“What is this, darling?” he said, stooping down over her. “What bad tidings have you got there? Tell me, Loo, for I may be able to lighten your sorrow for you.”
“No,” said she, calmly, “that you cannot, for you cannot make me unlive the past! Read that.”
“Well, I see nothing very formidable in this, dear. I can't suppose that it is the loss of such a lover afflicts you. He has read them. Be it so. They are now in your own hands, and neither he nor any other will ever read them again. It would have been more interesting had he told us how he came by them; that was something really worth knowing; for remember, Loo,—and it is, after all, the great point,—these are documents you were ready and willing to have bought up at a thousand pounds, or even more. Paten often swore he 'd have three thousand for them, and there they are now, safe in your own keeping, and not costing you one shilling. Stay,” said he, laughing, “the postage was about one-and-sixpence.”
“And is it nothing to cost me open shame and ignominy? Is it nothing that, instead of one man, two now have read the dark tracings of my degraded heart? Oh, father, even you might feel for the misery of exposure!”
“But it is not exposure: it is the very opposite; it is, of all things, the most secret and secure. When these letters are burned, what accusation remains against you? The memory of two loose men about town. But who 'll believe them, or who cares if they be believed? Bethink you that every one in this world is maligned by somebody, and finds somebody else to credit the scandal. Give me a bishop to blacken to-morrow, and see if I won't have a public to adopt the libel. No, no, Loo; it's a small affliction, believe me, that one is able to dispose of with a lucifer-match. Here, girl, give them to me, and never waste another thought on them.”
“No,” said she, resolutely, “I 'll not burn them. Whatever I may ask of the world to think of me, I do not mean to play the hypocrite to myself. Lend me your hand, and fetch me a glass of water. I cannot meet these people tonight. You must go over to the inn, and say that I am ill,—call it a headache,—and add that I hope by to-morrow I shall be quite well again.”
“Nay, nay, let them come, dear, and the very exertion will cheer you. You promised that American to sing him one of his nigger melodies,—don't forget that.”
“Go and tell them that I have been obliged to take to bed, father,” said she, in a hollow voice. “It is no falsehood to call me very ill.”