She shrank, but her hands lay passive in his. “No, not with all my heart and soul—but, oh—!”
He flung her hands from him. “No, not with all your heart and soul—I know! You are willing to sacrifice me for him, and you think I do not understand.”
She drew herself up, with burning cheeks and flashing eyes. “You understand nothing—nothing. If you had ever understood me, or any human being, or any human heart, you would not have ruined all that might have given you an undying love, something that would have followed you through fire and flood to the grave. You cannot love. You do not understand love. Self—self, always self. Oh, you are mad, mad, to have thrown it all away, all that might have given happiness! All that I have, all that I am, has been at your service; everything has been bent and tuned to your pleasure, for your good. All has been done for you, with thought of you and your position and your advancement, and now—now, when you have killed all that might have been yours, you cry out in anger that it is dying, and you insinuate what you should kill another for insinuating. Oh, the wicked, cruel folly of it all! You suggest—you dare! I never heard a word from David Claridge that might not be written on the hoardings. His honour is deeper than that which might attach to the title of Earl of Eglington.”
She seemed to tower above him. For an instant she looked him in the eyes with frigid dignity, but a great scorn in her face. Then she went to the door—he hastened to open it for her.
“You will be very sorry for this,” he said stubbornly. He was too dumfounded to be discreet, too suddenly embarrassed by the turn affairs had taken. He realised too late that he had made a mistake, that he had lost his hold upon her.
As she passed through, there suddenly flashed before her mind the scene in the laboratory with the chairmaker. She felt the meaning of it now.
“You do not intend to tell him—perhaps Soolsby has done so,” she said keenly, and moved on to the staircase.
He was thunderstruck at her intuition. “Why do you want to rob yourself?” he asked after her vaguely. She turned back. “Think of your mother’s letter that you destroyed,” she rejoined solemnly and quietly. “Was it right?”
He shut the door, and threw himself into a chair. “I will put it straight with her to-morrow,” he said helplessly.
He sat for a half-hour silent, planning his course.