“Believe me,” said Mr. Monckton, “that I am actuated by no unworthy motive when I ask you to deal frankly with me. You will understand, by-and-by, why and by what right I presume to question you. In the meantime I ask you to confide in me. You left Hazlewood at Mrs. Darrell’s wish, did you not?”
“Yes: it was at her wish that I left.”
“Her son had made you an offer of his hand?”
The question would have brought a blush to the face of an ordinary girl. But Eleanor Vane was removed from ordinary women by the exceptional story of her life. From the moment of her discovery of Launcelot Darrell’s identity, all thought of him as a lover, or an admirer, had been blotted out of her mind. He was removed from other men by the circumstances of his guilt; as she was set apart from other women by the revengeful purpose in her breast.
“Yes,” she said. “Mr. Darrell asked me to be his wife.”
“And did you—did you refuse him?”
“No; I gave him no answer.”
“You did not love him, then?”
“Love him! Oh, no, no!”
Her eyes dilated with a look of surprise as she spoke, as if it was most astounding to her that Gilbert Monckton should ask such a question.