“You ask me,” I said, “what I can say against you? I can say this. Two days before Sydney died in your house, I was witness to a secret meeting between you and your lover, Mr. Pelham. I can repeat, word for word, certain remarks made by you and by him which leave no doubt as to the tie which bound you together. You liked a man with a spice of the devil in him—my poor friend Sydney was too tame a lover for you. Do you not remember those words?”
“You listened,” she exclaimed, scornfully, “and you call yourself a gentleman!”
“I do not seek to save myself from your reproaches. The knowledge was forced upon me, and I could neither advance nor retire without discovering myself, and so affording a scoundrel an opportunity of escape. At that time Sydney was indebted to Mr. Pelham a large sum of money, whether fairly won or not.”
“You did not tell Sydney?” she asked, almost in a whisper.
“I did. More than that. The night before his death he and I, after leaving you, returned to your cottage and saw the lights, and heard Mr. Pelham’s laugh and yours. Do you know why I tell you these things? It is to convince you that you cannot hope to destroy the evidence it is in my power to bring against you. I should have been content never to have met you again after the death of my friend; I hoped that we had seen the last of each other. But you have forced yourself into this house—you have ensnared my father—and if you remain you will bring upon him a more terrible shock than now awaits him in the discharge of my duty.”
“You are a clever enemy,” she said; “so strong and relentless, and determined! How can I hope to contend with you? Yet I believe I could do so successfully, if you have told me all you know against me. You overheard a conversation between me and Pelham—what of that? You have no witnesses. But will you not give me a chance? If, when you first met me, I was led into error by a scoundrel, who was exposed and disgraced in your presence, shall I be allowed no loophole through which I can creep into a better kind of life? It is the way men treat women, but I might expect something better from you. You cannot unmake me your father’s wife. I am that, in spite of you or a thousand sons. Why not let things remain as they are—why should not you and I be friends, only outwardly, if you like, to save your father from pain? Let it be a bargain between us—for his sake?”
She held out her hand to me; I did not touch it.
“Pain my father must bear,” I said; “but I will endeavour to save him from a deep disgrace.”
“I am not disgracing him now!” she cried. “Indeed, indeed I am not!”
I tried to what depths the nature of this woman would descend.