“And is it true you once wrote books, and had a little boy whose death made a great change in you?” said I slowly, watching her face.
“No; I never had any child but Mona and Haidee.”
“Then what did he—”
“What did he tell you so for? He delights in making up fantastic tales of that sort, and often in making me bear witness to the truth of his inventions; it is part of his wild humor. When he went away to carry out a robbery, he would let me know what he was going to do—just to torture me.”
The dead calmness with which she told me all this was maddening to me.
“Why did you bear it? Why didn’t you rebel, or run away, while he was engaged in a robbery, and tell a policeman?”
“If Sarah had killed me, and you had married Mr. Rayner,” she answered slowly, staring straight at me, “you would have understood why.”
And the power this man exercised over every one who came much in his way became in a moment clear to me, when I saw by what different means he had on the one hand cowed his gentle wife and the fiery Sarah, and on the other gained a strong influence over such different women as Mrs. Reade and myself. But the revelation was more than I could bear. I said faintly—
“May I go to my room, Mrs. Rayner? I—I am not well.”
And she herself led me very slowly—for I was indeed weak and ill, half with the pain of my arm and half with misery and disgust—up to my bed in the turret-room.