“I am glad you are come. You were poor Christian’s great friend, were you not?” said she.
“Yes, madam,” said Bram rather stiffly.
Her little chirping voice irritated him. Although he understood that the neglected, unloved wife could not be expected to feel Christian’s death as those did who had loved and been loved by him, he wished she would not bear up quite so well, just as Mr. Cornthwaite had done.
But she insisted on following him downstairs, and then she opened the door of the morning-room, and asked him to come in. She would take no excuses; she would not keep him a moment.
“I wish to ask you about Miss Biron,” said she, to Bram’s great surprise, when she had shut the door of the room, and found herself alone with him. “Oh, yes,” she went on with a little nod, as she noticed his astonished look, “I bear her no malice because my husband loved her better than he did me. I only wish he had married her! I do sincerely hope and pray that I nourish no unchristian feelings against anybody, even the poor, mad girl who killed him, and who has since made away with herself in such a dreadful manner!”
She had heard of it already then! Bram was appalled by the manner in which she dismissed such an awful occurrence in a few rapid words.
“And, of course,” she went on, “I cannot feel that I have any right to blame Miss Biron, since we know that she did not run away with Christian, as we had supposed.”
Bram was overwhelmed with relief unspeakable. This was the first time he had heard anything more than doubt expressed as to Claire’s guilt in this matter. He had, indeed, entertained hopes, especially since last night, that Claire had been wrongfully accused. But what was the strongest hope compared with this authoritative confirmation of it? He was shrewd enough, strongly moved though he was, to control the emotion he felt, and to put this question—
“Did Mr. Cornthwaite—did his father—did Mr. Cornthwaite know that he had done his son and Miss Biron—an injustice, thinking what he did?”