bitterly for the freedom she had stolen.
His exasperated egoism flew at once to the extreme of suspicion; he
was ready to accuse her of completed perfidy. Mrs. Westlake became his
enemy; the profound distrust of culture, which was inseparable from
his mental narrowness, however ambition might lead him to disguise it,
seized upon the occasion to declare itself; that woman was capable of
conniving at his dishonour, even of plotting it. He would not allow
Adela to remain in the house a minute longer than he could help. Even
the casual absence of Mr. Westlake became a suspicious circumstance;
Eldon of course chose the time for his visit.

Adela was once more safe in the Manor, under lock and key, as it were.
He had not spoken of Eldon, though several times on the point of doing
so. It was obvious that the return home cost her suffering, that it was
making her ill. He could not get her to converse; he saw that she did
not study. It was impossible to keep watch on her at all moments of the
day; yet how otherwise discover what letters she wrote or received? He
pondered the practicability of bribing her maid to act as a spy upon
her, but feared to attempt it. He found opportunities of secretly
examining the blotter on her writing-desk, and it convinced him that
she had written to Mrs. Westlake. It maddened him that he had not the
courage to take a single open step, to forbid, for instance, all future
correspondence with London. To do so would be to declare his suspicions.
He wished to declare them; it would have gratified him intensely to
vomit impeachments, to terrify her with coarseness and violence; but,
on the other hand, by keeping quiet he might surprise positive evidence,
and if only he did!

She was ill; he had a distinct pleasure in observing it. She longed for
quiet and retirement; he neglected his business to force his company
upon her, to laugh and talk loudly. She with difficulty read a page; he
made her read aloud to him by the hour, or write translations for him
from French and German. The pale anguish of her face was his joy; it
fascinated him, fired his senses, made him a demon of vicious cruelty.
Yet he durst not as much as touch her hand when she sat before him. Her
purity, which was her safeguard, stirred his venom; he worshipped it,
and would have smothered it in foulness.

'Hadn't you better have the doctor to see you?' he began one morning
when he had followed her from the dining-room to her boudoir.