“GOD’S DEATH! How can I punish so mean a scoundrel? I will have my letter from him, if I follow him round the world for it.”
“You have your letter now. I asked Cornelia to write it again for you; and you see she has done it gladly.”
“Angel of goodness! But I will have my first letter.”
“It has been in that man’s keeping for more than two years. I would not touch it. ‘Twould infect a gentleman, and make of him a rascal just as base.”
“He shall write me then an apology in his own blood. I will make him do it, at the point of my sword.”
“If I were you, I would scorn to wet my sword in blood so base.”
“Remember, Annie, what this darling girl suffered. For his treachery she nearly died. I speak not of my own wrong—it is as nothing to hers.”
“However, she might have been more careful.”
“Annie, she was in the happy hurry of love. Your calm soul knows not what a confusing thing that is—she made a mistake, and that sneaking villain turned her mistake into a crime. By a God’s mercy, it is found out—but how? Annie! Annie, how much I owe you! What can I say? What can I do?”
“Be reasonable. Mary Damer really found it out. His guilty restless conscience forced him to tell her the story, though to be sure he put the wrong on people he did not name. But I knew so much of the mystery of your love sorrow, as to put the two stories together, and find them fit. Then I wrote to Cornelia.”