She could not sit through the service, yet to leave the church she would
have to walk the whole length of the aisle. What did it matter? It would
very soon be known why she had gone away, and to face for a moment the
wonder of Sunday-clad villagers is not a grave trial. Adela opened the
pew door and quitted the church, the parchment held beneath her mantle.
As she issued from the porch the sun smote warm upon her face; it
encouraged a feeling of gladness which had followed her astonishment.
She had discovered the tenor of the will; it affected her with a sudden
joy, undisturbed at first by any reflection. The thought of self was
slow in coming, and had not power to trouble her greatly even when she
faced it. Befall herself what might, she held against her heart a power
which was the utmost limit of that heart’s desire. So vast, so undreamt,
so mysteriously given to her, that it seemed preternatural. Her weakness
was become strength; with a single word she could work changes such as
it had seemed no human agency could bring about.
To her, to her it had been given! What was all her suffering, crowned
with power like this?
She durst not take the will from beneath her mantle, though burning to
reassure herself of its contents. Not till she was locked in her room.
If any one met her as she entered the house, her excuse would be that
she did not feel well.
But as she hurried toward the Manor, she all at once found herself face
to face with her brother. Alfred was having a ramble, rather glad to get
out of hearing of the baby this Sunday morning.
‘Hollo, what’s up?’ was his exclamation.
Adela feared lest her face had betrayed her. She was conscious that her
look could not be that of illness.
‘I am obliged to go home,’ she said, ‘I have forgotten something.’
‘I should have thought you’d rather have let the house burn down than
scutter away in this profane fashion. All right, I won’t stop you.’
She hesitated, tempted to give some hint. But before she could speak,
Alfred continued:
‘So Mutimer’s going to throw it up.’
‘What?’ she asked in surprise.
He nodded towards New Wanley.
‘Throw it up?’
‘So I understand. Don’t mention that I said anything; I supposed you
knew.’
‘I knew nothing. You mean that he is going to abandon the works?’
‘Something of the kind, I fancy. I don’t know that it’s decided, but
that fellow Rodman--well, time enough to talk about it. It’s a pity,
that’s all I can say. Still, if he’s really losing--’
‘Losing? But he never expected to make money.’
‘No, but I fancy he’s beginning to see things in a different light. I
tell you what it is, Adela; I can’t stand that fellow Rodman. I’ve got
an idea he’s up to something. Don’t let him lead Mutimer by the nose,
that’s all. But this isn’t Sunday talk. Youngster rather obstreperous
this morning.’
Adela had no desire to question further: she let her brother pass on,
and continued her own walk at a more moderate pace.
Alfred’s words put her in mind of considerations to which in her
excitement she had given no thought. New Wanley was no longer her
husband’s property, and the great Socialist undertaking must come to
an end. In spite of her personal feeling, she could not view with
indifference the failure of an attempt which she had trained herself to
regard as nobly planned, and full of importance to the world at large.
Though she no longer saw Mutimer’s character in the same light as
when first she bent her nature to his direction, she still would have
attributed to him a higher grief than the merely self-regarding; she had
never suspected him of insincerity in his public zeal. Mutimer had been
scrupulous to avoid any utterance which might betray half-heartedness;
in his sullen fits of late he had even made it a reproach against her
that she cared little for his own deepest interests. To his wife last
of all he would have confessed a failing in his enthusiasm: jealousy had
made him discourteous, had lowered the tone of his intercourse with her;
but to figure as a hero in her eyes was no less, nay more, than ever a
leading motive in his life. But if what Alfred said was true, Adela saw
that in this also she had deceived herself: the man whose very heart
was in a great cause would sacrifice everything, and fight on to the
uttermost verge of hope. There was no longer room for regret on his
account.
On reaching the Manor gates she feared to walk straight up to the house;
she felt that, if she met her husband, she could not command her face,
and her tongue would falter. She took a path which led round to the
gardens in the rear. She had remembered a little summer-house which
stood beyond the kitchen-garden, in a spot sure to be solitary at this
hour. There she could read the will attentively, and fix her resolution
before entering the house.
Trees and bushes screened her. She neared the summerhouse, and was at
the very door before she perceived that it was occupied. There sat ‘Arry
and a kitchenmaid, very close to each other, chatting confidentially.
‘Arry looked up, and something as near a blush as he was capable of came
to his face. The kitchen damsel followed the direction of his eyes, and
was terror-stricken.
