"Faith, child," he said lightly, "you have touched him there. Best stop and go no farther. Let it work."
"I will go on," she cried, stamping her foot and turning on him. "I will tell all to this gentleman, all that should be told; for it is his due and meed—a small recompense for the unworthy usage he has had. You have heard him, sir," she says, "and, indeed, your eyes have been witness to his deeds and what he is. My guardian came between us and denied us. And this was his plan—to snatch me away by violence while I stood passive, not refusing nor accepting." She wrung her hands in a transport of distress. "I—I was wild ... I did madly; yet, sir, I would not have you judge me by that. See, it has all ended in trouble, nothing but trouble, and I have gained nothing for myself but shame."
She paused upon the edge of tears, as I could see pretty plain, and says I, bluntly, "You were misled, and by them that should not," and I scowled at York where he stood. But York says nothing, merely lifting his shoulders, and being content, no doubt, to let miss deal with the situation. She sank her face in her hands, which moved me strangely, for she had a helpless look.
"If I have misjudged, sir, and been mistook," she said, "can you blame me if I would bury that shame and not have it flaunted in my face?"
"Not I, madam," said I. "I would I might help you, troth I do."
"You can," she cried, sparkling shyly and eagerly upon me.
"Why ...," says I.
"If you will go, sir, there will be no trouble, no inquiry, and no law will be set in motion. 'Twill die a quiet death, and nothing will be digged up against me. I shall not have to tell the truth, as I shall have else," she cried. Her lips parted in her fever, her eyes burning with a wild zeal.
York uttered a sound, but I was silent.
"Oh, sir!" she pleaded.