“How very tragic you are!” she said, mastering the great fear which froze her blood; “and how extremely rude!”
“I have your signatures,” he said, as he stood before her in the plain little cabin of which the only ornaments were two large photographs of Faldon and a sketch by Watts of his mother.
“I suppose, if you have them, you have thrown away a great deal of good money in getting them; and you might have spent it better,” she replied with airy nonchalance.
He was so astounded at her levity, indifference, and insolence, that for some moments he was mute.
“I don’t like being ordered about like this,” she continued. “It looks very odd to the Bassenthwaites. Why didn’t you come to luncheon? You could have talked to me afterwards on deck. When did you see the children?”
A great oath broke from his lips.
“Have you no decency? No conscience? Do you not understand? Amongst his papers a letter of Massarene’s was found to me; it contained your signature to him for twelve thousand pounds plus interest, and another signature to Beaumont, the jeweler with whom you placed the Otterbourne jewels in pawn.”
His words said all: he expected to see her overwhelmed by shame. But she preserved her equanimity.
“You might have sent them to me without coming out to Bergen,” she said with impatience. She spoke with her usual tone, a little more impertinently than usual; but her lips were very pale.
“What did Billy tell you?” she added between her teeth. She felt sick with fear.