"Clarence
Mayfair, you dare to speak words of love to that woman at your side?
You! Beth Woodburn's promised husband?"
"Arthur Grafton!" exclaimed Clarence, and Marie drew back through the
violet curtains.
A firm hand grasped Clarence by the shoulder, and, white with fear, he
stood trembling before his accuser.
"Wretch! unworthy wretch! And you claim _her_ hand! Do you know her
worth?"
"In the name of heaven, Grafton, don't alarm the house!" said Clarence,
in a terrified whisper. His lip trembled with emotion, and Arthur's dark
eyes flashed with fire. There was a shade of pitiful scorn in them, too.
After all, what a mere boy this delicate youth looked, he thought.
Perhaps he was too harsh. He had only heard a sentence or two outside
the window, and he might have judged too harshly.
"I know it, I know I have wronged her," said Clarence, in a choked
voice; "but don't betray me!"
There was a ring of true penitence and sorrow in the voice that touched
Arthur, and as he raised his face to that picture of the Crucifixion on
the wall, it softened gradually.
"Well, perhaps I am severe. May God forgive you, Clarence. But it is
hard for a man to see another treat the woman he--well, there, I'll say
no more.
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