“What if I do? She loved my sister.”
“Ah, she loved your sister and you love her; he killed your sister and you love him.”
“What can I do? He is her father.”
“Do you remember a masterless man who once came into this very room to smell the smell of burning flesh?”
“Don’t, don’t.”
“Why don’t? What do you care now? Your sister’s agony, the tortured flesh quivering under the iron’s heat—why, man, you should thank God for that. How else would you have gone to the house at Hanging Rock? How else would you have met your wonderful, adorable, queen of your heart, the Catholic Miriam? How Ruth loved Catholics! Get down on your knees, man. Your sister’s martyrdom has brought you a love. It brings you a home, position, with the name of coward and of traitor to my trust. Thank God, I say; thank God.”
“You are unjust, Lady Marmaduke. You do not understand me.”
“My dearest Michael, I understand you perfectly. It was in the beginning that I made the mistake. I took you for a man. I supposed flesh and blood could not forget the debt you owe the patroon. But ’twas a small debt after all. What is a sister ruined and murdered to a father-in-law who ruined her? Ha, ha, ha, Michael; do you think I misunderstand you now?”
This was hard treatment and it took my resolution as the summer dries a stream. I could stand ridicule—though that hurt me more than most things—but the worst was that the picture she drew was true. I had never admitted to myself that I felt more than mere respect for Miriam. At that moment I believe I hated her.
“I took you in,” continued my tormenter. “Now you may go. Perhaps he will murder you.” How this struck home in the light of what he had already done. “Perhaps he will give you his daughter in marriage.”