“Plotting,—more plotting! Why can't we go along now on the high-road, without looking for by-paths?”
“Not yet,—not yet awhile. Attend to me, now. It is not likely that we can meet again very soon. My coming out here to-day was at great risk, for I am believed to be ill and in bed with a feverish cold. I cannot venture to repeat this peril, but you shall hear from me. My maid is to be trusted, and will bring you tidings of me. With to-morrow's post I hope to learn where Paten is, and when he will be here. You shall learn both immediately, and be prepared to act on the information. Above all things, bear in mind that though I hate this man, all my abhorrence of him is nothing—actually nothing—to my desire to regain my letters. For them I would forego everything. Had I but these in my possession, I could wait for vengeance, and wait patiently.”
“So that from himself personally you fear nothing?”
“Nothing. He cannot say more of me than is open to all the world to say—” She stopped, and grew red, for she felt that her impetuosity had carried her further than she was aware. “Remember once more, then, if you could buy them, steal them, get them in any way,—I care not how, that my object is fulfilled,—the day you place them in this hand it is your own!”
He burst out into some rhapsody of his delight, but checked himself as suddenly, when he saw that her face had assumed its former look of preoccupation.
“Plotting again?” asked he, half peevishly.
“I have need to plot,” said she, mournfully, as she leaned her head upon her hand; and now there came over her countenance a look of deepest sorrow. “I grow very weary of all this at times,” said she, in a faint and broken voice; “so weary that I half suspect it were better to throw the cards down, and say, 'There! I 've lost! What's the stake?' I believe I could do this. I am convinced I could, if I were certain that there was one man or one woman on the earth who would give me one word of pity, or bestow one syllable of compassion for my fall.”
“But surely your daughter Clara—”
“Clara is not my daughter; she is nothing to me,—never was, never can be. We are separated, besides, never to meet again, and I charge you not to speak of her.”
“May I never! if I can see my way at all. It 's out of one mystery into another. Will you just tell me—”