On the third day after his return Sir William visited his sister in her own room, and had a long and serious talk with her, deeming it wise to come to some understanding regarding their future relations without further delay.
She knew by the expression on his face, the moment he entered her presence, that she had nothing to hope from him; that he would not spare her for her part in the vile plot which had caused the misery of his past life.
He made a brief but very comprehensive statement of the whole matter, charging her with all her treachery and falsehood and crime, and she was forced to acknowledge her guilt.
But when he gave her the diary, portions of which he had read, and she saw that it had been examined, something of her old haughty spirit and arrogance blazed forth.
“Talk to me of falsehood; she told me that the seal had never been broken,” she cried, with bitter scorn, a spot of vivid scarlet settling upon each sallow cheek.
“And she told you nothing but the truth, Miriam, for the seal was unbroken when she gave me the package to return to you. My wife has never read a single line that is written there. No one knows anything of its contents save you and me,” Sir William replied, sternly, and then told her how he had happened to discover the nature of its contents, after which he felt justified in reading enough more to confirm the suspicions that one line had aroused.
“You have proved yourself a very unwomanly woman, Miriam,” said her brother, with cold gravity. “Your nature, aside from the affection which you have for your children, is wholly selfish; it has become warped—degraded. You have not only hardened yourself against all honor and sisterly affection, but you have committed the most reprehensible crimes to further your miserable schemes.
“The wrong you did my young wife years ago, the insults you offered her, the falsehood and even theft of which you were guilty in sending that hundred pounds to her, the intercepting of our letters, are things that I can never overlook.”
“Do you dare to accuse me of theft?” interrupted Lady Linton, bridling. “You gave me that hundred pounds for charitable purposes.”
“I gave you that hundred pounds to use for the poor girl who was injured in that railway accident, and you stole it to add insult to injury. You mocked and scorned a woman who was your superior in every way—in whose veins there was as good blood as in your own, notwithstanding your boasted preëminence, and I grow cold with shame and horror every time I think of that paltry sum that you sent her, when I had brought back thousands of her money with me to England. Mr. Alexander left a small fortune to his daughter and I have had it in my possession ever since.”