“It is false! I am strong. I never felt stronger than to-night. This has brought me to myself. I would not see it, Jack. I blinded myself. I told myself I was mad and a traitor, to imagine such things; but I have felt it all along.”
“And has this been preying on your mind?”
“Preying? Gnawing my heart out.—Don’t stop me. Let us go. Quick! He shall know me for what I am. Not the weak miserable fool he thinks.—Come quickly!—No! stop!” He stood panting, with Scales holding tightly by his arm, trembling for the result.
“Monnick, go back to the house,” said Scarlett, at last in a low whisper; and the old man went without a word.
“Now you stop here,” said Scarlett, in the same low painful whisper. “I will not degrade her more by bringing a witness.”
“But Scarlett—my dear old fellow. There must be no violence. Recollect that you are a gentleman.”
“Yes! I recollect. I am not going to act like a ruffian. You see how calm I am.”
“But it may be some mistake. I have seen nothing. It is all dependent on your gardener’s words. What did he tell you?”
“Hardly a word,” groaned Scarlett, “hardly a word. ‘Prayle—the summer-house.’ It was enough. I tell you, I have suspected it so long. It has been killing me. How could I get well with this upon my mind!”
“But, now?”