Austin stepped into the hall, and started when he caught sight of the face of Mr. Hunter. He was turning back from closing the door on Miss Gwinn, and the bright rays of the hall-lamp fell full upon his countenance. It was of ghastly whiteness; its expression one living aspect of terror, of dread. He staggered, rather than walked, to a chair, and sank into it. Austin hastened to him.
'Oh, sir, what is it? You are ill?'
The strong man, the proud master, calm hitherto in his native self-respect, was for the moment overcome. He leaned his forehead upon Austin's arm, hiding its pallor, and put up his finger for silence.
'I have had a stab, Clay,' he whispered. 'Bear with me, lad, for a minute. I have had a cruel stab.'
Austin really did not know whether to take the words literally. 'A stab?' he hesitatingly repeated.
'Ay; here,' touching his heart. 'I wish I was dead, Clay. I wish I had died years ago; or that she had. Why was she permitted to live?—to live to work me this awful wrong?' he dreamily wailed. 'An awful wrong to me and mine!'
'What is it?' spoke Austin, upon impulse. 'A wrong? Who has done it?'
'She has. The woman now gone out. She has done it all.'
He rose, and appeared to be looking for his hat. 'Mrs. Hunter is waiting tea, sir,' said the amazed Austin.