“You have no right to question me.”
“I say, is this true, James Huish?”
“Look here. What is the use of making a fuss like this over a bit of an affair of gallantry.”
“What!” cried the other, grasping the arm of Huish once more tightly. “An affair of gallantry? Is it, then, an affair of gallantry to come upon a home like a blight—to destroy—yes, blast the life of a pure, trusting, simple-hearted girl, who believes you to be the soul of honour? James Huish, I do not understand these terms; but tell me this,” he continued in a voice that was terrible in its cold measured tones, “is this true?”
“Is what true?” said the other, with an attempt at bravado.
“You know what I mean—about Mary Riversley.”
“Well, there, yes, I suppose it is,” said Huish, with assumed indifference; “and now the murder’s out.”
“No,” exclaimed the other, with the rage he had been beating down struggling hard for the mastery; “not murder: it is worse. But look here, Huish. This girl is fatherless,” he continued in a voice quite unnaturally calm. “I loved her very dearly, but, poor girl, her affection has gone to another. She cannot be my wife, but I can be her friend and I will. You will marry her at once.”
“Not likely,” was the scornful reply, as Huish tried to shake his arm free.
“I say, James Huish, you will marry this poor girl—no, this dear, sweet, injured lady—at once. The world would call her fallen; I say she is a good, true woman, as pure as snow, and in the sight of God Almighty your own wife. But we have customs here in England that must be observed. I say again, you will marry Ruth Riversley—at once?”