Isaac Worthington had a habit of clutching things when he was in a rage, and now he clutched the arms of the chair.  He had grown white.  He was furious with her, furious with himself for having spoken that which might be construed into a confession.  He had not finished writing the letters before he had stood self-justified, and he had been self-justified ever since.  Where now were these arguments so wonderfully plausible?  Where were the refutations which he had made ready in case of a barely possible need?  He had gone into the Pelican House intending to tell Jethro of his determination to agree to the marriage.  That was one.  He had done so—­that was another—­and he had written the letters that Jethro might be convinced of his good will.  There were still more, involving Jethro’s character for veracity and other things.  Summoning these, he waited for Cynthia to have done speaking, but when she had finished—­he said nothing.  He looked a her, and saw the tears on her face, and he saw that she had completely forgotten his presence.

For the life of him, Isaac Worthington could not utter a word.  He was a man, as we know, who did not talk idly, and he knew that Cynthia would not hear what he said; and arguments and denunciations lose their effect when repeated.  Again, he knew that she would not believe him.  Never in his life had Isaac Worthington been so ignored, so put to shame, as by this school-teacher of Brampton.  Before, self-esteem and sophistry had always carried him off between them; sometimes, in truth, with a wound—­the wound had always healed.  But he had a feeling, to-night, that this woman had glanced into his soul, and had turned away from it.  As he looked at her the texture of his anger changed; he forgot for the first time that which he had been pleased to think of as her position in life, and he feared her.  He had matched his spirit against hers.

Before long the situation became intolerable to him, for Cynthia still sat silent.  She was thinking of how she had blamed Jethro for going back to that life, even though his love for her had made him do it.  But Isaac Worthington did not know of what she was thinking—­he thought only of himself and his predicament.  He could not remain, and yet he could not go—­with dignity.  He who had come to bestow could not depart like a whipped dog.

Suddenly a fear transfixed him:  suppose that this woman, from whom he could not hide the truth, should tell his son what he had done.  Bob would believe her.  Could he, Isaac Worthington, humble his pride and ask her to keep her suspicions to herself?  He would then be acknowledging that they were more than suspicions.  If he did so, he would have to appear to forgive her in spite of what she had said to him.  And Bob was coming home.  Could he tell Bob that he had changed his mind and withdrawn his consent to the marriage?  There world be the reason, and again Bob would believe her.  And again, if he withdrew his consent, there was Jethro to reckon with.  Jethro must have a weapon still, Mr. Worthington thought, although he could not imagine what it might be.  As Isaac Worthington sat there, thinking, it grew clear, to him at last that there was but one exit out of a, very desperate situation.