If ever a
human face served its owner ill, by apparently confessing guilt, where
only folly existed, Margaret's did so now.
"What I may think of the rascal who says these things," replied Mr.
Faringfield, with the unnatural quietness that betrays a tumult of
inward feelings, "I will tolerate them till I am sure they are false."
His eyes were still fixed on Margaret.
"What!" said she, a little hysterically. "Do you pay attention to the
slanders of such a fellow? To an accusation like that, made on the
mere strength of a gentleman's manner of mentioning me?"
"No, but I pay attention to your manner of receiving the accusation:
your telltale face, your embarrassment--"
"'Tis my anger--"
"There's an anger of innocence, and an anger of guilt. I would your
anger had shown more of contempt than of confusion." Alas! he knew
naught of half-guilt and _its_ manifestations.
"How can you talk so?--I won't listen--such insulting
innuendoes!--even if you are my father--why, this knave himself says I
betrayed Captain Falconer's scheme: how could he think that, if--"
"That proves nothing," said Ned, with a contemptuous grin. "Women do
unaccountable things. A streak of repentance, maybe; or a lovers'
quarrel. The point is, a woman like you wouldn't have entered into a
scheme like that, with a man like him, if there hadn't already been a
pretty close understanding of another kind.
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