In an instant he was beside her and had caught her hand.
“Nay, dear one, I cannot forgive the tears that dim those bright eyes,” he whispered in her ear. “You have had a past, madam?”
“Ah, sir,” cried Kitty, from the folds of her handkerchief, “all my life up to the present has been my past—that is why I weep.”
“Is it so sad as that? You have a story?”
“Should I tell it to you?” said Kitty, raising her head suddenly and looking at the face that was so near hers. “I will, I will—yes, I will trust you—you may be able to help me.”
“With my latest breath!” cried Mr. Bates.
“Sir, to be brief, I am a great heiress,” said Kitty, quite calmly. Mr. Bates started, his eyes brightened. “My uncle was trustee of my father's property—it is in two counties,” continued Kitty. “For some years after my father's death I had no reason for complaint. But then a change came. My uncle's son appeared upon the scene, and I soon perceived his true character—a ruined, dissolute scamp, I knew him to be, and when I rejected his advances with scorn, his father, who I fancied was my friend, commenced such a series of persecutions as would have broken a less ardent spirit than mine. They did not move me. They shut me up in a cold, dark dungeon and loaded these limbs of mine with fetters.”
“The infernal ruffians!”
“They fed me with bread and water. They tortured me by playing on the harpsichord outside my prison all the best known airs from the Beggars' Opera.
“Horrible!”