Читать книгу On the Brink of a Chasm: A record of plot and passion онлайн

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“It is, and I am undone,” said Tarbot. His face grew ghastly white; he staggered against the window frame.

Without a word Barbara turned and left him. She entered the gaily lighted room. Tarbot, leaning against the window frame, watched her as she did so.

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Barbara looked like a beautiful white lily. Her long neck slightly drooped as she walked down the room. Tarbot’s face as he watched her became more and more ugly; the devil was fairly aroused in him.

“If I cannot have that woman for my wife I shall go under,” he muttered. “But she shall be mine—I swear it. Only a rival can kill hope. If there is a rival, if”—he clenched his hand—“he shall rue it,” he muttered; “the man, whoever he is, shall rue it—he shall rue it to his dying day.”

At that moment Tarbot’s worst fears were confirmed. He could see well into the big drawing-room, and just then he noticed a man who, in irreproachable evening costume, with a rose in his button-hole, came forward and clasped one of Barbara’s white hands. The man was tall, fair, and remarkably good-looking: his face was clean-shaven, his mouth sweet in expression, his eyes full of kindliness. They were good eyes, gray in color and well open.