Part 46 (2/2)

The first breath of the cold night-air brought with it such a gush of joy as he had rarely experienced; and he trod the silent streets with something of the pleasure of an escaped criminal, until, alas! the wind, at the first turning, let him know that he had left his hat behind him! He felt as if he had committed a murder, and left his card-case with the body. A vague terror grew upon him as he hurried along. Justice seemed following on his track. He had found the door on the latch: if anything was missing, how should he explain the presence of his hat without his own? The devil of the brandy he had drunk was gone out of him, and only the gray ashes of its evil fire were left in his sick brain, but it had helped first to kindle another fire, which was now beginning to glow unsuspected--that of a fever whose fuel had been slowly gathering for some time.

He opened the door with his pa.s.s-key, and hurried up the stair, his long legs taking three steps at a time. Never before had he felt as if he were fleeing to a refuge when going home to his wife.

He opened the door of the sitting-room--and there on the floor lay Letty and little Tom, as I have already told.

”Why have I heard nothing of this before?” said Mary.

”I am not aware of any right you have to know what happens in this house.”

”Not from you, of course, Miss Yolland--perhaps not from Mrs. Redmain; but the servants talk of most things, and I have not heard a word--”

”How could you,” interrupted Sepia, ”when you were not in the house?--And, so long as nothing was missed, the thing was of no consequence,” she added. ”Now it is different.”

This confused Mary a little. She stopped to consider. One thing was clear--that, if the ring was not lost till after she left--and of so much she was sure--it could not be Tom that had taken it, for he was then ill in bed. Something to this effect she managed to say.

”I told you already,” returned Sepia, ”that I had no suspicion of him--at least, I desire to have none, but you may be required to prove all you say; and it is as well to let you understand--though there is no reason why _I_ should take the trouble--that your going to those very people at the time, and their proving to be friends of yours, adds to the difficulty.”

”How?” asked Mary.

”I am not on the jury,” replied Sepia, with indifference.

The scope of her remarks seemed to Mary intended to show that any suspicion of her would only be natural. For the moment the idea amused her. But Sepia's way of talking about Tom, whatever she meant by it, was disgraceful!

”I am astonished you should seem so indifferent,” she said, ”if the character of a gentleman with whom you have been so intimate is so seriously threatened as you would imply. I know he has been to see you more than once while Mr. and Mrs. Redmain were not yet returned.”

Sepia's countenance changed; an evil fire glowed in her eyes, and she looked at Mary as if she would search her to the bone. The poorer the character, the more precious the repute!

”The foolish fellow,” she returned, with a smile of contempt, ”chose to fall in love with me!--A married man, too!”

”If you understood that, how did he come to be here so often?” asked Mary, looking her in the face.

But Sepia knew better than declare war a moment before it was unavoidable.

”Have I not just told you,” she said, in a haughty tone, ”that the man was in love with me?”

”And have you not just told me he was a married man? Could he have come to the house so often without at least your permission?”

Mary was actually taking the upper hand with her! Sepia felt it with scarcely repressive rage.

”He deserved the punishment,” she replied, with calmness.

”You do not seem to have thought of his wife!”

”Certainly not. She never gave me offense.”

”Is offense the only ground for casting a regard on a fellow-creature?”

”Why should I think of her?”

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