“I never did—I never even knew till this moment that Basil and you had a parting interview, or that Captain Stondon was present at it.”
“You cannot expect me to believe that,” was the retort; “you wanted Basil for yourself; you thought if once he were separated from me, he would marry you. No means seemed too treacherous to secure such a prize.”
“Now heaven help the woman!” broke in Miss Derno. “Mrs. Stondon,” she continued, “are you mad? Can you think that I should scheme to win Basil Stondon? I, who refused him twice before he ever lost his heart to you?”
Hearing that, Phemie fell back on her pillow.
If Miss Derno thought to make peace by such a sentence, she mistook the nature of the woman she was speaking to.
There was no balm in Gilead for a wound like this. To have given her own love, to have deceived her husband, to have wasted her affection on a man who had loved another before her! It seemed like the very bitterness of death, and Phemie struggled against conviction.
“If you did not wish to marry Basil; if you did not write that letter, who did?” she said, half turning her face towards Miss Derno.
“I cannot tell; I cannot be sure, though I may guess——”
“That is only half an answer,” persisted Phemie.
“Well, then, I guess Georgina Hurlford wrote it. She would have had no objection to become Mrs. Basil Stondon; and I believe she was capable of committing any meanness, if by so doing she could compass her own ends.”