“You’ve gone against me so—I could strangle you!” he growled. This image added nothing to her dread; her dread was that he had done some wrong, was stained with some guilt. She uttered it to him with clasped hands, begging him to tell her the worst; but, still more passionately, he cut her short with his own cry: “In God’s name, satisfy me! What infernal thing did you do?”
“It wasn’t infernal—it was right. I told her mamma had been wretched,” said Adela.
“Wretched? You told her such a lie?”
“It was the only way, and she believed me.”
“Wretched how?—wretched when?—wretched where?” the young man stammered.
“I told her papa had made her so, and that she ought to know it. I told her the question troubled me unspeakably, but that I had made up my mind it was my duty to initiate her.” Adela paused, the light of bravado in her face, as if, though struck while the words came with the monstrosity of what she had done, she was incapable of abating a jot of it. “I notified her that he had faults and peculiarities that made mamma’s life a long worry—a martyrdom that she hid wonderfully from the world, but that we saw and that I had often pitied. I told her what they were, these faults and peculiarities; I put the dots on the i’s. I said it wasn’t fair to let another person marry him without a warning. I warned her; I satisfied my conscience. She could do as she liked. My responsibility was over.”
Godfrey gazed at her; he listened with parted lips, incredulous and appalled. “You invented such a tissue of falsities and calumnies, and you talk about your conscience? You stand there in your senses and proclaim your crime?”
“I’d have committed any crime that would have rescued us.”
“You insult and blacken and ruin your own father?” Godfrey kept on.
“He’ll never know it; she took a vow she wouldn’t tell him.”