“No! no!”
“I am! Though she be innocent, who shall rid me of the doubt, the fear, the ineradicable suspicion! THAT blackens all my sunlight; THAT poisons all my peace. I can never know delight. Nay, though you proved her innocent, it is now too late. Kingsley, by this time I have no wife!”
“Ha! Surely, Clifford, you have not—”
“Hark! Some one knocks! Again!—again!—I understand it. I know what it means. They are looking for me. She is dead or dying. I tell you it is quite in vain that you should argue. Above all, do not seek to prove her innocent.”
The knocking without increased. He seized my arm as I was going forward, and prevented me.
“Compose yourself,” he said, thrusting me into a chair. “Remain here till I return. I will see what is wanted.”
But I followed him, and reached the door almost as soon as himself. It was as I expected. I had been sent for. My wife was dangerously ill. Such was the tenor of the message. More I could not learn. The servant had been an hour in search of me. Had sought me at the office and in other places which I had been accustomed to frequent; and I felt that after so long a delay, there was no longer need for haste. Still, I was about to depart with hasty footsteps. The servant was already dismissed. Kingsley grasped my arm.
“I will go along with you.” he said; and as we went, he spoke, in low accents, to the following effect:—
“I know not what you have done, Clifford; and there is no need that I should know. Keep your secret. I do not think the worse of you that you have been maddened to crime. Let the same desperation nerve you now to sufficient composure. Beware of what you say, lest these people suspect you.”
“And what if they do? Think you, Kingsley, that I fear? No! no! Life has nothing now. I lost fear, and hope, and everything in her.”