“You will marry Dorothy Fair,” Madelon
said, in such a tone of calm assertion that he quailed
before it.
“Then you—are satisfied to—marry
Lot— It is your wish?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, my God!” said Burr, and went out,
while Madelon took another stitch in her wedding-gown.
However the tale of Madelon’s and Lot’s
engagement had found mouth—whether Margaret
Bean had vented her knowledge when it grew too big
for her or not—it was scarce one day before
the whole village was agape with it. With that
tendency of the human mind born of involuntary self-knowledge
which leads it to suspect a selfish motive in all
untoward actions, many gave unhesitatingly a reason
for Madelon’s choice.
The women nodded astutely at each other, and the men
exchanged shrewd affirmative grunts. “She’s
goin’ to marry Lot to pay off Burr,” they
all agreed. “She’ll get all the money.”
Madelon herself had never thought of that. She
had never considered the fact that her marriage with
Lot would rob Burr of his prospective wealth; and,
if she had, she would have dismissed the thought as
of no moment. Capacity for revenge of that sort
was not in her; even the imagination of it was lacking.
She would simply have resolved to give the property
to Burr if she should outlive Lot, and she would have
carried out her resolution. Consciously, perhaps,
this consideration was no more evident to her father
and her brothers than to herself. The Hautvilles
were not mercenary, and retaliation, involving personal
profit at the expense of an enemy, was not of their
code. They did have, however, a consideration
no less selfish, in a way, and no less acute when
they heard the news. One and all thought, “Now
Madelon will be cleared of all suspicion that she may
have brought upon herself. Nobody will believe
that Lot Gordon would marry a girl who attempted his
life. Every hint of disgrace will be removed from
her and us all by this marriage.”
Louis, when he heard the news, gave an involuntary
glance at his own hands at the thought of Madelon’s
crimsoned ones, to which he had tried to blind his
memory. “Well, maybe it’s the best
thing that could happen,” he said, grimly, but
his wonder over it was great. He knew well enough,
however he tried to hide the knowledge from himself,
that Madelon’s story had been true. He looked
at his brother Richard, and Richard looked back at
him; and one’s knowledge for once faced the
other’s boldly in their utter astonishment.
Then they nodded at each other in a stern understanding
of assent. It was best their sister should cover
her crime and avert the disgrace, which she had seemed
to hang over all of them, in that way.
