“So you’ve sunk to that?” he said. “You’d show up well—wouldn’t you?—as prosecutrix in a case of bigamy.”
He moved away, and stood with his back to her, trying to master his anger, trying to resist the devil in him which tempted him to murder her. At that moment he hated her as passionately as at one time he had loved her. It would have given him immense satisfaction to have hurt her, to have seen her wince under his hands.
“Oh! you hold a trump card in that knowledge,” he muttered. “It was clever of you to have thought of that.”
Pamela made no response. She remained perfectly motionless, looking miserably away from him, staring unseeingly straight before her. Arnott glanced at her contemptuously, and flung out of the room.
Chapter Eighteen.
Pamela rose the next morning with a dumb anger in her heart. She had passed a sleepless night,—a night of anguish, such as she had not experienced since the time following her discovery of the existence of Arnott’s wife. She did not know how to act. She needed advice sorely, and knew of no one to whom she could turn in her trouble. The delicacy of her position made it impossible for her to seek outside help. Whatever difficulty arose through her relations with Arnott, she must face it alone.
On one thing she was resolved; the night’s reflection had confirmed her on this point; Blanche must go at once. Arnott’s insistence that the girl should remain weighed with her very lightly, and failed to shake her determination.
She went downstairs with her decision arrived at, with no intention of discussing the matter again. There was no one to discuss it with she found on descending; Arnott had breakfasted and left the house, taking a small amount of luggage with him. This, she realised, was his way of evading unpleasantness. Possibly the recognition that he dared not further assert his authority, coupled with a dislike for admitting defeat had moved him to this course as the only dignified way out of a dilemma. He left her to act on her own responsibility.