And Esther buried her face in her hands weeping passionately.
But Mr. Tremain was scarcely moved; he remained sitting, resting his head on his hand, and apparently lost in close study of the carpet under his feet. Esther's words rang in his ears.
"Oh, Philip, how can you doubt her?"
And yet he knew he did doubt her. He knew that when Mrs. Newbold admitted Patricia's acquaintance with the murdered Stevan Lallovich, and placed that acquaintance within the ten years of Miss Hildreth's absence—those ten unexplained years—he felt all the old distrust and suspicion leap into life again, and range themselves before him in mute confirmation of Miss James's calculated insinuations.
"Ten years is a long time—long enough to plant and sow and reap—long enough to sink one's self to the neck in intrigue, to bury one's self in crime."
How could he declare her innocent when this terrible, impassable gulf lay between them? Since she had known this Stevan Lallovich, might not another of Miss James's suppositions prove true? Might she not also have known Vladimir Mellikoff in that past, and have reason to fear him now? How much could he believe even of what she, Patricia, might tell him?
Several long moments passed by in silence, during which Esther sobbed hysterically, before he roused himself, and, getting up, said, very quietly: "I will not trouble you further to-night, Esther; you had better get to bed, little woman. You do not quite trust me, I know, but you may, my dear; never fear, she shall not suffer or be overcome if I can prevent it. I will come back to-morrow after—I have seen her—and tell you of her."
"Oh, Philip, be gentle to her," pleaded Esther, "be very gentle; remember you did love her—once."
"I am not likely to forget it," he replied, and then he turned away abruptly and left her.
All night long he walked to and fro, up and down, across an open common of waste land that skirted the railway at Manhattanville, and all night long, as the hours crept by, and the stars faded, and the dawn drew on, he fought the battle over and over against himself—the battle of his love for her, against his doubt of her. And when the day broke in a sunrise of golden splendour, it found him still uncertain, neither victor nor vanquished; still loving her, and still doubting her.