“Hush! you shall not speak her name,” cried Richard furiously.
“It is enough that you know,” said little Miss Clode quickly. “Boy, boy, place your affection elsewhere, and not upon a woman who is about to elope to-night.”
“It is not true,” he cried furiously, “and I am a weak fool to stay and listen to such calumnies.”
“It is true,” said Miss Clode; “and it was to save you from the misery of discovering all this that I made up my mind to tell you.”
“To have the pleasure of retailing this wretched scandal,” he retorted scornfully. “Woman, you disgrace your sex by calumniating a sweet, pure woman.”
“It was to save you agony and despair,” she said piteously. “You might never have known of this. People work so slyly, and in such secrecy; and if you only knew how jealous I am of your future, you would not speak and look at me so cruelly as you do.”
“Stop!” cried Richard fiercely. “It was you sent me that wretched anonymous letter once?”
“Yes,” she said humbly—“to save you from misery—to open your eyes to the truth.”
“To open my eyes to a lie,” he cried. “Miss Clode, enough of this. I promised you that I would look upon this as our secret: let it remain so, and we know each other no more.”
He moved towards the door, but she clung to his wrist.