“I never told you he asked me to marry him,” she said. “It would have been just the same had he done so. As it was, I feared the man. Now you know why I ran away from Chile. If I permitted another impression to prevail, I acted for the best. But the unhappy man is dead; let us endeavor to forget him.”
“His memory haunts me with an enduring curse,” cried Isobel, bitterly. “Among my papers I had some letters of his, the marriage certificate, and his written promise not to molest me. On that awful night when the ship was disabled, I went to my cabin and secured them, or thought I did. At any rate, I could not find them when we landed on White Horse Island, and, from hints dropped by that wretched little adventurer, de Poincilit, I feel sure they have fallen into his hands. Believe me, Elsie, I was half mad when I helped him to steal the boat.”
“Steal the boat! What boat?”
“Has not Captain Courtenay told you?”
“Not a word.”
“Ah, he is a true gentleman. But you forget. You heard what he said to de Poincilit before he went to the Guanaco cañon?”
“Yes; I did not understand. Oh, my poor Isobel, how you must have suffered, while I have been so happy.”
“If only I could recover my papers—”
“May I ask Arthur to help?”
“He knows the worst of me already. One more shameful disclosure cannot add to my degradation.”