"Despise you! I despise you?" cried he, with a gulp. But he could say no more, for some visitors were coming toward them—though but few were out on this windy and threatening day. They went a little further, hanging their heads like criminals under the eyes of the strangers. Then they turned into the hotel.
CHAPTER XXVII
Sir Archibald received Frank somewhat coolly, though civilly. Then he left them together, and Eva at once began:
"Sit down, Frank. I have something to tell you."
He obeyed in some surprise; her tone was business-like, her emotion was suppressed, and she seemed to be prepared to make some clear and logical statement.
"Frank," said she, "you once wrote a letter to papa, did you not?"
"Yes," he nodded sadly.
"You did?" she exclaimed eagerly.
"Yes," he repeated. "Two to you and one to Sir Archibald."
"What! and two to me as well?" she cried in dismay.
"Yes," he nodded once more.
"And you had no answers," she went on, more calmly. "Did you ever wonder why?"
"Why?" he echoed in surprise. "Because you were offended—because I had been so rough—"
"No," said she, very positively. "Simply and solely because we never received your letters."
"What?" cried Westhove.
"They never reached us. Our servant William seems to have had some interest in keeping them back."
"Some interest?" repeated Frank, dully, bewildered. "Why?"
"That I do not know," replied Eva. "All I know is this: our maid Kate—you remember her —came crying one day to tell me that she could not stay any longer, for she was afraid of William, who had declared that he would murder her. I inquired what had happened; and then she told me that she had once been just about to bring up a letter to papa—in your handwriting. She knew your writing. William had come behind her when she was close to the door, and had snatched it from her, saying that he would carry it in; but instead of doing so he had put the letter into his pocket. She had asked him what he meant by it; then they had a violent quarrel, and ever since she had been afraid of the man. She had wanted to tell me a long time ago, but dared not for fear of William. We questioned William, who was rough and sulky, and considered himself offended by our doubts of his honesty. Papa had his room searched to see if he had stolen any more letters or other things. Nothing, however, was to be found, neither stolen articles nor letters. Not even the letter to papa, which seems to have been the last of the three you wrote."
"It was," said Frank.
"Of course papa dismissed the man. And—oh, what was it I wanted to tell you?—I can not remember— So you wrote actually three times?"
"Indeed, I did; three times."
"And what did you say?" she asked, with a sob in her throat.
"I asked you to forgive me, and whether— whether all could not be the same again. I confessed that I had been wrong—"
"But you were not."
"Perhaps not. I can not tell now. I felt it so then. I waited and waited for a word from you or your father. And none came."
"No, none!" she sighed. "And then?"
"What could I have done?"
"Why did you not come yourself? Oh! why did you never come near us?" she wailed reproachfully.
He was silent for a minute, collecting his thoughts; he could not remember it all.
"Tell me, Frank?" she said soMy. "Why did you not come yourself?"
"I can not remember exactly," he said, dully.
"Then you did think of it?"
"Yes, certainly," said he.
"Then how was it that you never came?"
Frank suddenly broke down; he gulped down his tears with difficulty, a gulp of anguish.
''Because I was heart-broken, because I was so wretched, so unspeakably wretched. I had always taken rather cynical views of women, and love, and so forth; and then when I met you it was all so new, so fresh to me, I felt myself a boy again; I was in love with you, not only for your beauty, but for everything you said and did; for being what you are, always so calm and sweet. Good God! I adored you, Eva— Then there was that change: that doubt, that dreadful time. I can not remember it all now; and I felt so forlorn and broken-hearted. I could have died then, Eva, Eva!"
"You were so miserable? And you did not come to me?"
"No."
"But, good heavens, why not?"
"I wanted to go to you."
"And why did you not do it, then?" Again he sat lost in thought; his brain seemed clouded.
"Ah, yes! I think I remember all about it now," he said slowly. "I wanted to go—and then Bertie said—"
"What did Bertie say?"
"That he thought me a fool for my pains; a coward, and a cur. and a fool."
"But why?"
"Because you had disbelieved my word."
"And then?"
"I thought perhaps he was right and I did not go."
She flung herself on a sofa in utter woe, weeping passionately.
"Then it was what Bertie said?" she cried reproachfully.
"Yes; nothing else," he said, mournfully. "God in heaven! that alone."
They were both silent. Then Eva sat upright again, shivering; her face was white and bloodless, her eyes fixed with a dull, vacant glare, like weathered glass.
"Oh, Frank!" she cried—"Frank, I am so frightened! It is coming!"
"What, what?" he asked in alarm.
"I feel it coming upon me!"
