“I told him nothing; indeed, I had nothing to tell. I saw you faint, and I guessed the rest. What I want to ask you is this: that you will believe no stories which may be told against Sir Henry, for he is quite blameless. Now I have only one thing more to say, and it is, that I have watched him and known him well; and, if you do not cling to him through good and through evil, you will be foolish indeed, for there is no better man, and you will never find such another for a husband. I wish that it may all come about, and that you may be happy with him through a long life, Miss Levinger.”
Emma heard, and, though vaguely as yet, understood all the nobility and self-sacrifice of her rival. She also loved this man, and she renounced him for the sake of his own welfare. Otherwise she would never have spoken thus.
“I do not know what to answer you,” she said. “I do not deny it is true that I am attached to Sir Henry, though I have no right to be. What am I to answer you?”
“Nothing, except this: that under any circumstances you will not believe a word against him.”
“I can promise that, if it pleases you.”
“It does please me; for, wherever I am, I should like to think of you and of him as married and happy, for I know that he will make you a good husband, as you will make him a good wife. And now again, good-bye.”
Emma looked at Joan and tried to speak, but could find no words; then suddenly she put out her arms and attempted to kiss her.
“No,” said Joan, holding her back; “do not kiss me, but remember what I have said, and think kindly of me if you can.”
Then she walked away swiftly, without looking back, leaving Emma standing bewildered upon the road.
“I have done it now,” thought Joan to herself “for good or evil I have done it, though I don’t quite know what made me speak like that. She will understand now: some women might not take it well, but I think that she will, because she wants to. Oh! if I had known all that was at stake, I’d have acted very differently. I’ve been a wicked girl, and it’s coming home to me. I thought that I could only harm myself, but it seems I may ruin him, and that I’ll never do; I’d rather make away with myself. I suppose that we cannot sin against ourselves alone; the innocent must suffer with the guilty, that’s the truth of it, as I suffer to-day because my father and mother were guilty more than twenty years ago. Still, it is hard—very hard—to have to go away and give him up to her; to have to humble myself before her, and to tell lies to her father, when I know that if it wasn’t for my being nobody’s child, and not fit to marry an honest man, and for this wretched money, I could be the best wife to him that ever he could have. Yes, and make him love me too, though I am almost sure that he does not really love me now. Well, she has the name and the fortune, and will do as well, I dare say; and some must dig thistles while others pluck flowers. Still, it is cruel hard, and, though I am afraid to die, I wish that I were dead, I do—I do!”