“You are pitiless!” she cried. “Sydney Campbell would never have spoken to me as you are speaking.”
“His nature was different from mine, but he was jealous of his honour, too. I wish to make the position very clear to you. Even were nothing worse than what is already known to be discovered against you, and my father consented to make you an allowance—of which I am not at all sure—it would not be as large as that I am prepared to secure to you. That aspect of the matter is worth your consideration.”
“How much a year do you propose?” she asked, after a slight pause.
“Not less than a thousand a year. I will undertake that my father shall make you that, or even a larger allowance, upon the conditions I have stated.”
“In my confession am I to relate all that passed between Sydney Campbell and myself? You think I did not love him. You are mistaken. I loved him deeply, and had he lived he would soon have been at my feet again.”
“You are to omit nothing,” I said; “my father must know all.”
She looked at me so piteously that for a moment a doubt intruded itself whether there might not be circumstances in her history with which I was unacquainted which, instead of more strongly condemning her, might entitle her to compassion; but too stern a duty was before me to allow the doubt to remain.
“You will give me a few hours to decide,” she implored. “The shock is so sudden! I am at your mercy. Grant me a few hours’ respite! You will not, you cannot refuse!”
I had no intention of refusing, but as if overcome by her feelings, she seized my hands and pressed them to her lips and her eyes, which were wet with tears. I was endeavouring to release myself when the door opened, and her maid appeared.
“What do you want—what do you want?” cried my father’s wife, as she flung herself from me. “How dare you come in without knocking!”