“I have good reason for thinking that you could explain Mrs. Widdowson’s behaviour if you chose.”
“Exactly. There’s no misunderstanding that. And if I get angry I am an unpardonable brute. Come now, you can’t be offended if I treat you as simply my equal, Rhoda. Let me test your sincerity. Suppose I had seen you talking somewhere with some man who seemed to interest you very much, and then—to-day, let us say—I heard that he had called upon you when you were alone. I turn with a savage face and accuse you of grossly deceiving me—in the worst sense. What would your answer be?”
“These are idle suppositions,” she exclaimed scornfully.
“But the case is possible, you must admit. I want you to realize what I am feeling. In such a case as that, you could only turn from me with contempt. How else can I behave to you—conscious of my innocence, yet in the nature of things unable to prove it?”
“Appearances are very strongly against you.”
“That’s an accident—to me quite unaccountable. If I charged you with dishonour you would only have your word to offer in reply. So it is with me. And my word is bluntly rejected. You try me rather severely.”
Rhoda kept silence.
“I know what you are thinking. My character was previously none of the best. There is a prejudice against me in such a matter as this. Well, you shall hear some more plain speech, altogether for your good. My record is not immaculate; nor, I believe, is any mans. I have gone here and there, and have had my adventures like other men. One of them you have heard about—the story of that girl Amy Drake—the subject of Mrs. Goodall’s righteous wrath. You shall know the truth, and if it offends your ears I can’t help it. The girl simply threw herself into my arms, on a railway journey, when we met by pure chance.”
“I don’t care to hear that,” said Rhoda, turning away.
“But you shall hear it. That story has predisposed you to believe the worst things of me. If I hold you by force, you shall hear every word of it. Mary seems to have given you mere dark hints—”