"Did you know or suspect it?"

"No! I was a child when I received it, remember. I have never seen it since."

"Not when you put it in my hand, just now?"

"No, I never looked at the writing?"

"That was most strange that you should not have glanced at the handwriting when you handed it to me. Why didn't you? Were you afraid to look at it? Miram! why do you turn away your head? Miriam! answer me--do you know the handwriting?"

"No, Paul, I do not know it--do you?"

"No! no! how should I? But Miriam, your head is still averted. Your very voice is changed. Miriam! what mean you? Tell me once for all. Do you suspect the handwriting?"

"How should I? Do you, Paul?"

"No! no! I don't suspect it."

They seemed afraid to look each other in the face; and well they might be, for the written agony on either brow; they seemed afraid to hear the sound of each other's words; and well they might be, for the hollow, unnatural sound of either voice.

"It cannot be! I am crazy, I believe. Let me clear my--oh, Heaven!

Miriam! did--was--do you know whether there was any one in particular on familiar terms with Miss Mayfield?"

"No one out of the family, except Miss Thornton."

"'Out of the family'--out of what family?"

"Ours, at the cottage."

"Was--did--I wonder if my brother knew her intimately?"

"I do not know; I never saw them in each other's company but twice in my life."

The youth breathed a little freer.

"Why did you ask, Paul?"

"No matter, Miriam. Oh! I was a wretch, a beast to think--"

"What, Paul?"

"There are such strange resemblances in--in--in--What are you looking at me so for, Miriam?"

"To find your meaning. In what, Paul--strange resemblances in what?"

"Why, in faces."

"Why, then, so there are--and in persons, also; and sometimes in fates; but we were talking of handwritings, Paul."

"Were we? Oh, true. I am not quite right, Miriam. I believe I have confined myself too much, and studied too hard. I am really out of sorts; never mind me! Please hand me those foreign letters, love."

Miriam was unfolding and examining them; but all in a cold, stony, unnatural way.

"Paul," she asked, "wasn't it just eight years this spring since your brother went to Scotland to fetch you?"

"Yes; why?"

"Wasn't it to Glasgow that he went?"

"Yes; why?"

"Were not you there together in March and April, 182-?"

"Once more, yes! Why do you inquire?"

"Because all these foreign letters directed to Marian are postmarked Glasgow, and dated March or April, 182-."

With a low, stifled cry, and a sudden spring, he s.n.a.t.c.hed the packet from her hand, tore open the first letter that presented itself, and ran his strained, bloodshot eyes down the lines. Half-suppressed, deep groans like those wrung by torture from a strong man's heart, burst from his pale lips, and great drops of sweat gathered on his agonized forehead. Then he crushed the letters together in his hand and held them tightly, unconsciously, while his starting eyes were fixed on vacancy and his frozen lips muttered:

"In a fit of frantic pa.s.sion, anger, jealousy--even he might have been maddened to the pitch of doing such a thing! But as an act of base policy, as an act of forethought, oh! never, never, never!"

"Paul! Paul! speak to me, Paul. Tell me what you think. I have had foreshadowings long. I can bear silence and uncertainty no longer. What find you in those letters? Oh, speak, or my heart will burst, Paul."

He gave no heed to her or her words, but remained like one impaled; still, fixed, yet writhing, his features, his whole form and expression discolored, distorted with inward agony.

"Paul! Paul!" cried Miriam, starting up, standing before him, gazing on him. "Paul! speak to me. Your looks kill me. Speak, Paul! even though you can tell me little new. I know it all, Paul; or nearly all. Weeks ago I received the shock! it overwhelmed me for the time; but I survived it! But you, Paul--you! Oh! how you look! Speak to your sister, Paul!

Speak to your promised wife."

But he gave no heed to her. She was not strong or a.s.sured--she felt herself tottering on the very verge of death or madness. But she could not bear to see him looking so. Once more she essayed to engage his attention.

"Give me those letters, Paul--I can perhaps make out the meaning."

As he did not reply, she gently sought to take them from his hand. But at her touch he suddenly started up and threw the packet into the fire.

With a quick spring, Miriam darted forward, thrust her hand into the fire and rescued the packet, scorched and burning, but not destroyed.

She began to put it out, regardless of the pain to her hands. He looked as if he were tempted to s.n.a.t.c.h it from her, but she exclaimed:

"No, Paul! no! You will not use force to deprive me of this that I must guard as a sacred trust."

Still Paul hesitated, and eyed the packet with a gloomy glance.

"Remember honor, Paul, even in this trying moment," said Miriam; "let honor be saved, if all else be lost."

"What do you mean to do with that parcel?" he asked in a hollow voice.

"Keep them securely for the present."

"And afterward?"

"I know not."