His passionate hurry drove like a wind, and Braelands was as straw before it. His horse stood there ready saddled; Andrew urged him to it, and saw him flying down the road to Pittendurie before he was conscious of his own efforts. Then he drew a long sigh, lifted the divorce papers and threw them into the blazing fire. A moment or two he watched them pass into smoke, and then he left the house with all the hurry of a soul anxious unto death. Half-way down the garden path, Madame Braelands stepped in front of him.
“What have you come here for?” she asked in her haughtiest manner.
“For Braelands.”
“Where have you sent him to in such a black hurry?”
“To his wife. She is dying.”
“Stuff and nonsense!”
“She is dying.”
“No such luck for my house. The creature has been dying ever since he married her.”
“You have been killing her ever since he married her. Give way, woman, I don’t want to speak to you; I don’t want to touch the very clothes of you. I think no better of you than God Almighty does, and He will ask Sophy’s life at your hands.”
“I shall tell Braelands of your impertinence. It will be the worse for you.”