"Oh, my dear!" exclaimed Miss Chressham, touched to the heart.
"It is not an invention," continued Selina. "Whoever wrote that knows the truth." She bent forward until her hat concealed her drooping face and she clasped her slim hands tightly on her knees. "He wrote to me, as it says, and I answered, and—and that is the reason why I say no to my cousin."
"There is no need to tell me this," answered Susannah, trembling. "Why should you justify yourself to me, or speak to me of these things that are your own matter? I can believe you always right, Selina, without explanations."
"But I want you to hear," said Miss Boyle earnestly. "It has come to that point when someone must hear, and you are almost like his sister."
Miss Chressham winced and averted her eyes.
"It is near two years ago since I first met him," continued Miss Boyle in a low voice, "and from the very first we—he came to The Wells, and there spoke to me—" her words failed her; she pulled out her handkerchief and pressed it to her lips—"of the ruin that involved his fortunes."
"Why pain yourself to speak of this?" asked Miss Chressham. "Indeed, I have no right to know—hardly to listen."
Selina Boyle made an effort over her weakness.
"I entreat you, hear me! I deceived you, Susannah. I wrote to you, mentioning him lightly; I did not dare confide in you, and I was languishing for some word of him. We were then almost—secretly betrothed." She paused, struggling with her troubled breath. "He thought to go to Venice. Then he wrote to me about my lady and Mr. Lyndwood. I saw how hopeless and wrong it was. I—well, it was over."
Susannah regarded her with eyes of a startled tenderness.