“If you’ll listen to me I’ll tell you how,” he answered. “Wait, wait,” she said in trepidation. “It—it has nothing to do with me?”
He shook his head. “It has only to do with my father and myself. When I’ve told you, then you must say whether you will have anything to do with it, or with me.... You remember,” he continued, without waiting for her to speak, “you remember that day upon the Ecrehos—five years ago? Well, that day I had made up my mind to tell you in so many words what I hoped you had always known, Guida. I didn’t—why? Not because of another man—no, no, I don’t mean to hurt you, but I must tell you the truth now—not because of another man, for I should have bided my chance with him.”
“Ranulph, Ranulph,” she broke in, “you must not speak of this now! Do you not see it hurts me? It is not like you. It is not right of you—”
A sudden emotion seized him, and his voice shook. “Not right! You should know that I’d never say one word to hurt you, or do one thing to wrong you. But I must speak to-day-I must tell you everything. I’ve thought of it for four long years, and I know now that what I mean to do is right.”
She sat down in the great arm-chair. A sudden weakness came upon her: she was being brought face to face with days of which she had never allowed herself to think, for she lived always in the future now.
“Go on,” she said helplessly. “What have you to say, Ranulph?”
“I will tell you why I didn’t speak of my love to you that day we went to the Ecrehos. My father came back that day.”
“Yes, yes,” she said; “of course you had to think of him.”
“Yes, I had to think of him, but not in the way you mean. Be patient a little while,” he added.
Then in a few words he told her the whole story of his father’s treachery and crime, from the night before the Battle of Jersey up to their meeting again upon the Ecrehos.