She lays the letter in his hand. Then without a sign, Lady Cicely passes out. There is a great stillness in the house. Mrs. Harding has watched Lady Cicely and Sir John in amazement. Sir John has sunk into a chair. She breaks out, "John, for God's sake what does it mean—this woman—speak—there is something awful, I must know."
"Yes, you must know. It is fate. Margaret, you do not know all. Two years ago I married——"
"But this woman, this woman——"
"She is—she was—my wife."
. . . . . . .
And at this moment Harding breaks into the room. "Cicely, Cicely, I was too late——" He sees the others. "Mother," he says in agony, "and you——" He looks about. "Where is she? What is happening? I must know——"
Sir John, as if following a mechanical impulse, has handed Harding the letter. He tears it open and reads:
"Dearest, I am going away, to die. It cannot be long now. The doctor told me to-day. That was why I couldn't speak or explain it to you and was so strange at supper. But I am glad now. Good-by."
Harding turns upon Sir John with the snarl of a wolf. "What have you done? Why have you driven her away? What right had you to her, you devil? I loved her—She was mine——"
He had seized a pointed knife from the supper table. His shoulders are crouched—he is about to spring on Sir John. Mrs. Harding has thrown herself between them.