Adela hastened away. An unspeakable loathing turned her heart. She
scarcely wondered, but pressed the parchment closer, and joyed in the
thought that she would so soon be free of this tainted air.
She no longer hesitated to enter, and was fortunate enough to reach her
room without meeting any one. She locked the door, then unfolded the
will and began to peruse it with care.
The testator devised the whole of his real estate to Hubert Eldon; to
Hubert also he bequeathed his personal property, subject to certain
charges. These were--first, the payment of a legacy of one thousand
pounds to Mrs. Eldon; secondly, of a legacy of five hundred pounds to
Mr. Yottle, the solicitor; thirdly, of an annuity of one hundred and
seven pounds to the testator’s great-nephew, Richard Mutimer, such sum
being the yearly product of a specified investment. The annuity was to
extend to the life of Richard’s widow, should he leave one; but power
was given to the trustee to make over to Richard Mutimer, or to his
widow, any part or the whole of the invested capital, if he felt
satisfied that to do so would be for the annuitant’s benefit. ‘It is not
my wish’--these words followed the directions--‘to put the said Richard
Mutimer above the need of supporting himself by honest work, but only
to aid him to make use of the abilities which I understand he possesses,
and to become a credit to the class to which he belongs.’
The executors were Hubert Eldon himself and the lawyer Mr. Yottle.
A man of the world brought face to face with startling revelations
of this kind naturally turns at once to thought of technicalities,
evasions, compromises. Adela’s simpler mind fixed itself upon the plain
sense of the will; that meant restitution to the uttermost farthing. For
more than two years Hubert Eldon had been kept out of his possessions;
others had been using them, and lavishly. Would it be possible for her
husband to restore? He must have expended great sums, and of his own he
had not a penny.
Thought for herself came last. Mutimer must abandon Wanley, and whither
he went, thither must she go also. Their income would be a hundred and
seven pounds. Her husband became once more a working man. Doubtless he
would return to London; their home would be a poor one, like that of
ordinary working folk.
How would he bear it? How would he take this from _her_?
Fear crept insidiously about her heart, though she fought to banish
it. It was a fear of the instinct, clinging to trifles in the memory,
feeding upon tones, glances, the impressions of forgotten moments. She
was conscious that here at length was the crucial test of her husband’s
nature, and in spite of every generous impulse she dreaded the issue.
To that dread she durst not abandon herself; to let it grow even for an
instant cost her a sensation of faintness, a desire to flee for cover
to those who would naturally protect her. To give up all--and to Hubert
Eldon! She recalled his voice when the other day he spoke of Hubert.
He had not since recurred to the subject, but his manner still bore the
significance with which that conversation had invested it. No dream of
suspicions on his part had come to her, but it was enough that something
had happened to intensify his dislike of Hubert. Of her many fears, here
was one which couched dark and shapeless in the background.
A feeble woman would have chosen anyone--her mother, her brother--rather
than Mutimer himself for the first participant in such a discovery.
Adela was not feeble, and the very danger, though it might chill her
senses, nerved her soul. Was she not making him too ignoble? Was she
not herself responsible for much of the strangeness in his behaviour of
late? The question she had once asked herself, whether he loved her, she
could not answer doubtfully; was it not his love that had set her icily
against him? If she could not render him love in return, that was the
wrong she did him, the sin she had committed in becoming his wife. Adela
by this time knew too well that, in her threefold vows, love had of
right the foremost place; honour and obedience could not exist without
love. Her wrong was involuntary, none the less she owed him such
reparation as was possible; she must keep her mind open to his better
qualities. A man might fall, yet not be irredeemably base. Oh, that she
had never known of that poor girl in London! Base, doubly and trebly
base, had been his behaviour there, for one ill deed had drawn others
after it. But his repentance, his humiliation, must have been deep, and
of the kind which strengthens against ill-doing in the future.
It had to be done, and had better be done quickly. Adela went to her
boudoir and rang the bell. The servant who came told her that Mutimer
was in the house. She summoned him.
It was five minutes before he appeared. He was preoccupied, though not
gloomily so.
‘I thought you were at church,’ he said, regarding her absently.
‘I came away--because I found something--this!’
She had hoped to speak with calmness, but the interval of waiting had
agitated her, and the fear which no effort could allay struck her heart
as he entered. She held the parchment to him.
‘What is it?’ he asked, his attention gradually awakened by surprise. He
did not move forward to meet her extended hand.
‘You will see--it is the will that we thought was destroyed--old Mr.
