“Linda, darling—I’m only thinking all the time of you,” pleaded Nance, putting out her hand.
A gleam of positive hatred illuminated the child’s eyes. She suddenly snatched at the proffered hand and surveyed it vindictively.
“I can see where I bit you just now. I’m glad I did!” she cried, and once more she set herself to stare at Flambard.
Nance went over to the fireplace and sat down. But something seemed to impel Linda to strike her again.
“You thought you were going to have every one in Rodmoor to yourself, didn’t you?” she said. “You thought you’d have Adrian and Dr. Raughty and Mr. Traherne and everybody. You never thought any one would begin liking me!”
Nance looked at her in sheer terrified astonishment. Certainly the influence of Baltazar was making itself felt.
“You brought me here,” Linda went on. “I didn’t want to come and you knew I didn’t. Now—as he says, we must make the best of it.”
The phrase “and you knew I didn’t” went through Nance’s heart like a poisoned dagger. Yes, she had known! She had tried to put the thing far from her—to throw the responsibility for it upon her reluctance to hurt Rachel. But she had known. And now her punishment was beginning. She bowed her head upon her hands and covered her face.
“You came,” the girl’s voice went on, “because you hated leaving Adrian. But Adrian doesn’t want you any more now. He wants Philippa. Do you know, Nance, I believe he’d marry Philippa, if he could—if Brand would let him!”