“That is my secret,” I replied. “It should be sufficient for you that I do know, and that I have evidence at hand for a full exposure of your proceedings.”
“Your own evidence will not be strong enough,” she said. “Hating me as you do, you can invent any wicked story you please—it does not require a very clever man to do things of that kind. It has been done over and over again, and the question then is, whose word has the greatest influence? My husband will take my word against yours; I promise you that.”
“I am aware of the power you have over him, and I am prepared.”
“In what way are you prepared?”
“Shall I tell you how many cabs you took this morning, and their numbers?”
“You cannot do it.”
“I can; and I can tell you, moreover, where you engaged and where you discharged them; and what shops you went to and how long you were in each. When I relate your wretched story to my father I shall be able to verify every detail of the accusation I shall bring against you.”
“You have had me watched!” she cried.
“It was necessary. You are a clever woman.” (Even in this terrible crisis of her fate, the vanity of this creature, unparalleled in wickedness, asserted itself, and an expression of gratification passed into her face as I called her a clever woman.) “My father’s nature in some respects resembles Sydney’s, and especially in its loyalty to love and friendship. Upon Sydney no impression could be made against any person in whom he had confidence, unless the most distinct proof could be produced—the evidence of his own senses or of witnesses upon whom he could implicitly rely. So would it be with my father. On my honour, you can no longer live in this house. I cannot permit you for another day to impose upon a gentleman whom I love and honour.”
She gazed at me in admiration. “How beautifully you speak! Your words are like knives—they cut into my heart. You have brought my guilt home to me, O, how clearly! Yes, I am guilty! I confess it! I yield; I cannot struggle with such a skilful enemy as you. O, if you knew what relief you have given me! I was so weary! I am glad you were not weak—I am glad you had no pity upon me. I am sick of the deception I have been compelled—yes, compelled!—to practice against a good man. And he is not the only one—there have been others, miserable woman that I am. O, what an unhappy weary life mine has been! I have been driven and driven by a villain who has preyed upon me since I was a child. Ah, if you knew the whole truth, if I could lay bare my heart, you would not utterly condemn me! You would say, ‘Poor child! she has been more sinned against than sinning!’ Are not those the words used to persons who have been innocently led into error? And they are true of me! If I have sinned I have been driven to it, and I have been sinned against—indeed, indeed I have! But I don’t want to turn you in my favour. You must do your duty, and I must meet my punishment, now that everything is discovered. It might have been different with me if it had been my happiness to meet a man like you when I was young. I am young still—I look it, don’t I? and it makes me feel all the more wicked. But I feel a hundred years old—quite a hundred—and O, so tired and worn out! I could have looked up to you, I could have respected you, and you would have taught me what was right and what was wrong. But it was not to be—and it is too late now, is it not? Yes, I see in your face that it is too late. What are you going to do with me? You will not be too, too cruel? I am wicked, I feel—you have made me feel it, and I am so thankful to you! but unless I make away with myself (and I am afraid to do that; I should be afraid to die)—unless I did that, which I should never have the courage to do, I shall live a good many years yet. My fate is in your hands. What are you going to do with me?”