He had meant to add, “I am suspected of having poisoned my wife.” But he found he could not utter the hateful words. They would not come.
And Jean? Gazing up into his haggard face she felt a mingled rush of intense relief and deep, exultant love and tenderness. It moved her to the soul to think that the postponement of their marriage could make him look as he was looking now. But she was quickly, painfully, undeceived.
“A man came to see me at the works this morning to tell me that there seems to be some doubt as to the cause of Emily’s death.”
Her face filled with deep surprise and dismay, but no suspicion of what his words implied crossed her mind. All she did understand was that what had happened had given this man who was so entirely her own, a terrible shock.
“Why should that make any difference to our being married to-morrow morning?” she asked in a low voice.
“Because neither your aunt nor your uncle would wish you to be married to a man suspected of murder.” He spoke with harsh directness.
“Murder?” Jean Bower’s eyes flashed. She did not shrink, as he had thought she would do; instead she threw herself on his breast and pressed close up to him, putting her arms round his neck.
“If that is true, but I don’t believe it is true, then I want to marry you at once—to-day rather than to-morrow, Harry. Oh, my love, my own dear love, don’t look at me like that!”
His arms hungrily enfolded her, but he shook his head determinedly. “Till the whole thing is cleared up, we’ve got to face this trouble separately.”
“No! No! No!” she exclaimed, looking up eagerly, piteously, into his drawn face. “Not separately, but together, Harry.”