"But they are gone," cried Elsie. Then, remembering the danger of that avowal, she stopped suddenly.
"Gone!" he repeated. "How do you know? Oh, Elsie, do you know more than you own—do—"
"Stop, stop!" she screamed. "You have driven Bessie away and now you want to kill me! I don't know about anything—you know I don't. Just the other day Bessie spoke something about the stocks; I thought from what she said that you had taken them back for some purpose."
He was perfectly satisfied with her explanation, but the distress and fright into which she had fallen nearly brought on another nervous crisis. Great drops of perspiration stood on her forehead, and the slender fingers he held worked nervously in his grasp.
"Don't talk any more, dear child," he said. "Try to go to sleep again."
"I can't sleep—I never shall rest again—never! I feel so wicked—I hate myself!"
"Child, what do you mean?"
She must restrain herself, no danger must come near her. Even her sorrow for Elizabeth, her stinging remorse, could not make her unselfish enough to run any personal risk of his displeasure.
"I don't know what I mean—nothing at all! But it drives me wild to think of Bessie. Where can she be—where could she go? Suppose she has killed herself! Oh, she may be drowned in the bay—drowned—drowned!"
She went nearly mad with the ideas which her fancy conjured up, but it was perfectly in keeping with her character that in the very extremity of her suffering, no word for Elizabeth should be spoken that would implicate herself. Mellen must not guess at her knowledge of his wife's fault.