“You are indeed unjust,” she said, with a skillful assumption of earnestness; “Lady Alice considers she should be a mother to Charles—they meet often; it is that she may advise him, She thinks he is extravagant—that he spends too much time in London, and wishes to make the country more agreeable to him.”
“Yes, Clary, I know she does; she would be glad to keep the fellow always near her.”
“You mistake, sir, I assure you; I have been with them when they were together; their language has been affectionate, but as far as the relationship authorizes.”
“Our opinions on that head differ, Clary; she deceived me, and by —— she shall suffer for it. She never told me she had known him; the fellow insulted me by informing me when it was too late. He did not wish to interfere—it was over now—he told me with a sneer.”
“He was wounded by her treatment; so wounded, that, except as your wife, and to show you respect, I know he would never have spoken to her. But if your doubts can not be hushed, they may be satisfactorily dispelled.”
“How—tell me?”
“Lady Alice and Charles sit every morning in the library; there are curtained recesses there, in any of which you may conceal yourself, and hear what passes.”
“Good—good; but if you hint or breathe to them—”
“I merely point it out,” she interrupted, “as a proof of my perfect belief in Charles's principle and Lady Alice's affection for you. If a word passes that militates against that belief, I will renounce it.”
A sneer distorted Sir John's features. When not blinded by passion, he saw clearly through character and motives. He had by this discerned Clara's dislike to Lady Alice, and now felt convinced she suggested the scheme as she guessed he would have his suspicions confirmed. He saw thus far, but he did not see through a far darker plot—he did not see that, in the deep game they played against him, Charles and Clara were confederates.