There was a moment of the most utter silence while St. Leon Le Roy's
wild, appealing words died upon the stillness of the solemn place.
Mrs. Lynn was struck dumb for an instant by the suddenness and passion
of her husband's accusation. She grew ghastly pale--she trembled like a
wind-blown leaf, the denial she would have uttered died gaspingly upon
her quivering lips.
"You are my wife," he repeated. "There was never but one face, one
voice in this world like yours, and they belonged to Laurel Vane. My
darling, you will not deny the truth! You did not throw yourself into
the dark, cruel river that summer night. You went away and hid yourself
from me in the wide world. It was some unknown waif whom we buried
in this shaft for you, my own sweet one! That marble cross speaks
falsely. Thank God you live, Laurel, to hear the story of my sorrow and
repentance! You cannot, you will not, refuse to forgive me!"
She sprung from her seat as he advanced, and slowly retreated before
him, her eyes wide and dark with terror; she put out her white hands
before her as if to ward off a blow.
"You are mad!" she cried, hoarsely. "You are simply mad, Mr. Le Roy!
Your great sorrow has unhinged your brain. Come away from this gloomy
place of graves into the world again, and I will try to forget your
momentary madness!"
"Do you mean to deny the truth?" he cried, gazing reproachfully at the
beautiful, defiant face. "Is it right to scorn me, Laurel, when I have
so bitterly repented the wrong I did you? Is it right to defraud me
of my child's love--right to defraud the child of his father's love?
Do you think I do not know that your beautiful little Laurence is my
own child? Shall I tell you why my mother fainted in your rose garden
that day? She lifted the boy's dark, clustering locks from his temples
and saw the familiar Le Roy birth-mark--the crimson heart that you, my
wife, have so often kissed on my temple. I saw her, although I made
no sign. Laurel, you will give me my son? You will come home to Eden
yourself, forgetting and forgiving all the past, will you not, my
injured wife? I will atone for my momentary hardness by the devotion of
a lifetime!"
He held out his arms yearningly to the beautiful, startled woman
standing dumbly before him with a smile of scorn on her perfect lips.
She was terribly frightened when she found that he had recognized her,
but she had no thought of confessing the truth. All the hard, bitter
pride that had grown up in her heart these eight years was at war with
her husband's claim. She held her hands out before her as if to ward
him off as he came nearer to her side.
"I can only say, as I did just now, that you are mad," she said. "I
can excuse you because I know that your brain must be turned by your
sorrow. But this must go no further. I will not endure it. There are
limits that even my patience will not suffer to be passed. I am nothing
to you, St. Leon Le Roy--nothing! As for the child, you have deceived
yourself. It is the scar of a wound on the child's temple, not a
birth-mark as you think."
He stared at her like one dazed, his arms dropping weakly at his sides.
That she would refuse to forgive him he had expected and dreaded, but
that she would deny her identity when taxed with it, had not occurred
to him. It put quite a new phase upon the matter. She had not staggered
his convictions in the least, but she had shown him what ground both
stood upon. He was powerless, helpless. There was nothing for him but
to bow to her will.
"You deny my charges?" he said. "You cut the ground from under my feet
and leave me without a hope--with nothing but this grave?"
"Yes," she answered, pale as death, beautiful, proud, defiant. "I
forgive you for your brief madness. We will never recur to it again.
Now, will you take me home?"
"In a moment," he answered. He was busy plucking some flowers from the
grave. He held them out to her.
"Mrs. Lynn, will you take these flowers?" he said. "Take them and keep
them. They may remind you sometimes of all that is buried in this grave
for me--love, hope, happiness."
She took them silently, and they went away from that place of tombs
into the busy, beautiful world again. They spoke but little driving
home, and then only on indifferent subjects--never on the theme lying
deep in their hearts--the love, the remorse, the unsatisfied longing,
the fruitless pain of their lives.
But Laurel, when she had reached her own private room, threw herself
down upon the floor with a great, tearless sob of utter agony.
"Oh, how cruel I am," she cried. "For the sake of my miserable pride, I
have murdered my own last chance of happiness!"