He caught her arm again and lifted her up.
"Tell the truth," he cried; "I will hear it!"
She could only stare at him with an affrighted gaze.
"I will bring the whole neighborhood to look," he went on; "I will drag this secret guilt out in the face of day if you do not speak! I will give you no time; no chance of escape; speak, or I will rouse the whole house, and let them see you here with this vile man, at your guilty work."
"Wait," she shivered; "wait!"
"Do you know what this is?" he cried. "The murder of a child! Do you know that to-morrow may find you a criminal in the hands of justice—you, my wife! You, in whose care I entrusted not only my honor but the most innocent soul that ever lived. Speak then! Expect no mercy from me; not to save my own honor; not to keep my own soul would I lift one finger to help you! Think of it! Picture it to yourself!—The eager crowd gathering about this spot; the hootings and execrations that will follow you forth to prison! Think of the days and nights in your lonely cell; remember the trial! the sentence! the horrible death! you shall not escape! you shall not escape one of these things."
"Grantley! Grantley!"
"Not content with one crime, you have added murder; striving to hide your guilt with a deeper sin!"
"This child died," she moaned; "it was God's own mercy, not my crime!"
"Speak then, and tell the whole truth. Do it. But have no thought that even confession can save you; never hope for mercy from my weakness! You can have no enemy who will prove so relentless as I will; if there was a hope of your escape I would hunt you both down to utter disgrace—nay, to death itself!"