younger and some better man."
"Basil, what man? Tell me; for no doubt shall stand between us now!"
She grasped my arm, and her rapid words were a command.
I only answered, "Alfred Vaughan."
Effie covered up her face, crying, as she sank down at my feet,—