Little as Mr. Rylands knew of the world, he had heard that name. But it
was not THAT he was thinking of. He was thinking of the camp-fire in the
wood, the handsome figure before it, the tethered horse. He was thinking
of the lighted sitting-room, the fire, his wife's bare shoulders, her
slippers, stockings, and the dance. He saw it all,--a lightning-flash to
his dull imagination. The room seemed to expand and then grow smaller,
the figure of Jane to sway backwards and forwards before him. He
murmured the name of God with lips that were voiceless, caught at the
kitchen table to steady himself, held it till he felt his arms grow
rigid, and then recovered himself,--white, cold, and sane.
"Speak a word of this to HER," he said deliberately, "enter her room
while I'm gone, even leave the kitchen before I come back, and I'll
throw you into the road. Tell that hired man, if he dares to breathe it
to a soul I'll strangle him."
The unlooked-for rage of this quiet, God-fearing man, and dupe, as she
believed, was terrible, but convincing. She shrank back into the corner
as he coolly drew on his boots and waterproof, and without another word
left the house.
He knew what he was going to do as well as if it had been ordained for
him. He knew he would find the young man in the wood; for whatever were
the truth of the other stories, he and the visitor were identical; he
had seen him with his own eyes. He would confront him face to face and
know all; and until then, he could not see his wife again. He walked on
rapidly, but without feverishness or mental confusion. He saw his duty
plainly,--if Ellen had "backslidden," he must give her another trial.
These were his articles of faith. He should not put her away; but she
should nevermore be wife to him. It was HE who had tempted her, it was
true; perhaps God would forgive her for that reason, but HE could never
love her again.
The fury of the storm had somewhat abated as he reached the wood. The
fire was still there, but no longer a leaping flame. A dull glow in
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