"I did not," said Vivian sternly. "I was entrapped, as you know well.--It was a year later that I met her, when in town, and then she was the associate of thieves and rogues. Alpenny had seen her here; he inveigled her into his nets, and used her in the West End as a decoy in the same way as he used Major Ruck. She met me. I believed that she was good--that she was still my old playfellow. I married her under my own name, but in order to save the feelings of my father, I lived with her as my wife under another name."
"I wanted to take my own and come down here," said the woman.
"I know you did, but I would not allow it," said Vivian, and continued his story rapidly, while Beatrice, perfectly still, listened intently. "It would have broken my father's heart. And then," he added, turning to Beatrice, "I found out how vile she was."
"I never deceived you--never," said Mrs. Paslow.
"No. You had that redeeming point," said her husband; "as a wife I could find no fault with you in that way. Had you been good and kind, I might have come to love you, as I did when we were children together. But your nature was essentially false and wicked. Under the tuition of Alpenny you developed into an adventuress, and made the worst use of your talents."
"But for Alpenny we should have starved," she reminded him.
"I did not know that," he retorted. "You said that the money had been left to you by your god-mother; only when it was too late did I learn that Alpenny gave you the money for having stolen things. And then I was dragged into your evil ways."
"You did steal," insisted Mrs. Paslow.
"I did not. Beatrice, one day we were in a draper's shop in the West End. This woman stole some lace; she was arrested, and I was arrested also as her accomplice."
"Oh Vivian!"