Beaumont shrugged his shoulders, then, pushing the arm-chair to one side, sat down in it so that he faced her fairly, keeping, however, with habitual caution, his face well in the shade.
"By all means," he said amiably. "I always humour a woman when there is nothing to be gained by doing otherwise. Go on, my dear friend, I'm all attention."
The housekeeper was leaning forward, resting her elbows on the table, and he could see her finely-cut, bloodless face--looking as if carved out of marble, in the yellow rays of the lamp-light--with her nostrils dilated, her lips firmly closed, and her black eyes sparkling with suppressed anger.
"I see it's going to be a duel to the death," he said, in a mocking tone, leaning his head against the cushion of the chair. "Well, I do not mind--I'm fond of duels."
"You are a fiend!" she burst out angrily.
"Really! Did you come all this way to impart that information? If so, you have wasted your time. I've heard the same remark so often."
His brutally cool manner had a wonderfully calming effect upon her, for after this one outburst of anger, she appeared to crush down her wrath by a strong effort of will, smiled disdainfully, and went on to speak in a cold, clear voice.
"Listen to me, Basil Beaumont: years ago you did me the worst harm a man can do a woman--you destroyed my life, but thanks to my own cleverness I managed to preserve at least the outward semblance of a pure woman without sacrificing our son in any way, but do you think that has cost me nothing--do you think I did not feel bitter pangs at having to deny my own son, and to veil my maternal longings under the guise of a servant? I did so, not so much to preserve my own good name as to benefit the boy. I wanted him to think he had no heritage of shame, so that he could feel at least pride and self-respect. When I obtained the reward of my sacrifice--when I saw that my son was satisfied with his lot and had talents to make his way in the world you came down for the second time to ruin not my life, but his--the life of an innocent being, who had never done you any harm. I entered into your vile conspiracy because I thought it would benefit my son, and now I repent bitterly that I ever did so. Owing to the foul lie you compelled me to tell, he has gained a fortune, but lost his self-respect. You do not understand the feeling, because your heart these many years has been steeped in wickedness, but think what it has done to our unhappy child--cast a blight upon his life which no money, no position can ever remove--his youth died from the moment I told him that lie, and whose work is it--mine or yours, Basil Beaumont? Mine or yours?"
She paused a moment, moistened her dry lips with her tongue, and then went on speaking rapidly with vehemence.
"And now when the worst is over--when he is firmly settled in possession of that wealth it has cost him his youthful happiness to gain--when he is going to marry the woman he loves, who will be able to comfort him in some measure--you once more return to work ruin for the third time--you demand money to hush up a disgraceful secret--you would not only tell him that he is still a nameless outcast, but you would take all his money from him, yes, and take also the girl who is to be his wife--you would leave him a pauper--an outcast--a miserable being with neither self-respect, nor riches, nor consolation. I implore you for my sake--for his sake--for your own sake, not to do this--our crime has shadowed his young life too much already--tell him no more--go away from this place, and let him have at least one chance of happiness."