“You believed me, and your answer was to try to kill me?” Jetsam sneered.
The two men, the son and the stepson, were now opposite to one another, on either side of the bed, while Carpentaria, intently listening, stood at the foot.
“I did not try to kill you,” answered Ilam.
“You pretty nearly succeeded,” said Jetsam.
“I thought I had killed you,” Ilam said gravely. “But I had no intention of doing so. You said something very scathing about my mother——”
“I said nothing that was not justified.”
“You insulted my mother. I lost my temper. I hated you. We always hate those whom we have wronged. I struck you. You fell, and you must have knocked your head against the pile of planks lying in the enclosure; you never moved. I examined you. I could have sworn you were dead—I was afraid—I thought of inquests. I knew the whole truth would come out. I had not meant to kill. So I took you and buried you temporarily, while I considered what I should do afterwards. I went back to the house and told my mother. She would not believe me. She thought I had been dreaming. I do frequently have bad nightmares. And certain things that occurred afterwards made even me suspect that after all I had been dreaming. It was not until you came again that I——”
“And even your mother believed then, eh?” said Jetsam. “Your mother believed too suddenly. She saw me and she believed! And the result was paralysis! I ought to have broken it to her more gently. That would have been perhaps better for all of us—perhaps better!”
There was a pause. And Jetsam added, as if communing with himself:
“How she hated me! How she hates me still! even to-night, if some one had not interfered in time——”