“No,” said Miss Benshaw; “it is left to you to tell her.”
There was a moment of silence. Cosway looked at the lamp. Once roused, as usual with men of his character, his temper was not to be trifled with.
“Miss Benshaw,” he said, “I dare say you think me a fool; but I can draw my own conclusion, for all that. You are my enemy.”
The only reply was a chuckling laugh. All voices can be more or less effectually disguised by a whisper but a laugh carries the revelation of its own identity with it. Cosway suddenly threw off the shade over the lamp and turned up the wick.
The light flooded the room, and showed him—His Wife.
The Third Epoch in Mr. Cosway’s Life.
Three days had passed. Cosway sat alone in his lodging—pale and worn: the shadow already of his former self.
He had not seen Adela since the discovery. There was but one way in which he could venture to make the inevitable disclosure—he wrote to her; and Mr. Atherton’s daughter took care that the letter should be received. Inquiries made afterward, by help of the same good friend, informed him that Miss Restall was suffering from illness.
The mistress of the house came in.
“Cheer up, sir,” said the good woman. “There is better news of Miss Restall to-day.”