"Never!" they answered, harshly, hardening their hearts against the two young creatures who had carried out that daring conspiracy. And Laurel began to realize the enormity of what she had done. It had not seemed so bad to her at first, this helping a fair young girl and her lover to be happy in spite of opposition. She remembered that Clarice had called it a splendid joke, and Beatrix had laughed at her scruples. But it was quite another thing to the Gordons. It was a cruel outrage, and beyond pardon. She stood looking at their cold, frowning faces a moment, then turned hopelessly away. Every one was against her. If only St. Leon would forgive her she would not care for the rest, she thought; but, alas-- "His love is turned to hate," she sighed. "He will never forgive me. He will drive me away from him into eternal banishment. My brief dream of happiness is over. And yet I was mad enough to think that out of his great love he would forgive me! Ah, me! ah, me!" Mr. Gordon led his wife silently from the room without a glance at her. She was alone in the great, gilded drawing-room--deserted and alone in her terrible anguish and despair. The sting of their contempt pierced her heart. "I am despised and deserted by all," she said, sorrowfully. "What shall I do? Must I go away? Would St. Leon like it? Would he be glad never to see me again?" Something like a wail of anguish came from her lips at the thought of leaving her husband and never seeing him again. It was more bitter than death. She thought of his passionate, idolizing love. Had it all been murdered at one fell stroke by the knowledge of her sin? The door opened, and he came suddenly into the room. He saw her standing there, the only creature in the wide, brilliant drawing-room. He knew that every one had deserted her for her sin--that fatal retribution had overtaken her. His own heart had revolted from its allegiance, now that he knew her for the willful creature of clay that she was instead of the angel he had deemed her. Yet never had her perfect beauty struck him more forcibly than now. Robbed of its light, its coloring, its bloom, its perfection still showed supreme, like the beauty of a perfectly chiseled statue. She ran to him; she threw herself humbly at his feet-- "There, with her milk-white arms and shadowy hair, She made her face a darkness." "Forgive me, my husband, forgive me!" prayed the wretched wife. CHAPTER XLII. He stood there in silence, looking down at that bowed head, veiled by its sweeping golden hair. He made no effort to raise her; he answered not a word to her wild appeal. There was a smoldering fire in his dark eyes, a stern compression of his lips, that boded ill for the granting of her prayer. He had received a terrible shock. His love and his pride alike had been outraged, and in his case it was a strong love and a strong pride. The wound to both was accordingly all the greater.