Jacob Wynne looked in surprise at the person who so persistently barred his progress, and exclaimed, impatiently, “What means all this foolery? Stand aside, my good woman, and let me pass.”

She did not move.

The scrivener never, for a moment, suspected who she might be. It never occurred to him that she had a special object in accosting him. He could not see her face, for it was still concealed by the bonnet and thick veil she wore.

“There is something for you,” he said, throwing down a small silver coin; for he judged that she might be a beggar. “Now stand aside, will you, for I am in haste.”

“So you bestow your alms upon me, as upon a beggar, Jacob Wynne,” said the woman, with a hard, bitter laugh. As she spoke, she drew aside her veil with an impatient movement, and allowed him a full view of her features.

“Margaret!” he exclaimed, recoiling so hastily as to spill the contents of the glass.

“Yes,—Margaret!” she repeated, in the same hard tone as before. “I dare say you did not expect to see me here.”

“What fiend sent you here?” he exclaimed, angrily.

“Is it so remarkable,” she said, “that I should wish to be near you?”

“Margaret,” said Jacob, with difficulty restraining his anger sufficiently to assume a tone of persuasion, “consider how much attention you will attract, dressed in this uncouth style. Go home; there’s a good woman.”

He looked uneasily in the direction where he had left his companion, fearing that she might become a witness of this interview.

“Good woman!” she laughed, wildly. “Oh, yes, you do well to call me that. You are doing your best to make me so.” Then changing her tone, “So you are ashamed of my dress. I will not disgrace you any longer, if you will give me money to buy others.”

“Well, well! we’ll talk about that when we get home. Only walk quietly down to the boat now. You see we are attracting attention.”

“And you will come with me?” she said, with a searching look.

“I? no, not at present. I have an engagement,” said Jacob, in some embarrassment.

“Yes, I understand,” said Margaret, bitterly. “It is with her,” and she pointed to the tree under which his late companion was yet seated.

Jacob started.

“You may well start,” said Margaret, whose observant eye did not fail to detect his momentary confusion.

“What do you mean?” he demanded, half defiantly.

“Jacob Wynne,” she continued, sternly, fixing her penetrating eye full upon him, “tell me who is this woman, and what she is to you. Tell me, for I have a right to know.”

She folded her arms and looked like an accusing spirit, as she made this demand. The consciousness of guilt made his physical inferiority the more conspicuous, as he met her gaze uneasily, as if meditating an escape.

“This is no place for the discussion of such matters,” he said, in a tone which strove to be conciliatory. “It is all right, of course. Go home quietly, and when I return, I will answer your questions.”

He was mistaken if he thought thus to escape. Margaret was in a state of high nervous excitement, and the fear of being overheard by the groups who surrounded them was wholly lost sight of in the intensity of her purpose.

“Jacob,” she said, steadily, “this is not a matter to be deferred. My suspicions have been long excited, and now I want an explanation. I cannot live as I have lived. Sometimes I have feared,” placing her hand upon her brow, “that my head was becoming unsettled.”

“Your coming here to-day is no slight proof of it,” he said, hardly. “I think you are right.”

She threw off this insinuation, cruel as it was, with hardly a thought of what it meant. She had but one object now, and that she must accomplish.

“Enough of this, Jacob,” she said, briefly. “You have not answered my question. This woman,—what is she to you?”

“Suppose I do not choose to tell you,” he answered, doggedly.

“I demand an answer,” said Margaret, resolutely. “I have a right to know.”

The weakest natures are often the most cruel, delighting in the power which circumstances sometimes bestow upon them of torturing those who are infinitely their superiors. There was a cruel malignity in the scrivener’s eyes as he repeated, slowly, “You have a right to know! Deign to inform me of what nature is this right.”

“Good heavens!” she exclaimed, startled out of herself by his effrontery. “Have you the face to ask?”

“I have,” he said, his countenance expressing the satisfaction he felt in the blow he meditated.

Margaret looked at him a moment, uncertain of his meaning. Then she took a step forward and placed her hand on his arm, while she looked up in his face with an expression which had changed suddenly from defiance to entreaty.

