“If you have any accusation to make against me, will you be kind enough to make it in so many words, and not in roundabout hints?”
He had managed to make the woman feel the full awkwardness of the position into which she had brought herself. She hesitated and stammered, even though her grey eyes did not flinch from their vindictive stare.
“I—I had heard—everybody has—stories which—a clergyman, too!—I should never have thought——”
“No. People never do think, when they bring a vague charge, that they ought to be ready to substantiate it. Will you tell me what you heard?”
“I am not to be brought to book in this way,” said Mrs. Denison, recovering herself, and speaking in a louder voice. “You cannot be ignorant of the stories about you, and you cannot be surprised that I don’t think you a fit person to—to be a friend to—to young girls.”
There was a pause, which Mrs. Denison found very awkward. She stood with one hand upon a small octagonal table, feeling very anxious that this most obnoxious visitor would either go or give her an opportunity of going. Vernon, on his side, stood perfectly still before her, staring at the floor, not with the shamefaced look of remorse and guilt, but with an expression of painful and earnest thought. At last he raised his head, and his black eyes, full of passion and fire, met her own cold grey ones steadily.
“You have heard that I caused the disappearance of a girl ten years ago?” said he, not abruptly, but with grave deliberateness.
“Er—yes—something—yes—of the sort,” answered Mrs. Denison, taken aback.
“And on sufficiently good authority to warrant your considering it true?”
“On the very best authority. I never act on any other,” said the lady, hastily.