"In short," I concluded,
"the whole situation is the merest farce. You have
thrust yourself in where you had no business and have
no power. You would be quite as useful in San
Francisco; far happier in Paris; and being (by the
wrath of God) at Stallbridge-Minster, the wisest thing
is to go quietly to bed." On the way to my room I saw
(in a flash) that which I ought to have done long ago,
and which it was now too late to think of--written to
Carthew, I mean, detailing the facts and describing
Bellairs, letting him defend himself if he were able,
and giving him time to flee if he were not. It was the
last blow to my self-respect; and I flung myself into
my bed with contumely.
I have no guess what hour it was when I was wakened by
the entrance of Bellairs carrying a candle. He had
been drunk, for he was bedaubed with mire from head to
foot; but he was now sober, and under the empire of
some violent emotion which he controlled with
difficulty. He trembled visibly; and more than once,
during the interview which followed, tears suddenly and
silently overflowed his cheeks.
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