“Oh yes, I knew,” Frances said.
He went on with an effort. “I was nearly mad with trouble myself after that. And afterwards—when you were gone and I heard from Maggie that you had been inveigled into going up to town alone to meet that scoundrel, I couldn’t stand it any longer. I had to follow you. I went to his rooms and I dogged him that night. I was like a man possessed—as much a murderer at heart as my father had ever been. If you hadn’t stopped me, I should have killed him. But—oh, Frances,—” his deep voice broke—“nothing was worth while after that lie of yours. If it hadn’t been for my mother I should have put an end to myself.”
She laid her cheek against his shoulder. “Arthur! Do you think I found it easy—to lie? It nearly killed me too.”
“Wait!” he said. “Hear it all! I came back. I found my father better. But I was at the end of my endurance. I couldn’t go on. I told my mother so. I told her he must be certified insane and put away. She said I was quite right, though I know it would have broken her heart to have done it. I told her I must go right away too—to save my own sanity. And she—God bless her—she understood without any words. She just told me to go. Then I had my cousin’s letter, telling me everything, vindicating you. I shouldn’t have believed him if I hadn’t known you. But—knowing you—I knew it was true. He asked for a meeting, and I agreed. Somehow I couldn’t help it. It seemed inevitable. You know how sometimes one is pushed by Fate. I was bound to agree. I don’t know what would have happened if I had met him. I might have killed him. I can’t say. But I had only my hands to do it with. I didn’t set out to kill him. And then—you came instead. You were frightened. You thought you had seen a devil. Do you know what it was you saw?”
“Your father!” she whispered.
“My father, yes. He had been wandering among the Stones, and I can only think that he had remembered about the child, and in a fit of mad remorse he had made up his mind to destroy the Rocking Stone,—possibly himself also. It is all surmise now. Anyhow, when you saw the Stone move, he must have been putting the charge underneath. And afterwards—when you and I were standing there—the murderous impulse must have seized him again. Perhaps he took me for Montague, and he may have thought you were Nan. I don’t know. It is impossible to say. Anyway, he fired the fuse, and blasted the Stone. God only knows how we escaped unhurt. But he—but he——”
“He was killed?” said Frances.
“Yes, instantly. When I came to myself, you were unconscious and he was lying dead among the stones. Oliver and some of the men heard the noise and came up. We carried you back. I thought you were dead, but Dr. Square said it was only shock, that in a few days, given absolute quiet, you might recover.”
“A few days!” said Frances, wonderingly.
“It happened a week ago,” he said. “You were semi-conscious once or twice, and then you seemed to sleep. That was what brought you back.”