“To you?—to you?”
“Yes, to us. Had not Lady Clare drank too freely of harmless cold water—had not Lord Clare known it, and so tortured himself to death, where would your chances of property have been?”
“And you did this?” cried the woman, aghast.
“Who else? The gentiles have no relish for vengeance, they swallow it at a mouthful—we take a life-time for one meal—don’t make us hungry again!”
Chaleco turned away with a scornful smile, and, stooping to my ear, whispered,
“At Marston Court to-night, I shall wait!”
He glided toward the window, lifted the curtain, and was gone before Lady Clare knew that he had moved; for, overcome with cowardly terror, she had buried her face in the cushions of her easy-chair.
I did not wait for her to look up, but left the room, satisfied that my poor old benefactor was saved from all attempts at persecution.
I went to the parsonage after this, where I might be another day—what course of life would be mine was uncertain, all that I knew was that my life at Greenhurst had ended.
Thus tortured in its affections, my poor heart turned with longing tenderness toward Cora, the only child companion I had ever known. I would see her, and with my secret kept close, have the joy of one mere loving interview. My heart grew gentle with tenderness as I approached the house. She was not at the window. An air of strange gloom pervaded the place. I entered the parlor; it had not been swept that day; books, drawings, and Cora’s guitar lay huddled together on the table; all the blinds were closed but one, and that was kept in constant motion by the wind, now letting in gushes of light, again filling the room with shadows.