At the foot of the stairs he was brought suddenly to full remembrance of the hard, matter-of-fact world of every day. Mr. Cornthwaite was standing, cold and grave, buttoning up his coat, ready to go.
“Where are you going?” asked he shortly.
“For the doctor again, sir. Meg has nearly done for her, for Miss Claire.”
Mr. Cornthwaite uttered a short exclamation, which might have been meant to express compassion, but which was more like indifference, or even satisfaction. So Bram felt, in a sudden transport of anger.
“And the old man—Mr. Biron, what did she do to him?”
Bram was silent. He remembered Meg’s ferocious words, her triumphant cry that she had killed both the woman and the man she hated; and as the remembrance came back he turned quickly, and went in the direction of Theodore’s room. But Mr. Biron was lying quietly in bed, apparently unaware that anything extraordinary had happened. For when he saw Bram he only asked if he were going to stay with him. Bram excused himself, and left the room.
“Mr. Biron’s all right, sir,” he said to Mr. Cornthwaite, who had by this time reached the door, impatient to get away.
The only answer he got was a nod as Mr. Cornthwaite went out of the house.
Bram had not to go far before he found some one to run his errand for him, so that he was able to return to the house. His mind was full of a strange new thought, one so startling that it took time to assimilate it. He sat for a long time by the kitchen fire, turning the idea over in his mind, until the doctor returned, and went away again, after reporting that Claire was not so much injured by the woman’s violence as might have been feared.