“Miss Dartmouth,” he began, and then stopped.
Simultaneously they both thought of the invalid stretched moveless on the bed, and Pauline bent over that form. The eyes blinked irregularly, and always they stared up at the same point of the ceiling. They were dry, but Pauline noticed traces of tears on the rugged cheeks, and she wiped them away—it was her mission.
“Ah!” she murmured. “You can’t advise me what I ought to do.”
And then she faced Mr. Jetsam once more, still standing by the bed. The table-lamp, with the crimson silk shade, and the bright fire gave sufficient light.
“Miss Dartmouth,” Mr. Jetsam recommenced, “a great crime was committed long ago in the Ilam family, one of the most cruel crimes conceivable. It can never be atoned for in full, or nearly in full: but, even now, after many, many years, it can be partially atoned for.”
“Who committed this crime? and what was it? Murder?” gasped Pauline in a breath.
“I cannot be sure who committed it,” replied the man; “and it was not murder. It was worse than murder.”
“How do you know it was worse than murder? How does it concern you?”
“I was the victim,” said the man quietly. And then he raised his voice and repeated: “I was the victim. I am the victim.”
“Hush!” she warned him. “Not so loud.”