She had risen to her feet at my first words. She sat down again, now trembling in every limb.
“I cannot tell you any of these things,” she moaned. “I am sorry I asked you to come. Go away! Please go away!”
But my mind was made up now, and the sight of her weakness only nerved me on. I stood up before her white and determined—brutally reckless as to her sufferings. I would know now, though I forced the words from between her white lips. She was a strong woman, but she had broken down—she was at my mercy.
“I will not go away,” I said, doggedly. “You sent for me, and I am here. I will not go away until you have told me everything. I have a right to know, and I will know! You shall tell me!”
She threw her arms out towards me with a gesture half pathetic, half imploring. But I made no movement—my face was hard, and I had set my teeth together. Her hands fell into her lap. I did not touch them. She looked moodily into the fire. She sat there with fixed eyes, like a woman who sees a little drama in the red coals. My heart beat fast with excitement. I knew that in the war of our wills I had conquered. She was at my mercy. I was going to hear.
“Child,” she said, slowly, and her voice seemed to belong to another woman, and to come from a great distance, “I will tell you a story. Listen!”
I leaned over towards her holding my breath. Now at last, then, I was to know. Yet even in those moments of intense excitement the outline of her face, with its curious white torpor, oppressed me. A chill fear crept into my blood.
She began.
“There was a girl, well educated, well bred, and clever. She was an orphan, and early in life it became necessary for her to earn her own living. There were several things which she could do a little, but only one well. She could write. So she became a journalist.