He read the letter with a burning flush on his face, which afterward grew white as with the pallor of death; a red mist was before his eyes, the sound of surging waters in his ears, his heart beat loud and fast.  Could it be true—­oh, merciful Heaven, could it be true?  At first he had a wild hope that it was a cruel jest that Philippa was playing with him on his wedding-day.  It could not be true—­his whole soul rose in rebellion against it.  Heaven was too just, too merciful—­it could not be.  It was a jest.  He drew his breath with a long quivering sigh—­his lips trembled; it was simply a jest to frighten him on his wedding day.

Then, one by one—­slowly, sadly, surely—­a whole host of circumstances returned to his mind, making confirmation strong.  He remembered well—­only too well—­the scene in the balcony.  He remembered the pale starlight, the light scarf thrown over Philippa’s shoulders, even the very perfume that came from the flowers in her hair; he remembered how her voice had trembled, how her face had shown in the faint evening light.  When she had quoted the words of Priscilla, the loveliest maiden of Plymouth, she had meant them as applicable to her own case—­“Why don’t you speak for yourself, John?” They came back to him with a fierce, hissing sound, mocking his despair.  She had loved him through all—­this proud, beautiful, brilliant woman for whom men of highest rank had sighed in vain.  And, knowing her pride, her haughtiness, he could guess exactly what her love had cost her, and that all that followed had been a mockery.  On that night her love had changed to hate.  On that night she had planned this terrible revenge.  Her offering of friendship had been a blind.  He thought to himself that he had been foolish not to see it.  A thousand circumstances presented themselves to his mind.  This, then, was why Madaline had so persistently—­and, to his mind, so strangely—­refused his love.  This was why she had talked incessantly of the distance between them—­of her own unworthiness to be his wife.  He bad thought that she alluded merely to her poverty, whereas it was her birth and parentage she referred to.

How cleverly, how cruelly Philippa had deceived them both—­Philippa, his old friend and companion, his sister in all but name!  He could see now a thousand instances in which Madaline and himself had played at cross purposes—­a thousand instances in which the poor girl had alluded to her parent’s sin, and he had thought she was speaking of her poverty.  It was a cruel vengeance, for, before he had read the letter through, he knew that if the story were correct, she could be his wife in name only—­that they must part.  Poverty, obscurity, seemed as nothing now—­but crime?  Oh, Heaven, that his name and race should be so dishonored!  If he had known the real truth, he would have died rather than have uttered one word of love to her.