“You are a dying man. How did you come here?”
“Dying! my dear wife; not a bit of it. I am no more dying than you are. I have been ill, it is true, but that is only because you have fretted me so. The dying was only a little ruse to get your consent. All is fair in love and war, you know; and of course you never really believed in that precious agreement. That was nothing but a bit of maidenly shyness, eh?”
Angela stood still as a stone, a look of horror on her face.
“Then you don’t know what you have cost me. Your father’s price was a hundred and fifty thousand, at least that is what it came to, the old shark! It isn’t every man who would come down like that for a girl, now is it? It shows a generous mind, doesn’t it?”
Still she uttered not a syllable.
“Angela,” he said, changing his tone to one of hoarse earnestness, “don’t look at me like that, because, even if you are a bit put out at the trick I have played you, just think it was because I loved you so much, Angela. I couldn’t help it, I couldn’t really. It is not every man who would go through all that I have gone through for you; it is no joke to sham consumption for three months, I can tell you; but we will have many a laugh over that. Why don’t you answer me, instead of standing there just like the Andromeda in my study?”
The simile was an apt one, the statue of the girl awaiting her awful fate wore the same hopeless, helpless look of vacant terror which was upon Angela’s face now. But its mention recalled Lady Bellamy and the ominous incident in which that statue had figured, and he hastened to drown recollection in action.
“Come,” he said, “you will forgive me, won’t you? It was all done for love of you.” And he moved towards her.
As he came she seemed to collect her energies; the fear left her face, and in its stead there shone a great and awful blaze of indignation.
Her brush was still in her hand, and as he drew near she dashed it full into his face. It was but a light thing, and only staggered him, but it gave her time to pass him, and reach the still open door. Bare- footed, she fled like the wind down the passages, and down the stairs. Uttering an oath, he followed her. But, as she went, she remembered that she could not run upon the gravel with her naked feet, and, with this in her mind, she turned to bay by a large window that gave light to the first-floor landing, immediately opposite which was the portrait of “Devil” Caresfoot. It was unbolted, and with a single movement of the hand she flung it open, and stood panting by it in the full light of the moon. In another moment he was upon her, furious at the blow, and his face contorted with passion.