“Begin what?” the young woman faltered. “Oh, I am not going to be the one to begin,” she said saucily, “nobody’s obliged to criminate himself. And how can I tell what my enemies are saying against me? They must speak first.”
“Then, Robinson, do you begin,” said the master; but it was easier in this case to command than to obey. Robinson shifted from one foot to the other, he cleared his throat, he rubbed his hands. “I don’t know that I can, before her,” he said hoarsely, “I have daughters of my own.”
“I knew,” said the culprit in triumphant scorn, “that you daren’t make up any of your stories before my face!”
Robinson restrained himself with an effort. He was a good man, though the fuss of the incipient scandal was not disagreeable to him. “It’s—it’s about what is past, Sir,” he said hurriedly, “there is no reflection on Miss Lockwood’s conduct now. I’d rather not bring it all up here, not before strangers.”
“You may speak before as many strangers as you please, I sha’n’t mind,” said the accused, giving Edgar a glance which bewildered him, not so much for the recognition which was in it, as for a certain confidence and support which his appearance seemed to give her. Mr. Tottenham drew him aside for a moment, whispering in his ear.
“She seems to know you, Earnshaw?”
“Yes; but I don’t know how. I never saw her before.”
“I wonder—perhaps, if I were to take Robinson away and hear his story—while you might hear what she has to say?”
“I? But indeed I don’t know her, I assure you I have never seen her before,” said Edgar in dismay.
“Never mind, she knows you. She is just the sort of person to prefer to confide in one whom she does not see every day. I’ll leave you with her, Earnshaw. Perhaps it will be best if you step this way, Robinson; I shall hear what you have to say here.”