“For yourself—not for him.”
“How have I earned your consideration?”
She seemed to look at me intently. Her hands sought my arms; but I backed instinctively from their touch. She stopped at once, and I was sorry. But not even this new aspect of her could conquer my repugnance.
“I have borne children,” she broke out strangely, “and they died—one after another they died, because I willed they should. I could be stronger than him in some things. And he begged and prayed me; but I would not; I willed them dead, and they died—each as it came. They were the atonement for that life. It’s spirit seems to rise and beckon to me from the past. O, my God! and you ask me how you’ve earned my favour. Who was your mother, who were your parents?”
Her voice rose wildly. She held out her arms to me with a passionate gesture. And now I understood. The poor driven creature was insane—struck mad, perhaps, in some sudden consciousness of the true nature of her bondage to a devil. I must humour, not abuse her.
“You say you tell me all this for myself,” I said, standing quiet and unresponsive. “What, if for myself, I neither fear nor apprehend; can boast a will as strong, perhaps, as his; am resolved to go forward and expose him for the thing he is? I take the privilege of your confidence. I do not flatter.”
She appeared to listen again intently. When she answered, there seemed a note as of some under-triumph thrilling through her voice:
“You will go on? You will not be dissuaded?”
“I will not—no.”
She caught her hands together; her breath came quick; she took an eager step towards me, and spoke in broken sentences: