“Dead!” he said hollowly. “Dead!”
“Dead!” echoed his father hoarsely.
“Dead!” said Rufus Black, turning his burning, terrible eyes upon his father’s face. “And it was you who killed her! I loved her—I would have been true to her all her days, but you tore us asunder, and drove her to despair, madness and death. You are her murderer!”
Craven Black started, nervously, and looked around him.
“Don’t, Rufus—don’t,” he ejaculated uneasily. “Some one might hear you. The girl is to blame for killing herself, and no one else can be held accountable for it. I offered her money but she would not take it. It was the landlady who drove her to the—the rash act. The old woman listened at the door, and suddenly burst in upon us and called the girl some foul name and ordered her out of her house. The girl fled as if pursued by demons. I thought then she meant to kill herself—just as she has done!”
A groan burst from Rufus Black’s lips.
“My poor, poor wife!” he moaned. “She was my wife, and she shall not lie in a pauper’s grave. I am going up to London—”
“To make a fool of yourself,” interrupted Craven Black, recovering from his shock. “And to-morrow morning the papers will all come out with the romantic story that this girl was your wife, and the story will stick to you all your days. People will say that you drove her to her death. Your chance of becoming master of Hawkhurst will end on the spot. You will be cast out and abhorred. Others as pretty and as good as this girl have been buried at the public expense. Leave her alone.”
“I cannot—”
“Suppose you go then? What will you say to the coroner, or police justice? What excuse will you have for abandoning your wife, as you persist in calling the girl? Shall you confess your perjury? Can you stand the cross-questioning, the badgering, the prying into your life and motives?”