“I wish you would tell me. I would not betray you.”
“I never will tell you. Get up. Cease to talk this folly or I shall despise you and be even more cold to you than I have been of late.”
Clara rose slowly. Her mad passion was over. Her face was white as death. She coughed. Her cough was hoarse and hollow.
“You are not well,” said Tarbot. “You ought to do something for that cough.”
“It is of no consequence, don’t notice it.”
“Well, then, let us return to business. I married you because in no other way could I get what I wanted. If you fail me now you know the consequences.”
She did not reply, and he turned on his heel and walked away from her. When he came back again she had not stirred from her former position; her hands were still clasped tightly together, her head was bent.
“If you mean to defy me,” said Tarbot, “you had better know the truth. I can be terrible, cruel, dangerous to those who thwart me.”
“I won’t defy you,” she said then, making a sort of gasping sound as she spoke. She crouched away from him, and going up to the mantelpiece leant her elbow on it. Tarbot again paced up and down the room. After a time he came up to his wife and spoke in his usual tone.
“I go to Devonshire to-morrow. I shall remain there for a day or two.”