“He knows why.”
Papa and I both turned to Francis, whose careless manner changed a little: he grew red and uncomfortable. “She may tell if she chooses; I lay no embargo of silence upon her. I have made all the explanations possible, and if she will not receive them, I cannot help it. The thing is done, and cannot be undone. I have begged her pardon, and made all sorts of promises for the future—no man can do more.”
He said this sullenly, and yet as if he wished to make friends with her, but Penelope seemed scarcely even to hear.
“Papa,” she repeated, still in the same stony voice, “I wish you would end this scene; it is killing me. Tell him, will you, that I have burnt all his letters, every one. Insist on his returning mine. His presents are all tied up in a parcel in my room, except this; will you give it back to him?”
She took off her ring, a small common turquoise which Francis had given her when he was young and poor, and laid it on the table. Francis snatched it up, handled it a minute, and then threw it violently into the fire.
“Bear witness, Mr. Johnston, and you too, Dora, that it is Penelope, not I, who breaks our engagement. I would have fulfilled it honourably—I would have married her.”
“Would you?” cried Penelope, with flashing eyes, “no—not that last degradation—no!”
“I would have married her,” Francis continued, “and made her a good husband too. Her reason for refusing me is puerile—perfectly puerile. No woman of sense, who knows anything of the world, would urge it for a moment. Nor man either, unless he was your favourite—who I believe is at the bottom of this, who, for all you know, may be doing exactly as I have done—Doctor Urquhart.”
Papa started and said hastily, “Confine yourself to the subject on hand, Francis. Of what is this that my daughter accuses you? Tell me, and let me judge.”
Francis hesitated, and then said, “Send away these girls, and you shall hear.”