"No other view of the matter is possible," he said. "Assertions are useless, unsupported by the slightest evidence. What have you to bring forward in your defence? Absolutely nothing. All these weeks you have not even attempted to clear yourself, and I have endeavoured to trust you in the face of all appearances; but this is too much. The very fact that you will speak now, when you would not before, seems to me an additional argument against you. Your past silence I do not understand, coupled with your present denial; but whatever your motives may be, or may have been, I can feel no doubt whatever as to your guilt."
"I did not take it," she said, her lips hardly able to frame the words.
"Hush! No more useless denials. At least you can abstain from further untruth. For the present, the matter must be dropped. When you can resolve to confess freely what you have done, then I will hear. Then you shall have my forgiveness, though you can never again be to me what you have been, because the old trust is no longer possible. But until then, you are under my displeasure."
A sob broke from her. "Oh, it is hard! How can I confess what I have not done?"
"Hush!" he said again. "No more of that. The proofs are unhappily too strong." He paused, looking into her agitated face. "It will be better and happier for us both, when you speak out . . . This is a great sorrow to me, greater than you imagine. At least, you can make it possible that I should forgive, that I should take you to my heart again! . . . Wait a moment; do not speak hastily. Think of the sin against God, and of your need that He should forgive. If you do not confess the truth to me, how can you look for His pardon? You will have a hard fight to get back to your old standing, after so grievous a fall. The first step must be full confession. That is absolutely essential. Why put it off? Why not speak out now—at once—looking on me as your father?"
"I do—oh, I do!" sobbed Lettice. "You have been—"
"Then treat me as a child should treat her father. Tell me freely, openly, how you came to take such a step, and what led up to it."
Lettice mastered her distress with a great effort, and lifted to his, her straightforward glance. "But, uncle, I did not take the bank-note. I do not know in the least how it came to be in my box."
Dr. Bryant turned, and coldly left the room, without another word. From that day, a barrier of separation divided the two, robbing their intercourse of all its old sweetness.
Theodosia was at last satisfied. At last she had obtained her wish. And perhaps in all England no more unhappy woman could be found. Such gratification of the heart's desire carries its own vengeance with it.