Mutimer’s will.’
She rose and brought it to him. He looked at her with a sceptical smile,
which was involuntary, and lingered on his face even after he had begun
to read the document.
Adela seated herself again; she had scarcely power to stand. There was a
long silence.
‘Where did you find this?’ Mutimer inquired at length. His tone
astonished her; it was almost indifferent. But he did not raise his
eyes.
She explained. It was needless, she thought, to give a reason for her
search in the lower cupboard; but the first thing that occurred to
Mutimer was to demand such reason.
A moment’s hesitation; then:
‘A piece of money rolled down behind the shelf on which the books are;
there is a gap at the back. I suppose that is how the will fell down.’
His eye was now steadily fixed upon her, coldly scrutinising, as one
regards a suspected stranger. Adela was made wretched by the inevitable
falsehood. She felt herself reddening under his gaze.
He seemed to fall into absent-mindedness, then re-read the document.
Then he took out his watch.
‘The people are out of church. Come and show me where it was.’
With a deep sense of relief she went away to put on her bonnet. To
escape for a moment was what she needed, and the self-command of his
voice seemed to assure her against her worst fears. She felt grateful
to him for preserving his dignity. The future lost one of its terrors if
only she could respect him.
They walked side by side to the church in silence: Mutimer had put the
will into his pocket. At the wicket he paused.
‘Will Wyvern be in there?’
The question was answered by the appearance of the vicar himself, who
just then came forth from the front doorway. He approached them, with a
hope that Adela had not been obliged to leave through indisposition.
‘A little faintness,’ Mutimer was quick to reply. ‘We are going to look
for something she dropped in the pew.’
Mr. Wyvern passed on. Only the pew-opener was moving about the aisles.
She looked with surprise at the pair as they entered.
‘Tell her the same,’ Mutimer commanded, under his breath.
The old woman was of course ready with offers of assistance, but a word
from Richard sufficed to keep her away.
The examination was quickly made, and they returned as they had come,
without exchanging a word on the way. They went upstairs again to the
boudoir.
‘Sit down,’ Mutimer said briefly.
He himself continued to stand, again examining the will.
‘I should think,’ he began slowly, ‘it’s as likely as not that this is a
forgery.’
‘A forgery? But who could have--’
Her voice failed.
‘He’s not likely to have run the risk himself, I suppose,’ Mutimer
pursued, with a quiet sneer, ‘but no doubt there are people who would
benefit by it.’
Adela had an impulse of indignation. It showed intself in her cold,
steady reply.
‘The will was thick with dust. It has been lying there a long time.’
‘Of course. They wouldn’t bungle over an important thing like this.’
He was once more scrutinising her. The suspicion was a genuine one, and
involved even more than Adela could imagine. If there had been a plot,
such plot assuredly included the discoverer of the document. Could he in
his heart charge Adela with that? There were two voices at his ear, and
of equal persuasiveness. Even to look into her face did not silence
the calumnious whispering. Her beauty was fuel to his jealousy, and his
jealousy alone made the supposition of her guilt for a moment
tenable. It was on his lips to accuse her, to ease himself with savage
innuendoes, those ‘easy things to understand’ which come naturally from
such a man in such a situation. But to do that would be to break with
her for ever, and the voice that urged her innocence would not let him
incur such risk. The loss of his possessions was a calamity so great
that as yet he could not realise its possibility; the loss of his wife
impressed his imagination more immediately, and was in this moment the
more active fear.
He was in the strange position of a man who finds all at once that he
_dare_ not believe that which he has been trying his best to believe. If
Adela were guilty of plotting with Eldon, it meant that he himself was
the object of her utter hatred, a hideous thought to entertain. It threw
him back upon her innocence. Egoism had to do the work of the finer
moral perceptions.
‘Isn’t it rather strange,’ he said, not this time sneeringly, but
seeking for support against his intolerable suspicions, ‘that you never
moved those buffets before?’
‘I never had need of them.’
‘And that hole has never been cleaned out?’
‘Never; clearly never.’
She had risen to her feet, impelled by a glimmering of the thought
in which he examined her. What she next said came from her without
premeditation. Her tongue seemed to speak independently of her will.
‘One thing I have said that was not true. It was not money that slipped
down, but my ring. I had taken it off and laid it on the Prayer-book.’
‘Your ring?’ he repeated, with cold surprise. ‘Do you always take your
ring off in church, then?’
