"I shall not recover," said the sick woman, with emphasis. "Oh, do not deceive yourself, Francis! I shall never rise from this sick bed to be an object of horror and pity to you."
"My dear——"
"You never loved me. You only married me out of pity. At Horriston you refused to make me your wife, and it was only when I returned from America a rich woman that you did so. Pity," she said, with a scornful laugh, "no, not pity, but necessity. You would have been ruined but for my money."
"I admit it, Louisa, and I am deeply grateful to you for the way in which you have helped me. I can never repay you for saving my name and credit."
"You can, Francis. Get me my dressing case."
"Louisa, you cannot——"
"I insist upon being obeyed," she said imperiously. "Get me my dressing case."
With great reluctance he brought it from a distant table and placed it on a chair by the bedside. In obedience to her directions he opened it, and took therefrom a sealed envelope.
"In there," she said, as he held it in his hand, "is an account of all I saw on that fatal night. You must send that letter to Captain Larcher when I am dead."
"Louisa, do you wish to ruin me?"