He sprang after her, gripped her shoulders, and hung over her, snarling, “You two-faced runaway! what have I done but suffer?”

She kept the lantern hid.  “What have you done?  Oh, my husband, will you hear if I tell you?  You have hung the fates of all of us, living or yet to live, on one thread,—­please, dear, don’t bear so heavily on me,—­on one poor thread which the jar of another misstep will surely break.  Oh, let us not make it!  Come, Arthur,—­my husband,—­into the house; maybe we can yet save ourselves and our dear ones!  Arthur, you’re hurting me dreadfully.  If you press me down that way, you’ll force me to my knees.”

Still she spoke in undertone, and still she muffled the light, while steadily the weight of his arms increased.  Suddenly he crowded her to the earth.  “Arthur,” she murmured, “Arthur, what are you going to do?  Don’t kill me here and now, Arthur; wait till to-morrow.  I have that to pass through to-night which may end my life peaceably in bed; and if it should, then there will be no infamy on any of us,—­on you or our child, living, or on me, dead; and Godfrey, and Ruth, and mother, and all can be”—­

“Give me that lantern!” He held her with one hand, snatched the light from cover, and thrust it into her face.  “So this is what you signal him with, is it?”

“Oh no, no!  Arthur, dear, no!  Before God’s throne, no!”

He lifted it as high as his arm would go, and with all his force swung it down, crashing and quenched, upon her head.

She gave a gentle sigh and rolled at his feet.  Groaning with horror and fright, he lifted her in his arms and bore her to her room and bed.

There she presently opened her eyes to find him laving her face and head, moaning, covering them with kisses, and imploring her forgiveness in a thousand hysterical repetitions.

“Hush, dear,” she whispered.  “I see how it all happened.  Does anybody know?  Oh, God be thanked! don’t let any one find out!  It was all a misunderstanding.  So many things crowded together to mislead you!”

“Oh yes, so many, many things at once, my treasure!  Oh yes, yes!”

“Call Sarah, will you, dear?”

“Oh, beloved, why should I?  You don’t need Sarah for anything.”

“Yes, I need her.  I must send her for mother—­and Ruth—­I promised Ruth; and you must send Giles for the doctor; my hour is come.”

* * * * *

In the Byington house Ruth and her brother met at the foot of the stairs.

“Leonard,” she whispered, “what is it?  Is father ill?  Leonard!  Oh, what have you seen?”

“Let me pass! quick!” He would have pressed her aside, but she laid hands on him.

“What has Arthur done?” she asked.  “What is he doing?”

“Ruth!  Ruth! he is putting her out of his own gate!” The brother extended both hands to turn the sister from his path, but she twined her arms on his.