As soon as the words were spoken she had gone deadly pale. Was it well
to say that? Must there follow yet more explanation? She with difficulty
overcame an impulse to speak on and disclose all her mind, the same kind
of impulse she had known several times of late. Sheer dread this time
prevailed. The eyes that were upon her concealed fire; what madness
tempted her to provoke its outburst?
‘I have never done so before,’ she replied confusedly.
‘Why to-day, then?’
She did not answer.
‘And why did you tell--why did you say it was money?’
‘I can’t explain that,’ she answered, her head bowed. ‘I took off the
ring thoughtlessly; it is rather loose; my finger is thinner than it
used to be.’
On the track of cunning Mutimer’s mind was keen enough; only amid the
complexities of such motives as sway a pure heart in trouble was he
quite at a loss. This confession of untruthfulness might on the face
of it have spoken in Adela’s favour; but his very understanding of that
made him seek for subtle treachery. She saw he suspected her; was it
not good policy to seem perfectly frank, even if such frankness for the
moment gave a strengthening to suspicion? What devilish ingenuity might
after all be concealed in this woman, whom he had taken for simplicity
itself!
The first bell for luncheon disturbed his reflections.
‘Please sit down,’ he said, pointing to the chair. ‘We can’t end our
talk just yet.’
She obeyed him, glad again to rest her trembling limbs.
‘If you suspect it to be a forgery,’ she said, when she had waited in
vain for him to speak further, ‘the best way of deciding is to go at
once to Mr. Yottle. He will remember; it was he drew up the will.’
He flashed a glance at her.
‘I’m perfectly aware of that. If this is forged, the lawyer has of
course given his help. He would be glad to see me.’
Again the suspicion was genuine. Mutimer felt himself hedged in; every
avenue of escape to which his thoughts turned was closed in advance.
There was no one he would not now have suspected. The full meaning of
his position was growing upon him; it made a ferment in his mind.
‘Mr. Yottle!’ Adela exclaimed in astonishment. ‘You think it possible
that he--Oh, that is folly!’
Yes, it was folly; her voice assured him of it, proclaiming at the same
time the folly of his whole doubt. It was falling to pieces, and, as it
fell, disclosing the image of his fate, inexorable, inconceivable.
He stood for more than five minutes in silence. Then he drew a little
nearer to her, and asked in an unsteady voice:
‘Are you glad of this?’
‘Glad of it?’ she repeated under her breath.
‘Yes; shall you be glad to see me lose everything?’
‘You cannot wish to keep what belongs to others. In that sense I think
we ought to be glad that the will is found.’
She spoke so coldly that he drew away from her again. The second bell
rang.
‘They had better have lunch without us,’ he said.
He rang and bade the servant ask Mr. and Mrs. Rodman to lunch alone.
Then he returned to an earlier point of the discussion.
‘You say it was thick with dust?’
‘It was. I believe the lower cupboard has never been open since Mr.
Mutimer’s death.’
‘Why should he take a will to church with him?’
Adela shook her head.
‘If he did,’ Mutimer pursued, ‘I suppose it was to think over the new
one he was going to make. You know, of course, that he never intended
_this_ to be his will?’
‘We do not know what his last thoughts may have been,’ Adela replied, in
a low voice but firmly.
‘Yes, I think we do. I mean to say, we are quite sure he meant to alter
_this_. Yottle was expecting the new will.’
‘Death took him before he could make it. He left this.’
Her quiet opposition was breath to the fire of his jealousy. He could no
longer maintain his voice of argument.
‘It just means this: you won’t hear anything against the will, and
you’re glad of it.’
‘Your loss is mine.’
He looked at her and again drew nearer.
‘It’s not very likely that you’ll stay to share it.’
‘Stay?’ She watched his movements with apprehension. ‘How can I separate
my future from yours?’
He desired to touch her, to give some sign of his mastery, whether
tenderly or with rude force mattered little.
‘It’s easy to say that, but we know it doesn’t mean much.’
His tongue stammered. As Adela rose and tried to move apart, he caught
her arm roughly, then her waist, and kissed her several times about
the face. Released, she sank back upon the chair, pale, tern fled; her
breath caught with voiceless sobs. Mutimer turned away and leaned his
arms upon the mantelpiece. His body trembled.
Neither could count the minutes that followed. An inexplicable shame
kept Mutimer silent and motionless. Adela, when the shock of repugnance
had passed over, almost forgot the subject of their conversation in vain
endeavours to understand this man in whose power she was. His passion
was mysterious, revolting--impossible for her to reconcile with his
usual bearing, with his character as she understood it. It was more
than a year since he had mingled his talk to her with any such sign of
affection, and her feeling was one of outrage. What protection had she?
