"Simply because, until the last fortnight, I believed you to be the wife of James Quentin! Yes, you may well look indignant and scornful; I richly deserve such looks. You shall judge me, you alone—Here," suddenly removing his cap, and laying his hand on the gate. "I stand as it were at the bar before you. Be patient with me for a few minutes; hear my defence, and then you shall say if I am guilty or not guilty.—I leave my cause, my fate, my future life in your hands!"
Helen listened to his appeal in profound silence; poignant memories, maidenly pride, trembling expectation, struggled fiercely in her breast. In the end her heart proved to be her suitor's most eloquent advocate, and with a hasty gesture of assent, she motioned him to go on.
"You remember that night at Port Blair, when we parted, as I hoped but for a few hours? Well, I went home and waited up for Quentin, and talked to him in a way that astonished him. Nevertheless, he stuck to his point, and blustered, and stormed, and swore that you were engaged to him."
"And you believed him?" she exclaimed, with repressed emphasis.
"I did not believe his words. What converted me was his facts—the fact that he possessed the wreck ring, and placed it in my hand. That was sufficient. I thought, when you could give him that,—you could not care for me."
"And from first to last you were Mr. Quentin's cat's-paw?"
"His cat's-paw, his tool, his fool; whatever you like!" vehemently. "I was an infatuated idiot. I mistook him for a gentleman, and measured him by a wrong standard. He told me lies by the dozen, and when I left the Nicobars I was under the impression that he was about to return to Port Blair, and to marry you at once. I went to Singapore, to Japan, to California; I rambled about the world, quite beyond reach of news from the Andamans. Indeed, news from the Andamans I never sought—that page in my life was closed. I came to London about three weeks ago, and almost the first people I met were Quentin and his wife! After that, Mrs. Durand cleared up the whole business.—She told me how your ring had been stolen, and she it was, who succeeded in wringing your address from your aunt, and that's about the whole story!"
"What did Mr. Quentin mean?" inquired Helen gravely.
"It's hard to say. He is a notorious lady-killer. He did not like to be cut out. He was going away, and was utterly reckless. I believe he had a comfortable conviction that he could commit any social enormity in those out-of-the-way islands with the utmost impunity. He believed that when he sailed away, he put himself beyond the reach of all reprisals. And now, Helen, what do you say? If you only knew what I have felt the last fortnight, you would think that I've been pretty well punished for being Quentin's dupe! Am I guilty or not guilty? Can you ever forgive me?"
"Yes; I do forgive you," she replied at length, with a little catch in her breath.