“Will you both keep the story of this affair a secret? It will ruin me if it becomes known. My father—he has threatened to disinherit me if I do not quit drinking. I had promised him, but I—I broke my word to-night. Then, too, the ridicule of my set—you know how it could sting. Beresford, for God’s sake, be merciful, as you are strong and brave!”
He drooped before them—craven, abject, appealing, a cur to despise—in the moonlight.
Beresford knew that what he advanced was true; the story of to-night’s offense and its punishment would make Maury the laughing stock of all who heard it—would follow him with its blight through life.
He was disposed to pity the abject suppliant, the depths of whose meanness his own noble nature could not fathom.
So he answered, after a moment’s reflection:
“It shall be as the young lady says, of course, though I must say you do not merit her leniency.”
“I know too well that I do not, but she is an angel, and will grant my prayer,” muttered the wretched delinquent.
“No, I’m not an angel, and I hate and despise you, Otho Maury!” flashed the lovely girl, stamping her tiny foot on the wet gravel. “But I’ll keep your disgraceful secret as long as you never open your lips to me again. Do you hear?” angrily.
“I hear, and I’ll stick to the condition, though it’s a hard one. I had as soon be dead as banished from your presence,” sighing. Then he looked at Beresford. “And you?” he said, anxiously.
“I’ll never betray you unless you seek to harm Miss Fane again in any way, even by speaking her name lightly, as you may in malice be tempted to do. You understand?” sternly.