She had left him that she might enjoy wealth, luxury, and splendour.
She had left him and blighted his life—had broken his heart; had slighted his love for—money!
“And what will not either man or woman do for money?” he cried, with supreme bitterness. “Anything—everything!”
He struck his forehead with his clenched fist.
“Had I handed Peace over to justice, which I ought to have done, the chances are that this fatal discovery would never have been made—for fatal it has proved to me; but it is right that I should be punished for my dissimulation and falsehood on the night of the burglary committed by that scoundrel, Peace.”
Gatliffe knew perfectly well that there was legal redress for him. He could claim his wife and claim his child, but he would not resort to such a course—he was too proud. If she had voluntarily left him, let her go.
The law of the country might force his heartless wife to return—might compel her to come back to him; but he disdained any such assistance—he held the law in contempt.
“She was light and vain,” he murmured. “She was always that ever since I’ve known her. She had my heart in her hands—that she knew well enough; she has broken it, and thrown it away. For her sake I would have borne starvation, ignominy, and death—she, with a few cool words, gives me up for money!”
Tom Gatliffe’s trouble seemed to warp and change his whole nature—it hardened him as nothing else could have done; yet to no living man did he make any complaint.
He said nothing of what had happened; he went about his work for some days as usual, but with a grim determined look on his face.