“I—I—thought it was for the best,” she sobbed—“I thought I should be serving you, Moray, dear.”
“How? serving me?”
“Yes, yes, I knew—I felt all that you felt, and seemed to read all your thoughts, and I wanted—I wanted—oh, Moray, dear, forgive me for causing you pain in what I say, I wanted Glynne to love you as I saw that you loved her.”
His brow knit tightly, and he drew a long and gasping breath, but he controlled himself, and in a low, almost inaudible voice, he whispered,—
“Go on.”
“I was out walking one morning,” continued Lucy, “and Captain Rolph met me, and—a woman sees anything so quickly—he began paying me compliments, and flirting, and he seemed so false and careless of Glynne that I thought there would be no harm in encouraging him a little, and letting him think I was impressed, so that Glynne might find out how worthless and common he is, and then send him about his business, Moray, dear. And then when her eyes were opened, she might—might—Oh, Moray, dear, I don’t like to say it. But I went on like that, and he used to see me whenever I was out. He watched for me, and he doesn’t care a bit for Glynne, and I don’t believe he did for me; I never even let him touch my hand, and it’s all months ago now, and oh, Moray, Moray, I’m a wicked, wicked girl, and everybody thinks ill of me, even mamma, and I’ve never been happy since.”
“And so you did all this, little woman, for me?”
“Yes, yes, dear, I—I thought I was doing right.”
“And I thought that you cared for Oldroyd, Lucy, and—”
“No, no: I hate him,” she cried passionately, and her cheeks turned scarlet for the sinful little words.