Her heart beat wildly. He spoke in a reserved, haughty tone, and she felt a foreboding that some unpleasant explanation was at hand. She felt more—that perhaps she ought not to become his wife with this cloud hanging over them. She nerved herself to say what she deemed she ought to say.
“William,” she began, “perhaps you would wish that our marriage should be delayed until—until—I mean, now that this suspicion has fallen upon Arthur—?”
She could scarcely utter the words coherently, so great was her agitation. Mr. Yorke saw how white and trembling were her lips.
“I cannot believe Arthur guilty,” was his reply.
She remembered that Hamish was, though Arthur was not; and in point of disgrace, it amounted to the same thing. Constance passed her hand over her perplexed brow. “He is looked upon as guilty by many: that, we unfortunately know; and it may not be thought well that you should, under the circumstance, make me your wife. You may not think so.”
Mr. Yorke made no reply. He may have been deliberating the question.
“Let us put it in this light, William,” she resumed, her tone one of intense pain. “Suppose, for argument’s sake, that Arthur were guilty; would you marry me, all the same?”
“It is a hard question, Constance,” he said, after a pause.
“It must be answered.”
“Were Arthur guilty and you cognizant of it—screening him—I should lose half my confidence in you, Constance.”