“Yes, in half-an-hour,” said my husband; “but first I must speak to you. Saville, you have been a very good friend to me—I acknowledge it; you know I have always been glad to say as much. What motive could you have to tell this false story—this story you know so well to be false—to my wife?”
“Motive?—I had motive enough, you may be sure,” answered Saville, shortly—“that is my concern—it is yours to prove the story false, as you call it—false! What do you know about it?—there’s not a man qualified to speak on the subject but me.”
“Oh! Richard! Richard!” cried Miss Saville; “poor Maria’s letters—was that the use you wanted to make of them? But you know very well it is not true. William and I know it is not true; and, to tell it to his wife!—oh, for shame, for shame!”
“Give me back the papers,” said the man, hoarsely, holding out his hand to me.
I was surprised to see Harry take them out at once and hand them to him. I would have kept possession of them, for they were still important and dangerous to me.
He held them in his hands a moment as if undecided, and then tossed them on the table, where they fluttered about like scraps of useless paper, as they were. “I thought you had a serpent in your house,” he said, looking at Harry—“I owed her a grudge as well as you; but if you are in league, I had as well give up the contest. I’ll tell you what—give me cash enough to take me somewhere—America—Australia—I don’t care where it is. I don’t want to see one of you again, and you’ll be rid of me.”
Miss Saville started as if about to speak, but restrained herself—glanced at her better brother, and closed her eyes, growing very pale; bad as he was, she could not bear the thought of an everlasting parting—he was her brother still.
“I will do this,” said Harry, quietly, “but it must not be done so that your perverse ingenuity can make it look like a bribe. Will you come to Cottiswoode to-morrow? the Rector will come with you—come as a man should come who dares look other men in the face—on my part, I will have a friend fit to cope with you, and settle this business once and for ever;—do you consent?”
He did not speak for a moment—he was hemmed in and saw no way of escape; he searched about with his cunning eyes in the vacant air, but saw no expedient. “I consent!” he said, sullenly, “anything for peace. Leave me alone, for heaven’s sake—there, there, Martha, take your remonstrances away!”
We left him so—and Harry did not even take the trouble of gathering up these pieces of paper. “They are quite harmless, Hester,” he said to me with a smile when I spoke of them, and I was obliged to be satisfied with that.