"And one night, when I had come back home to look after my property, I met her in London streets. It was the middle of winter—it was raining—she was all alone—she was almost in rags—"
"Don't tell me any more!" implored Rachel, beginning to tremble and cry.
"No," he said, and he drew a deep long breath, "I can't tell you any more. Only this—she died. I did all I could to save her, but it was too late. She died of consumption—brought on by exposure and want, and misery of all sorts—a week or two after I found her. And now you know why I killed him. That was why!"
There was a long pause, broken once or twice by Rachel's audible emotion. She had still her own views as to the right and justice of what he had done; but she did not dream of the presumption of giving them now.
This tremendous tragedy of love and revenge dwarfed all her theories of life to the merest trivialities. She could only wonder, and tremble, and cry.
"It is an old story now," said Mr. Dalrymple, more gently. "And I try not to think too much of it. It was all fair, thank Heaven!—I comfort myself with that. I could have shot him once before in Canada; but he was unprepared then. He did not see me, and I would not take him at a disadvantage. I try not to think of it now. I don't want you to think of it either—after to-night. Will you try not to? And try not to let them persuade you that I am quite a fiend in human shape?"
Rachel blew her nose for the last time, put her handkerchief in her pocket, and smiled a tearful smile.
"I am afraid you are not very good," she said, shaking her head, "but I know you can't be a really wicked man."
"How do you know it?" he asked eagerly.
"How? I'm sure I don't know—I feel it."