“Insult you, you mean. But I know what is in your heart. Confess to him? How would that avert the greater catastrophe?—the scarlet letter—the ignominy of the moral exposure? And your persecutor knows it, no doubt, and builds his plans upon the ruin of your reputation, not as a wife, but saint.”
“O, my God!”
I must pause a little in the mad tumult of my emotions. To have her thus at my feet, broken, despairing, looking to me, the neglected and despised, for help and reassurance!—the madness beat like fire in my brain.
“Now listen,” I said at last. “This man—this reptile—he mines and mines, like the blind beast he is. He never thinks of his being undermined by another—his black burrow seems secure to him——” I felt her hands plucking at mine; but I held them tight. “He sets his snare, and never sees the noose awaiting his own neck. O! if I have spied—do you hear me?—I have spied to more effect than you might dare to hope, or he, perhaps, to fear. Mother!—there, I will speak it for the first and last time—I have that in my hand to save you, and send him to the gallows.”
She tore her hands away at last, and rose, tottering, to her feet.
“Not that!” she cried insanely—“not that! You must not. It cannot be. Do you not know? Have you never guessed? Must I be the one to tell you?”
“What?”
“He is your father, Richard.”
With the word, there came a swift step at the door, and Miss Christmas hurried into the room, pale and disturbed. Her eyes met mine in one startled glance, and turned to Lady Skene.
“Aunt Georgie,” she said in an agitated voice, “I’m sorry; I thought you were alone; but—but I think you’d better come at once.”