"You cannot know all!" she cried piteously.
"I know all; more than you do. Mrs. Brightman was worse after you left, and Hatch sent for me. She and Mr. Close have told me the whole truth."
Annabel would have shrunk away, in the full tide of shame that swept over her, and a low moan broke from her lips.
"Nay, my dear, instead of shrinking from me, you must come nearer to me—for ever. My home must be yours now."
She did not break away from me, and stood pale and trembling, her hands clasped, her emotion strong.
"It cannot, must not be, Charles."
"Hush, my love. It can be—and shall be."
"Charles," she said, her very lips trembling, "weigh well what you are saying. Do not suffer the—affection—I must speak fully—the implied engagement that was between us, ere this unhappiness came to my knowledge and yours—do not suffer it to bind you now. It is a fearful disgrace to attach to my poor mother, and it is reflected upon me."
"Were your father living, Annabel, should you say the disgrace was also reflected upon him?"
"Oh no, no. I could not do so. My good father! honourable and honoured. Never upon him."