Mary was puzzled at first. She knew by the speaker’s tone that she was in disgrace—and connected it with Duplessis at the mention of his name. She stared at the bitterly incisive lady. “Mr. Duplessis—five hundred—if he doesn’t marry? What has that to do with—?” She stopped—her eyes widened and deepened—showed fathomless. “Ah!” she said, and picked up the torn paper. She read the date, August 24th. “What did you say was the date of the will?”
“It was a codicil,” said Mrs. James.
“The date, please, the date,” Mary asked her, fretfully.
“It was dated the 26th of August.”
Jinny’s birthday! Mary remembered it perfectly. He had had tea with the two of them, and she had clung to him afterwards, with a confession on the tip of her tongue. He had never been more loving to her than on that afternoon—and he had Jinny’s telegram in his pocket—in his breast pocket—while she had clung sobbing to his breast! And he had left her that evening, full of love, as he had seemed to be, and gone home and tied Tristram by the leg. Ah—so he had known everything—always! Before that night at Exeter—he had known it from the beginning.
She sat very still—the telegram in her lap—and her eyes cast down, as she played idly with the pieces, lifting them up and letting them fall. The triumphant foe could see nothing but her heavy eyelids, and the fringe of her lashes curving upwards as they brushed her cheeks. If she expected victory she was to be disappointed.
“I am glad you sent him my telegram,” she said. “I am glad he knew about Mr. Duplessis and me.”
Mrs. James lifted her head. “It was certainly advisable that he should be told. Personally, I could not interfere. I told him nothing that may have presented itself to me——”
“No,” said Mary, “of course not. It was no business of yours.” Mrs. James jumped.
“It seems to me that it was very much a business of yours, if you will forgive me.”