“It is you, Major Winchester, is it? This is your first appearance here to-day. You were off betimes this morning; early starts seem to be the order of the day with you.”
The effrontery of this greeting—for the voice was Mabella’s—almost took away Rex’s presence of mind and power of speech. He soon recovered them, however, and turning sharply, faced her.
“Yes, Miss Forsyth,” he said, quickly, “it is I. If you have anything to say to me, say it; if not, be so good as to walk on. Unfortunately, there are not two roads to the house from here.”
She laughed; there was not a trace of nervousness in her laugh.
“You are no diplomatist, Major Winchester. Here you are showing your colours to the enemy at once, before you have really any to show.”
“I have not the slightest objection to your knowing what I was thinking about,” he said. “I am only considering whether I shall expose you, or whether, for the sake of others, I must leave you to the punishment which is sure to come sooner or later, even if I have no hand in bringing it upon you.”
“Goody-goody talk runs off me like water off a duck’s back, I warn you,” she said. “Keep to common-sense, if you please. I shall not pretend I don’t know what you mean; I do perfectly, and I intend to treat you with entire candour. What I would ask you is this: how can you ‘expose me’—to use your courteous phrase—without proof, reliable and certain, that I am guilty? Such proof you know you have not got. All you can say is that your brother saw me standing at the table whereon lay the two letters in question. Is it likely that people would believe that I, a lady born and bred, would have done such an unheard-of thing as to open them, read them, and change their envelopes? And when the circumstances are explained further, of your agitation and hurry that morning, do you think you would gain much by your attempt at showing me up?” He was silent for a moment. Then, “Yes,” he said, “I believe my story would be accepted. There is not only this last distinct act; there is the whole string of misleading remarks and suggestions on your part, and,”—he hesitated to name her—“Trixie’s, which show the plot into which, Heaven knows why, you inveigled that misguided girl as a fellow-conspirator.”
“Ah, Trixie,” she said. “I will revert to her in a moment, though, en passant, I may tell you there was not much ‘inveigling’ required on my part. Your cousin Beatrix hates you, Major Winchester, with a very pretty hatred;” and she laughed gently, delighted to see that he started a little. If “hate” was not a pleasant word on Imogen’s childish lips, it did not gain when pronounced by Mabella.
“Yes,” she went on, “she hates you, though not as— But that will keep. But what I am going to say will indeed surprise you. I am going to treat you with unheard-of generosity—to furnish you myself with the necessary weapons. Here they are. You are perfectly correct in your surmises. I did open the envelopes and change their contents, not out of mischief, but from a far deeper motive; and I did, and have done, and meant to do all I possibly could to mislead that silly woman and her daughter into believing you were in love with the girl, and on the point of proposing to her; in which scheme I persuaded Trixie to join me, even as far as I remember, before they came. There, now, what do you say to that?”
“Why do you tell it me?” he asked. “If it is with any idea that your confession may force me to be silent, I—”