“It is certainly true, St. John,” he answered. “I would have spared this unfortunate girl, had such a thing been at all possible; but my wife positively declines to have anything to do with her daughter now, or at any time in the future. Mrs. Hilton is even weaker to-night than usual, and—but,” with a sudden assumption of pride and offended dignity, “I do not really know why I am making these explanations to you, St. John; as my daughter’s accepted suitor, the affairs of this girl cannot concern you; and I think you will do me the justice to confess that I, who have fed and clothed and sheltered Iris Tresilian until she left my home of her own accord, and for what purpose you know—am fully capable of dealing justly with her now.”
“I understand your reproof, sir, and while I acknowledge that I have no right to dictate to you in this matter, I will still beg leave to say a word in the interests of common humanity. Had I never looked upon Iris Tresilian’s face I should still protest against a young creature like her being sent out on such a night, unprotected and alone. If she has sinned——”
At the last words of St. John, “If she has sinned,” spoken in a sorrowful tone that told how firmly he believed in her guilt, all her soul seemed to rise in passionate rebellion, and with the false strength despair sometimes lends, Iris advanced toward the group near the doorway, and stood before them, a little, solitary figure, with white, set features, whose immobility would have been actually startling but for the convulsive twitching of the muscles of the colorless lips, and the large, blue eyes dilated like those of a hunted stag.
“Of what sin am I accused, Mr. Hilton?” she asked. “For what crime does my mother condemn me so harshly?” Then turning suddenly to St. John, before Hilton could answer: “I left this gentleman’s home because he taught me that I had no claim upon him—that I, who had believed myself his daughter, was the child of an unworthy father whose name I should blush to bear. I went forth from this house to earn my own bread, and since that time I have done nothing of which I need be ashamed, nor——”
She came to a sudden stop here, while for a moment the color grew deeper and deeper in her face, and then faded utterly, leaving her again deadly pale.
She had thought of Gerald Dare’s words, and the suspicions her presence in the house of Charles Broughton had awakened.
Her sudden hesitation and confusion, and the ineradicable flush of shame that had dyed her cheeks at this cruel memory, seemed to contradict her previous assertion of innocence, and to shake the faith new-born in Chester St. John’s heart.
At Iris’ first words Oscar Hilton had trembled lest there should be something said concerning the forged letter, and he now seized this moment of the girl’s embarrassment to turn the drift of the conversation into a new channel.
“My poor child,” he ejaculated, in a tone of well-feigned sympathy, “do not seek to defend your conduct. Unhappily we have all been made acquainted with the manner in which you have passed your time since leaving my protection. If—as you say—you are innocent, will you be good enough to tell us what you are to the noted gambler and roué, Charles Broughton?”
At this coarse and rude question Iris started violently, and looked into the face of the speaker with an expression of actual terror, fearing for the moment that he had in some manner learned the secret of Broughton’s identity.