“I am sorry that I returned so soon,” he said, in a bitter, sneering tone; “but I have some respect for the poor old Major—even now. Come back.”
She did not speak, but he could hear her breath come in a short, quick, catching way.
“You hear me?” he said harshly. “Come back to your father now; but don’t speak to me, or the mad feeling may rise again. I cannot answer for myself.”
“Take me home,” she said, in tones that he did not recognise as hers, and once more the furious rage within him flashed up like fire, as in his wild, jealous indignation he cried—
“And him of all men. Quick! Back to the cottage first.”
He caught her wrist now so fiercely that the pain was almost unbearable, but she did not shrink. The suffering seemed to clear her brain, and in a flash she saw a horror that made her tremble.
“Clive,” she cried excitedly, “what are you going to do?”
He laughed bitterly.
“Perhaps what you think,” he said. “Likely enough. What should the man do to one who robs him twice. Why not? There is not room for two such brothers upon earth.”
She panted to speak, but no words came for a time, as with her wrist prisoned with a grasp of iron, she let him lead her back toward the cottage half a mile away—out now from the rock cutting, to where the stars shone down upon them with their calm, peaceful glimmer, as if there were no such thing as human passion upon earth.