The air seemed to grow oppressive, and the instant’s silence a torture, and, when he spoke, his words struck a chill to her heart--rough notes of pain. “I have not lost yet,” were his words.
She shrank. “You will not hide it. You will do right by--by him,” she said with difficulty.
“Let him establish his claim to the last item of fact,” he said with savage hate.
“Luke Claridge knew. The proofs are but just across the way, no doubt,” she answered, almost coldly, so had his words congealed her heart.
Their great moment had passed. It was as though a cord had snapped that held her to him, and in the recoil she had been thrown far off from him. Swift as his mind worked, it had not seen his opportunity to win her to his cause, to asphyxiate her high senses, her quixotic justice, by that old flood of eloquence and compelling persuasion of the emotions with which he had swept her to the altar--an altar of sacrifice. He had not even done what he had left London to do--make sure of her, by an alluring flattery and devotion, no difficult duty with one so beautiful and desirable; though neither love of beauty nor great desire was strong enough in him to divert him from his course for an hour, save by his own initiative. His mother’s letter had changed it all. A few hours before he had had a struggle with Soolsby, and now another struggle on the same theme was here. Fate had dealt illy with him, who had ever been its spoiled child and favourite. He had not learned yet the arts of defence against adversity.
“Luke Claridge is dead,” he answered sharply. “But you will tell--him, you will write to Egypt and tell your brother?” she said, the conviction slowly coming to her that he would not.
“It is not my duty to displace myself, to furnish evidence against myself--”
“You have destroyed the evidence,” she intervened, a little scornfully.
“If there were no more than that--” He shrugged his shoulders impatiently.
“Do you know there is more?” she asked searchingly. “In whose interests are you speaking?” he rejoined, with a sneer. A sudden fury possessed him. Claridge Pasha--she was thinking of him!
“In yours--your conscience, your honour.”
“There is over thirty years’ possession on my side,” he rejoined.