CHAPTER XXXII.
THE REVELATION.
Colonel Falconer was so shocked and startled by Willie Laurens’ words that he staggered rather than walked across the threshold of the room where Pansy was lying, with close-shut eyes, among the white pillows of the bed, carefully watched by Nora Laurens, who now, at a sign from her brother, arose and left the room.
Colonel Falconer found himself alone with Pansy, and, at the closing of the door, she opened wide those wondrous eyes of violet blue, and looked mournfully up into his face.
Oh, the pain, the grief, the despair of that glance! It went straight to the man’s loving heart, and he fell on his knees with a groan, and pressed his lips to her white brow in passionate love.
She lay still and sorrowful, while fond words of love poured from his lips, and kisses rained on her fair face. She said to herself that if he repudiated her and cast her off after he had heard her sad confession, she would have the memory of these caresses to comfort her when her noble husband was lost to her forever.
By and by he lifted his head, and said reproachfully:
“You should not have gone out, my darling, if you were not feeling well. You know you have not been strong for some time.”
She knew that she must speak now, and so she answered faintly:
“I have had an accident, Colonel Falconer. I have been shot in the shoulder.”
He recoiled with a cry of dismay, and she continued, in a low but distinct voice:
“Stay here by me, and—I—will—tell you all—about it. I am not going to die, they say, although it—might—be—better if I were.”
“Pansy, you must be raving! You do not mean that,” he exclaimed, in alarm, and with such a tender look that she exclaimed remorsefully:
“Ah, how good you are to me! But I do not deserve it, for I have deceived you shamefully, and when I have confessed my sin you will—cast me off—you will never—speak—to—poor—Pansy again!”
“Now I am quite sure that you are raving. You have done nothing, my precious wife, for which I could visit you with such harsh punishment as that,” exclaimed her husband fondly, as he bent over her and smoothed back with loving hands the curling locks that strayed over her blue-veined brow.
A heavy sigh drifted over the lips that were pale with pain, and Pansy murmured sadly:
“I am not raving. Although I am in great pain from the wound in my shoulder, I know quite well what I am saying. I have deceived you, my kind, noble husband, and when you know all you will hate me.”
“Nonsense!” he replied cheerily, and, clasping her cold little hand warmly and closely in his, he murmured reassuringly:
“Come, let us have that dreadful confession, my pet, that your foolish alarms may be speedily dissipated.”
But no answering smile met his. Pansy was as pale as death as she began:
“Louisville was not my—native place—as I told you. I—I—was born—in Richmond—and I am at this moment—under my mother’s roof.”
Colonel Falconer started violently, but he still kept fast hold of her little hand as she continued:
“That is not all. I—I—had run away from my home when I met Mrs. Beach. There—there—was a stain—upon my name—although,” passionately, “I swear to you it was not my fault! I am—Heaven pity me!—that girl whom Juliette Ives hates so relentlessly because she caused the breaking of her engagement with Norman Wylde.”
“Pansy Laurens!” Colonel Falconer uttered, in a voice of horror; and he dropped her hand and started back.
She made no reply. Her confession had exhausted her strength, and she had fainted.