"Surely,"
he argued, "if Mrs. Dawson can forgive me for all I have done, I ought
to pardon the girl I love for what she did before she knew me."
These were admirable intentions, but he was counting on a depth of
nature that was not his either by inheritance or cultivation. The
inflammable material was still bound up in his breast, and it needed
but one spark to fire it. What he was struggling against had come down
to him from a long line of ancestors, men who would rather have died
than brook the thought of a rival, especially in an inferior; men who
would have spurned the love of their hearts if it were stained with
falsehood under any circumstances, and when, as it was in Westerfelt's
case, the provocation was not only deceit, but ardent love for such a
man--ah, there was the rub!
The next morning he watched Bates's office from the stable till he saw
the lawyer come down the street and enter. He waited awhile longer,
for he saw Bates go out to the wood-pile and return with an armful of
wood. Presently blue smoke began to rise from the chimney, and
Westerfelt went over and rapped on the door.
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