Jacob expected that Margaret would burst into a passion of tears and reproaches, as she had done before, and he was already gloating over her distress in anticipation. Already with cowardly malignity, he was coining in his brain some new and clever taunts with which he might add to her distress, and touch her to the quick. It was, therefore, with some degree of disappointment as well as surprise, that he was able to detect no change in her calm expression.
“Very well,” she said, “I wished this matter understood between us.”
Then, seeming to notice for the first time the gold upon the table, she added, indicating it with her finger, “Your affairs appear to be in a more flourishing condition than when I saw you last.”
“Eh! What?” said Jacob, changing color and looking embarrassed.
“You are richer than you were,” said Margaret, in the same tone. “It must have been an important service which has been so liberally rewarded.”
“What do you mean?” demanded Jacob, with the apprehension of guilt, regarding her uneasily.
“Mean!” repeated Margaret, as if surprised at the question, “what should I mean? I merely expressed my surprise at your having so large a sum by you. I should judge,” she continued, carelessly, “that there might be a thousand dollars there.”
Jacob’s agitation increased with every word that Margaret uttered. Conscious that he had committed a crime which made him liable to severe legal penalties, the significant words of the woman he had wronged excited in his mind a fear that, in some manner unknown to him, she had become cognizant of it.
So does “Conscience make cowards of us all.”
How much more so in the case of the scrivener, who was cowardly at the best.