"Your treachery forced Maude upon me; and let me tell you
now, Lady Kirton, if I have never told you before, that it wrought upon
her the most bitter wrong possible to be inflicted; which she lived to
learn. I was a vacillating simpleton, and you held me in your trammels.
The less we rake up old matters the better. Things have altered. I am
altered. The moral courage I once lacked does not fail me now; and I have
at least sufficient to hold my own against the world, and protect from
insult the lady I have made my wife. I beg your pardon if my words seem
harsh; they are true; and I am sorry you have forced them from me."
She was standing still for a moment, staring at him, not altogether
certain of her ground.
"Where are the children?" he asked.
"Where you can't get at them," she rejoined hotly. "You have your beloved
wife; you don't want them."
He rang the bell, more loudly than he need have done; but his usually
sweet temper was provoked. A footman came in.
"Tell the nurse to bring down the children."
"They are not at home, my lord."
"Not at home! Surely they are not out in this rain!--and so late!"
"They went out this afternoon, my lord: and have not come in, I believe."
"There, that will do," tartly interposed the dowager. "You don't know
anything about it, and you may go."
"Lady Kirton, where are the children?"
"Where you can't get at them, I say," was Lady Kirton's response.
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