"Suppose I go to him then, my lady—suppose I pour this nice little story into his ear—what then?"
"Then," she exclaimed, in tones of ringing scorn, "you will receive nothing. His servants will thrust you from his gates. No, Mr. Parmalee, if money be your object you will make a better bargain with me than with him. What is mine you shall have—every farthing I own, every trinket I possess—on condition that you depart and never trouble me more. That is all I can do—all I will do. Decide which you prefer."
"There is no choice," replied the American, sullenly; "half a loaf is better than nothing. I'll take the three hundred pounds. And now, my lady, what do you mean to do about her? She wants to see you."
"See me!" An expression of horror swept over my lady's face. "Not for ten thousand worlds!"
"Well, now, I call that hard," said Mr. Parmalee. "I don't care what she's done or what she's been, it's hard! She's sorry now, and no one can be more than that. I take an interest in that unfortunate party, my lady; and if you knew how she hankers after a sight of you—how poor and ill and heart-broken she is—how she longs to hear you say once, 'I forgive you,' before she dies—well, you wouldn't be so hard."
"Stop—stop!" Lady Kingsland exclaimed.
She turned away, leaning against a tree, her face more ghastly than the face of a dead woman.
Mr. Parmalee watched her. He could see the fierce struggle that shook her from head to foot.
"Don't be hard on her!" he pleaded. "She's very humble now, and fallen very low. She won't live long, and you'll be happier on your own death-bed, my lady, for forgiving her poor soul!"
She put out her hand blindly and took his.