“Be at ease. I do not reproach you, my child.”
“But you believe. Oh, you believe——”
“Your own statement concerning yourself, dear Margaret; no more nor less.”
“Believe no more. Not a hair’s breadth more. Scarcely so much. And draw from that no inferences. On your soul, draw no inferences against me; for they would be most unjust. For I am yours; only yours; wholly yours. I have never, never had any purpose, wish, or thought at variance with your claims upon me.”
“You must pardon me, Margaret, if I cannot reconcile your present statement with the admissions lately made to your father. Allow me to bring them to your memory.”
“Oh, Heaven, have mercy on me!” she cried, covering her face.
“Remember, I do not reproach you with them; I only recall them to your mind. You have been in secret correspondence with this young man for three years past; you have given him private meetings; you have passed hours alone in the woods with him; you have received him in your chamber; you have been abroad for days in his company; you have confessed the truth of all this; and yet you declare that he is not, and cannot be a lover of yours. Margaret, Margaret, how can you expect me, for a moment, to credit the amazing inconsistency of your statements?”
While he spoke, she stood before him in an agony of confusion and distress, her form cowering; her face sunk upon her breast; her eyes shunning his gaze; her face, neck, and bosom crimsoned with fiery blushes; her hands writhed together; her whole aspect one of conscious guilt, convicted crime, and overwhelming shame.
The anguish stamped upon the brow of her lover was terrible to behold. Yet he governed his emotions, and compelled his voice to be steady in saying:
“Dear Margaret, if in any way you can reconcile these inconsistencies—speak!”