“Boy, you will madden me,” exclaimed Hardy passionately, raising himself on his elbow as he spoke, though the pain the action caused him forced a groan from his compressed lips. “Do you suppose I care for your paltry blows? If they had not finished me, brandy or my own hand would soon have done so; for life has long been a curse to me, and had become unbearable since—may the torments I shall soon endure, if there be a hell, fall upon you for it!—since you and the titled scoundrel, your accomplice, stole my daughter from me.”
“I!” exclaimed Lewis in astonishment. “Do you imagine me to have had any share in that wickedness? Why, man, I never saw your daughter save on two occasions; and on the second of these I warned her—unfortunately without effect—against the designs of the villain who betrayed her.”
As he spoke Hardy gazed eagerly at him, and when he ceased, exclaimed—
“Tell me when and where was it that you did this?”
“It was on the morning after the electioneering ball at Broadhurst. I was shooting with the gamekeeper—met your daughter by accident in the grass field by the larch plantation—and witnessing her parting with Lord Bellefield, I took the opportunity of telling her his true name and character, and warning her against his probable designs. But, unluckily, she had observed a disagreement between us on the previous evening, and supposing me to be actuated by malicious motives, discredited my assertion.”
“You are not deceiving me?” questioned Hardy eagerly. “You could not, dare not, do so now!”
“You do not know me, or you would not doubt my word. I have spoken the simple truth,” returned Lewis coldly.
“Here!” continued Hardy, producing from beneath the pillow a small Bible which the chaplain had left with him: “you tell me you believe in this book. Will you swear upon it that you are not trying to deceive me?”
Lewis raised the book reverently to his lips, and kissing it, took the required oath. Hardy watched him with a scrutinising gaze, and when he had concluded, held out his hand, saying—
“I have wronged you deeply, Mr. Arundel, and must ask—what! never thought again to ask at the hand of man—your forgiveness. I have sought your life, sir, as the wild beast seeks his prey; and chance, on one occasion, and your own courage and address on others, have alone preserved it.”