The caresses had followed upon an insult, and were themselves brutal,
degrading. It was a realisation of one of those half-formed fears which
had so long haunted her in his presence.
What would life be with him, away from the protections of a wealthy
home, when circumstances would have made him once more the London
artisan, and in doing so would have added harshness to his natural
temper; when he would no longer find it worth while to preserve the
semblance of gentle breeding? Was there strength in her to endure that?
Presently he turned, and she heard him speak her name. She raised her
eyes with a half-smile of abashment. He approached and took her hand.
‘Have you thought what this means to me?’ he asked, in a much softer
voice.
‘I know it must be very hard.’
‘I don’t mean in that way. I’m not thinking of the change back to
poverty. It’s my work in New Wanley; my splendid opportunity of helping
on Socialism. Think, just when everything is fairly started! You can’t
feel it as I do, I suppose. You haven’t the same interest in the work. I
hoped once you would have had.’
Adela remembered what her brother had said, but she could not allude to
it. To question was useless. She thought of a previous occasion on which
he had justified himself when accused.
He still held her hand.
‘Which would do the most good with this money, he or I?’
‘We cannot ask that question.’
‘Yes, we can. We ought to. At all events, _I_ ought to. Think what it
means. In my hands the money is used for the good of a suffering class,
for the good of the whole country in the end. He would just spend it
on himself, like other rich men. It isn’t every day that a man of my
principles gets the means of putting them into practice. Eldon is well
enough off; long ago he’s made up his mind to the loss of Wanley. It’s
like robbing poor people just to give money where it isn’t wanted.’
She withdrew her hand, saying coldly:
‘I can understand your looking at it in this way. But we can’t help it.’
‘Why can’t we?’ His voice grew disagreeable in its effort to be
insinuating. ‘It seems to me that we can and ought to help it. It would
be quite different if you and I had just been enjoying ourselves and
thinking of no one else.’ He thought it a skilful stroke to unite
their names thus. ‘We haven’t done anything of the kind; we’ve denied
ourselves all sorts of things just to be able to spend more on New
Wanley. You know what I’ve always said, that I hold the money in trust
for the Union. Isn’t it true? I don’t feel justified in giving it
up. The end is too important. The good of thousands, of hundreds of
thousands, is at stake.’
Adela looked him in the face searchingly.
‘But how can we help it? There is the will.’
Mutimer met her eyes.
‘No one knows of it but ourselves, Adela.’
It was not indignation that her look expressed, but at first a kind of
shocked surprise and then profound trouble. It was with difficulty that
she found words.
‘You are not speaking in earnest?’
‘I am!’ he exclaimed, almost hopefully. ‘In downright earnest. There’s
nothing to be ashamed of.’ He said it because he felt that her gaze was
breeding shame in him. ‘It isn’t for myself, it’s for the cause, for
the good of my fellowmen. Don’t say anything till you’ve thought. Look,
Adela, you’re not hardhearted, and you know how it used to pain you
to read of the poor wretches who can’t earn enough to keep themselves
alive. It’s for their sake. If they could be here and know of this,
they’d go down on their knees to you. You _can’t_ rob them of a chance!
It’s like snatching a bit of bread out of their mouths when they’re
dying of hunger.’
The fervour with which he pleaded went far to convince himself; for
the moment he lost sight of everything but the necessity of persuading
Adela, and his zeal could scarcely have been greater had he been
actuated by the purest unselfishness. He was speaking as Adela had
never heard him speak, with modulations of the voice which were almost
sentimental, like one pleading for love. In his heart he despaired of
removing her scruples, but he overcame this with vehement entreaty.
A true instinct forbade him to touch on her own interests; he had not
lived so long with Adela without attaining some perception of the nobler
ways of thought. But as often as he raised his eyes to hers he saw the
futility of all his words. Her direct gaze at length brought him to
unwilling silence.
‘Would you then,’ Adela asked gravely, ‘destroy this will?’
‘Yes.’
The monosyllable was all he cared to reply.
‘I can scarcely believe you. Such a thing is impossible. You could not
do it.’
‘It’s my duty to do it.’
‘This is unworthy of you. It is a crime, in law and in conscience. How
can you so deceive yourself? After such an act as that, whatever you did
would be worthless, vain.’
‘Why?’
