"Murdered her; now I like that," said Fuller; "but where is she? not gone off in a tiff. Bessie wasn't the girl to do that any way; but as for murder, oh nonsense!"
"Fuller, you are her only relative, and have a right to know. Come out into the grounds, the air of the house would stifle me."
They sat down together on a garden chair within sight of the old cypress.
"I have been a proud man, Fuller, sensitive beyond everything to the honor of my family, but never knowingly have I allowed this feeling to stand between my soul and justice. Your cousin has been terribly wronged since she came under my roof. It is now too late for reparation, but to you, her only relative, the truth must be known. I will not even ask you to keep the facts secret. I have no right."
"Look here, old fellow," said Tom, wringing Mellen's slender hand in his; "if this is a lover's quarrel between you and Elizabeth, don't say another word. Lord bless you! I can persuade her into anything, she knows me of old. Besides, I am glad there is something that I can do to make you both good-natured just now, for as like as not, I shall be asking a tremendous favor of you before long, and this will pave the way; tell me where your wife is, I'll take care of the rest."
"Tom, I believe—I fear that she is dead."
The solemnity with which this was spoken, appalled Tom.
"Dead!" he repeated, and the ruddy color faded from his face. "Dead—you can't mean it."
"Listen patiently to me if you can," said Mellen, sadly. "This must be told, but the effort is terrible."
Tom folded his arms and bent his now grave face to listen. Then Mellen told him all; the anguish, the deception, the anxiety which these pages have recorded so imperfectly. There was but little exhibition of excitement, Mellen told these things in a dull, dreary voice that bespoke utter hopelessness. He was so lost in his own misery that the signs of anguish in Tom's face never disturbed his narrative.