“Jacob,” she said, in a softened tone, “have you forgotten the morning when we both stood before the altar, and pledged to each other eternal constancy? It is ten years since, years not unmarked by sorrow and privation, but we have been the happier for being together, have we not? You remember our little Margaret, Jacob,—how she lighted up our humble home with her sweet, winning ways, till God saw fit to take her to himself? If she had lived, I don’t think you would have found it in your heart to neglect me so. Can we not be to each other what we have been, Jacob? I may have been in fault sometimes, with my hasty temper, but I have never swerved from my love for you.”

“You are at liberty to do so as soon as you like,” he said, coldly.

“Good heavens!” she exclaimed; “and this to your wedded wife!”

“That is a slight mistake of yours,” he returned, with a sneer, resting his calculating eyes upon her face, as if to mark the effect of his words.

Her hand released its hold upon his arm, and she staggered back as if about to fall.

“My God! what do you mean? What can you mean? Tell me quickly, if you would not have me go mad before your eyes.”

“That might be the best way of ending the matter,” said he, with deliberate cruelty. “Nevertheless I will not refuse to gratify your reasonable curiosity. I declare to you solemnly that you are not my wedded wife.”

“You would deceive me,” she said, with sudden anger.

“Not in this matter, though I acknowledge having deceived you once. The priest who performed the ceremony was so only for that occasion.”

Margaret passed her hand across her eyes as if she were trying to rouse herself from some stupefying dream.

“Surely you are jesting, Jacob,” she said, at length. “You are only saying this to try me. Is it not so? I will only ask you this once. Are you in earnest?”

“I declare to you, Margaret, that you are not my wedded wife.”

“Then,” she said in a sudden burst of fury, to which she was urged by the sharpness of her despair. “Then I have only one thing to live for now.”

She turned away.

“What do you mean?” asked Jacob, almost involuntarily, her manner producing a vague uneasiness.

“Revenge!”

She drew her tattered shawl closely about her, and, though the heat was intense, actually shivered in her fierce emotion. Jacob looked after her as she walked rapidly away, turning neither to the right nor to the left, and a half feeling of compunction came over him. It was only for a moment, however, for he shook it off, muttering impatiently,—

“Pshaw! what’s the use of fretting! It must have come sooner or later. I suppose it was only natural to expect a scene. Well, I’m glad it’s over, at any rate. Now I shall have one impediment out of my path.”

Jacob’s nature was cold and cowardly, and, as may be inferred, essentially selfish. Destitute of all the finer feelings, it was quite impossible to understand the pain which he had inflicted on a nature so sensitive and high-strung as that of Margaret. Nor, had he been able to understand, would the instinct of humanity have bidden him to refrain.

He retraced his steps to obtain another glass of water, for the one in his hand had been spilled in the surprise of his first meeting with Margaret.

“Did you get tired of waiting, Ellen?” he asked, as on his return he presented the glass to his companion.

The suspicions excited in her mind by the mysterious warning had been strengthened by his protracted absence.

“You were long absent,” she said, coldly.

“Yes,” he replied, somewhat confused. “I was unexpectedly detained.”

“Perhaps you can explain this,” she continued, handing him the paper she had received.

He turned pale with anger and vexation, and incautiously muttered, “This is some of Margaret’s work. Curse her!”

“Who is Margaret?” asked his companion, suspiciously.

“She,” said Jacob, hesitating, in embarrassment. “Oh, she is an acquaintance of mine whose mind has lost its balance. You may have seen her on the ground here. She was muffled up in a shawl and cape-bonnet. She is always making trouble in some unexpected way.”

That this was a fabrication, Jacob’s confused manner clearly evinced.

“I wish to go home,” was the only response. Jacob offered his arm.

It was rejected. They walked on, not exchanging a word.

When they parted in New York, Jacob gave full vent to his indignation, and hastened home to pour out his fury on Margaret, who had so seriously interfered with his plan of allying himself with one for whom he cared little, except that she would have brought him a small property which he coveted. He hurried up stairs, and dashed into the room occupied by Margaret and himself. He looked about him eagerly, but saw no one.

Margaret had disappeared.