“I have thought only too much of all these things.”
“Then, for his father's sake—his father, who is going away to the other world leaving a son unforgiven. Beware how you not only take your brother's birthright, but seal your brother's curse.”
“God forbid. Oh, Anne—Anne!”
He pressed his hand over his eyes, and leaned back a moment—leaning, though he did not know it, against his wife, who had stolen behind his chair. No one else came near; they all shrank from their brother as if he were suddenly gone mad. Looking up, he saw only Miss Valery.
“Forgive me, Anne; I cannot control myself as I used to do: I have been very ill lately, but don't tell my wife.”
Anne took no notice; perhaps she wished the wife should learn the husband's real heart as she—his old friend—knew it.
“Don't think I would harm Frederick. Not for worlds. Do you know,” and his voice lowered, “I dare not trust myself even to be just over his misdeeds, lest I should be slaying my enemy.”
“Your enemy? It is too hard a word.”
“No! it is true.” He glanced round, perceiving no one near but Miss Valery. “Anne,” he whispered, “do you remember the parable of Nathan? Why did he do it—the cruel rich man who had enjoyed so much all his life? Why did he steal my one little ewe-lamb?”
“Stay!” cried Anne, with a sudden suspicion waking in her. “I don't clearly understand. Tell me again.”