“That was my belief, too,” said she. “But alas! it was a delusion. So soon as he found out that I had escaped from him, he showed himself in his true colours. He wrote threatening to send the letters which I had been foolish enough to write to him, to my friends—he was even scoundrel enough to point out that I had in my innocence written certain passages which were susceptible of being interpreted as evidence of guilt—nay, his letter in which he did so took it for granted that I had been guilty, so that I could not show it as evidence of his falsehood. What was left for me to do? I wrote to him imploring him to return to me those letters. I asked him how he could think it consistent with his honour to retain them and to hold such an infamous threat over my head. Alas! he soon gave me to understand that I had but placed myself more deeply in his power.”
“The scoundrel!”
“Oh! scoundrel! I made an excuse for coming back to London, though I had meant to stay in Devonshire until the end of the year.”
“And 'twas then you thanked me for the book.”
“I had good reason to do so. For some months I was happy, believing that I had escaped from my persecutor. How happy we were when in France together! But then—ah! you know the rest. My distress is killing me—I cannot sleep at night. I start a dozen times a day; every time the bell rings I am in trepidation.”
“Great Heaven! Is 't possible that you are miserable solely on this account?” cried Goldsmith.
“Is there not sufficient reason for my misery?” she asked. “What did he say to me that night in the green room? He told me that he would give me a fortnight to accede to his demands; if I failed he swore to print my letters in full, introducing my name so that every one should know who had written them.”
“And his terms?” asked Goldsmith in a whisper.
“His terms? I cannot tell you—I cannot tell you. The very thought that I placed myself in such a position as made it possible for me to have such an insult offered to me makes me long for death.”
“By God! 'tis he who need to prepare for death!” cried Goldsmith, “for I shall kill him, even though the act be called murder.”