‘Because no one can do great work of the kind you aim at unless he is
himself guided by the strictest honour. Every word you spoke would be a
falsehood. Oh, can’t you see that, as plainly as the light of day? The
results of your work! Why, nothing you could possibly do with all
this money would be one-half as good as to let everyone know that you
honourably gave it up when it was in your power dishonestly to keep
it! Oh, surely _that_ is the kind of example that the world needs! What
causes all the misery but dishonesty and selfishness? If you do away
with that, you gain all you are working for. The example! You should
prize the opportunity. You are deceiving yourself; it is a temptation
that you are yielding to. Think a moment; you will see that I am right.
You cannot do a thing so unworthy of yourself.’
He stood for a moment doggedly, then replied:
‘I can and I shall do it.’
‘Never!’ Adela rose and faced him. ‘You shall listen to me till you
understand. You, who pride yourself on your high motives! For your own
sake scorn this temptation. Let me take the will away. I will put it
somewhere till to-morrow. You will see clearly by then. I know how
dreadful this loss seems to you, but you must be stronger.’
He stood between her and the table on which the parchment lay, and waved
her back as she approached. Adela’s voice trembled, but there was not a
note in it that he could resent.
‘You wrong yourself, and you are cruel to me. How could I live with you
if you did such a thing? How could I remain in this house when it was
no longer yours? It is impossible, a thousand times impossible. You
_cannot_ mean it! If you do this in spite of everything I can say, you
are more cruel than if you raised your hand and struck me. You make my
life a shame; you dishonour and degrade me.’
‘That’s all nonsense,’ he replied sullenly, the jealous motive
possessing him again at the sight of her gleaming eyes. ‘It’s you who
don’t understand, and just because you have no sympathy with my work.
Any one would think you cared for nothing but to take the money from me,
just to--’
Even in his access of spiteful anger he checked himself, and dropped to
another tone.
‘I take all the responsibility. You have nothing to do with it. What
seems right to me, I shall do. I am your husband, and you’ve no voice in
a thing like this.’
‘No voice? Have I no right to save you from ruin? Must a wife stand by
and see her husband commit a crime? Have you no duty to me? What becomes
of our married life if you rob me of all respect for you?’
‘I tell you I am doing it with a good motive. If you were a thorough
Socialist, you would respect me all the more. This money was made out of
overworked--’
He was laying his hand on the will; she sprang forward and grasped his
arm.
‘Richard, give it to me!’
‘No, I shall not.’
He had satisfied himself that if the will was actually destroyed she
would acquiesce in silence; the shame she spoke of would constrain her.
He pushed her away without violence, and moved towards the door. But her
muteness caused him to turn and regard her. She was leaning forward, her
lips parted, her eyes fixed in despair.
‘Richard!’
‘Well?’
‘Are you trying me?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Do you believe that I should let you do that and help you to hide it?’
‘You will come to see that I was right, and be glad that I paid no heed
to you.’
‘Then you don’t know me. Though you are my husband I would make public
what you had done. Nothing should silence me. Do you drive me to that?’
The absence of passion in her voice impressed him far more than violence
could have done. Her countenance had changed from pleading to scorn.
He stood uncertain.
‘Now indeed,’ Adela continued, ‘I am doing what no woman should have to
do.’ Her voice became bitter. ‘I have not a man’s strength; I can only
threaten you with shame which will fall more heavily on myself.’
‘Your word against mine,’ he muttered, trying to smile.
‘You could defend yourself by declaring me infamous?’
Did he know the meaning of that flash across her face? Only when the
words were uttered did their full significance strike Adela herself.
‘You could defend yourself by saying that I lied against you?’
He regarded her from beneath his eyebrows as she repeated the question.
In the silence which followed he seated himself on the chair nearest to
him. Adela too sat down.
For more than a quarter of an hour they remained thus, no word
exchanged. Then Adela rose and approached her husband.
‘If I order the carriage,’ she said softly, ‘will you come with me at
once to Belwick?’
He gave no answer. He was sitting with his legs crossed, the will held
over his knee.
‘I am sorry you have this trial,’ she continued, ‘deeply sorry. But you
have won, I know you have won!’
He turned his eyes in a direction away from her, hesitated, rose.
‘Get your things on.’
He was going to the door.
‘Richard!’
She held her hand for the parchment.
‘You can’t trust me to the bottom of the stairs?’ he asked bitterly.
She all but laughed with glad confidence.
‘Oh, I will trust you!’