‘You could not know this,’ said Mr. Maxwell, ‘nor would I have told you but for the extremity of the case. Listen! She might have lingered I cannot tell how long—weeks, months—it was even possible years.’
‘Yes!’ the assent was no assent, but an exclamation of excitement and wonder.
‘I believe he meant it for the best. She was mad about having something given to her to put her out of her misery, as soon as we knew that she was past hope. Mrs. Meredith, I feel bound to tell you—when you know you can judge for yourself. He must have given her something that day after the consultation. It is no use mincing words—he must have given her—her death.’
‘Doctor! do you know what you are saying?’ She rose up from her chair—then sank back in it looking as if she were about to faint.
‘I know too well what I am saying. I huddled it up that there might be no inquiry. I don’t doubt she insisted upon it, and I don’t blame him. No, I should not have had the courage to do it, but I don’t blame him—altogether. It is a very difficult question. But you ought not to marry him—to be allowed to marry him in ignorance.’
She made no answer. The shock came upon her with all the more force that her mind was already weakened by anxiety. Given her her death! what did that mean? Did it mean that he had killed poor Annie, this man who was her dearest friend? A shiver shook all her frame. ‘I think you must be wrong. I hope you are wrong,’ she said. It was all she could do to keep her teeth from chattering. The sudden horror chilled and froze her. ‘Oh, Mr. Maxwell, he never could have done it! No, no, I will never believe it,’ she said.
‘But I know it,’ said the doctor; ‘there could be no doubt of it; I could not have been deceived, and it was no crime in my eyes. He did it in love and kindness—he did it to serve her. But still no woman should marry him, without knowing at least——’
‘There was never any question of that,’ she said, hurriedly, in the commotion of her mind. Then it seemed cowardly of her to forsake him. She paused. ‘He is worthy of any woman’s confidence. I will not hear a word against him. He did not do it. I am sure he did not do it! or, if he did, he was not to blame.’
The words had not left her lips when the door was opened, and the subject of this strange conversation, Mr. Beresford himself, came into the room. They were both too agitated for concealment. She looked at the doctor with sudden terror. She was afraid of a quarrel, as women so often are. But Maxwell himself was too much moved to make any pretences. He rose up suddenly, with an involuntary start; but he was shaken out of ordinary caution by the excitement of what he had done. He went up to the new comer, who regarded him with quiet surprise, without any salutation or form of politeness. ‘Beresford,’ he said, ‘I will not deceive you. I have been telling her what it is right she should know. I don’t judge you; I don’t condemn you; but whatever happens, she has a right to know.’
It is one of the penalties or privileges of excitement that it ignores ignorance so to speak, and expects all the world to understand its position at a glance. James Beresford gazed with calm though quiet astonishment upon the man who advanced to meet him with tragedy in his tone. ‘What is the matter?’ he said, with the simplicity of surprise. Then seeing how pale Mrs. Meredith was, he went on with some anxiety, ‘Not anything wrong with Oswald? I trust not that?’