“You are full of pity for a murderer, Theodore,” she cried bitterly. “Have you no pity for my husband? Is his death to go unpunished? Is his life—the life that might have been as long as it was happy—is that to count for nothing?”
“It is to count for much, Juanita. Believe me, your husband is avenged. His death was a sacrifice to a broken heart and a disordered brain. The hand that killed him is the hand of one who cannot be called to account—the hand of a madwoman.”
“A woman?”
“Yes, a woman. The woman you have seen many a time as you passed in and out of Cheriton Chase in your father’s carriage by the West Gate.”
“Mrs. Porter?”
“Yes.”
“Great God! why did she kill my husband?”
“Because she was unhappy—because she had suffered until sorrow had obscured her intellect, till her life had become one long thirst to do evil—one hatred of youth and beauty, and innocent gladness like yours. She saw you in your wedded happiness, and she thought of a happiness which was once her own day dream—the hope and dream of patient, self-denying years. She struck at you through your husband. She struck at your father through you.”
“My father! What was he to her—ever, except a friend and benefactor?”
“He was once more than that to Evelyn Strangway.”