"No," said the man, almost sternly; "hear me out first, Mr. Campion. She owes her misery to you, and, no doubt, you have always thought that money could make atonement. But that's not my view, nor hers. We would rather not give you the satisfaction of making what you call restitution. Milly's child—your child, too—will be mine now; I shall adopt it for my own when I marry her. You will have nothing to do with either of them. And I have brought you back the twenty pounds which you gave her when you cruelly deserted her because you wanted to marry a rich woman. In that parcel you will find a locket and one or two other things that you gave her. I have told her, and Miss Campion, who has been the best of friends to us both, has told her that she must henceforth put the memory of you behind her, and live for those whom she loves best."
"Certainly; it is better that she should," said Sydney.
"That is all I have to say," Johnson remarked, "except that I shall do my best to help her to forget the past. But if ever you can forget your own cruelty and black treachery and villainy towards her——"
"That will do. I will not listen to insult from you or any man."
"You should rather be grateful to me for not exposing you to the world," said Johnson, drily, as he moved towards the door. "If it knew all that I know, what would your career be worth, Mr. Campion? As it is, no one knows the truth but ourselves and your sister, and all I want to remind you of is, that if we forget it, and if you forget it, I believe there is a God somewhere or other who never forgets."
"I am much obliged to you for the reminder," said Sydney, scornfully. But he could not get back the usual clearness of his voice.
Johnson went out without another word, and a minute later the front door was heard to close after him. Sydney stood perfectly still until that sound was heard. Then he moved slowly towards the table, where an envelope and a sealed packet were lying side by side. He looked at them for a minute or two, and flung himself into an arm-chair beside the table with an involuntary groan of pain. He was drawing the packet towards him, when a movement behind the screen caused him to spring desperately to his feet.
It was Nan, who had risen from the sofa and stood before him, her face white as the gown she wore, her eyes wide with a new despair, her fingers clutching at the collar of her dress as if the swelling throat craved the relief of freedom from all bands. Sydney's heart contracted with a sharp throb of pain, anger, fear—he scarcely knew which was uppermost. It flashed across his mind that he had lost everything in life which he cared for most—that Nan would despise him, that she would denounce him as a sorry traitor to his friends, that the story—a sufficiently black one, as he knew—would be published to the world. Disgrace and failure had always been the things that he had chiefly feared, and they lay straight before him now.
"I heard," Nan said, with white lips and choking utterance. "I was asleep when you came, but I think I heard it all. Is it true? There was some one—some one—that you left—for me?—some one who ought to have been your wife?"
"I swear I never loved anyone but you," he broke out, roughly and abruptly, able neither to repel nor to plead guilty to the charge she made, but miserably conscious that his one false step might cost him all that he held most dear. To Nan, the very vagueness and—as she deemed it—the irrelevance of his answer constituted an acknowledgment of guilt.