She gave him a momentary glance—half of defiance, half of alarm—and yet she had thought of this, too. “I fancied the nurse looked sleepy—the night nurse, you know, John—I thought she looked drowsy, and I stole back to listen. Well, I did, for she was asleep. I went into see that all was right for the night—his drink——”
Even Letitia’s nerve was not enough for this. She shivered. “It is cold at this hour in the morning,” she said, her teeth chattering.
“Did you give him anything to drink?” John would not have dared to confess to himself what dread apprehension went through his heart. And it was dreadful for him to talk of it, though she was so wonderful in self-command.
“I?—oh, no. I gave him nothing. I have not nursed him, you know. I saw that all was there that he could want, and was going to rouse the nurse, when somebody came upon me and took me by the shoulders. At first I thought it was you.”
“Why should you think that I would take you by the shoulders?” His suspicion was not quenched, but seized upon every word.
“Yes,” she said, “why should I? I thought, perhaps, you were angry with me for being there at all.”
“Why should I be angry with you,” he asked again, “for being there?” never taking his eyes from her face.
On her part she never looked towards him, but continued impatiently, “I don’t suppose I thought of the whys and the wherefores. I thought it was you, that was all. And when I found it was Mary—I don’t know whether she dragged me out or I pushed her out. Above all I feared a noise to wake the boy.”
John gave her a long searching look. He did not want to find her out. He wanted her to clear herself from all suspicions, from all doubt. “Ah, the boy!” he said, with a long-drawn breath, “the poor boy! Did you wake him? It might have been as much as his life was worth.”
“You think of nothing else,” she said. Then with a sort of indulgence to his weakness, “Your boy never stirred.” She breathed forth heavily a sigh—was it of thankfulness?