"What?"
"It's your own fault, you would have it," said Dorothea, trembling with passion. "I told you not to stop me, and you would. Saying it was an accident—that old story! I was sure enough before, I know for certain now."
Denis's hand went up to his head. "What are you talking about?"
"About Major Trent, whom Mr. Gardiner killed. He did kill him. He knocked him down with a chisel, and he died. Didn't he? Didn't he? You know you can't deny it!"
He could not, nor could he meet her eyes, so he missed their expression. Certain things are so cruelly hard that they must be carried through at a rush, or not at all. Dorothea's vengeance had turned into a two-edged sword in her hands, and she hewed with it recklessly because it was cutting her to the bone.
"Why, it's not a year yet since he died, and do you think I'd let myself love a man who—who almost helped to kill him?" she cried with anguish. "Oh, I hate, hate, hate you, and I always will. Oh, Guy, Guy, do they think I'd forget so soon, and be friends with your murderers? I'd kill myself sooner!"
Sobbing vehemently, she fled into the house.
When Denis got home, he found a belated letter from Lettice, which should have been delivered that morning, but had been carried on by mistake to the next farm. It had come, said Miss Simpson, just after he started; the boy must actually have passed him in the drive.