She sank into the chair Pacey had placed for her, and after a contemptuous look round at the shabby surroundings, the doctor followed her example.
“My brother is angry, Mr Pacey; he is indignant on my behalf. He thinks me foolish and obstinate in coming here to see you, and that I am lowering myself, and not displaying proper pride.”
“I do,” said the doctor firmly.
“Out of his tender love for me, Mr Pacey,” Cornel continued, with her sweet pathetic voice seeming to ring and find an echo in the old artist’s heart; “but I felt it to be my duty to come to know the truth.”
“You have done wisely, madam,” said Pacey. “When I wrote you it was in the hope that you would come and save a man whom I have liked—there, call it sentimentality if you please—loved as a brother—I ought to say, I suppose, as a son.”
“Your letter, sir, suggested that my old schoolfellow—the man who was betrothed to my sister—has in some way gone wrong.”
Pacey bowed his head.
“Cornel, dear, you hear this. It is sufficient. We do not wish to pry into Armstrong Dale’s affairs. We know enough. Now, are you satisfied?”
“No.—Mr Pacey, your words have formed a bond between us greater than existed before. I have heard of you so often from Armstrong, and come to you as our friend, in obedience to your letter. I ask you then to keep nothing back, but to speak to me plainly. Please remember that I am an American girl. I think we are different from your ladies here. Not bolder, but firm, plain-spoken, honest and true. We feel a true shame as keenly as the proudest of your patrician maidens; but we crush down false, and that is why I come to you instead of writing to and making appeals to the man whom I have known from childhood—the man who was betrothed to me, and who loved me dearly, as I loved him, only so short a time ago. There, you see how simply and plainly I speak, the more so that I know you have Armstrong Dale’s welfare at heart.”
“God knows I have,” said Pacey fervently.