"All that lay in my power."
He gave a wretched laugh.
"This evening, for instance? Well—it's finished, do you hear? I've done with the whole thing. I gave them and you a last chance. Now I'm going my own way—and you're my wife. I've got that right left."
"You've no right but what I choose to give you."
"You'll choose—you've got to—you're helpless." He paused, choking. He threw the half-burnt cigarette on the floor and ground it under his heel. "There's no one in this place that's going to bother about either of us. Tristram won't play deus ex machinâ this time—you and I—we're going to have this out alone."
He saw her glance towards the door. "It's locked. You can scream to your heart's content. Your Smithy may hear, but she won't help. The servants have their orders. Besides—what right has any one to interfere. You're my wife. You swore before the altar——" He stopped again. Like an animal lashing itself to fury, he strode towards her and then turned and came back, his face swollen and quivering. His words came in a broken torrent of passion. "There's—there's a sort of compensation—in things—my mother's body was found out there in the well—she was good enough for an hour's sport—a native—what did it matter?—a sort of superior toy for an Englishman's pleasure-and the result—a half-caste, a mincing, feckless muddle of two races—let him rot in some stuffy Eurasian quarter and drink himself to death. If he dares rise—if he dares come among us—if he dares aspire to one of our blood—then spew upon him—roll him in the dust—kick him out—let him feel the whip like the misbegotten hound he is. As to our womankind—hands off, or heaven help him——"
"I understand," she threw in breathlessly. "I am to be your revenge—on them—on your brother——"
He turned back to her, staring at her. Then he burst into a laugh.
"Revenge? Oh, I don't know—nothing perhaps so—so high-flown as that. After all—they'd hardly know, would they? It's—it's a sort of instinct—to get level—in one way or another. Besides—I want you——" He measured her with a savage deliberation. "My God—it's natural enough." He was shaking from head to foot. Swift and soundless as a flash of light she put the table between them and stood confronting him. Her fair small head was thrown back, her mouth set in an unfaltering line. "By all means—it's useless—I've the right and the might——" Suddenly, like a tiger weary of toying with its victim, he flung himself on the table, lifting it with both hands. Then, as he did so—he stopped short—faltering.
A full minute passed whilst they remained face to face, neither moving. He drew himself slowly upright.