“I owe no money to Mr. Sherwin, Sir—no money to any one.”
He stopped suddenly:
“No money to any one?” he repeated very slowly, and in very altered tones. “You spoke of disgrace just now. There is a worse disgrace then that you have hidden from me, than debts dishonourably contracted?”
At this moment, a step passed across the hall. He instantly turned round, and locked the door on that side of the room—then continued:
“Speak! and speak honestly if you can. How have you been deceiving me? A woman’s name escaped you constantly, when your delirium was at its worst. You used some very strange expressions about her, which it was impossible altogether to comprehend; but you said enough to show that her character was one of the most abandoned; that her licentiousness—it is too revolting to speak of her—I return to you. I insist on knowing how far your vices have compromised you with that vicious woman.”
“She has wronged me—cruelly, horribly, wronged me—” I could say no more. My head drooped on my breast; my shame overpowered me.
“Who is she? You called her Margaret, in your illness—who is she?”
“She is Mr. Sherwin’s daughter—” The words that I would fain have spoken next, seemed to suffocate me. I was silent again.
I heard him mutter to himself:
“That man’s daughter!—a worse bait than the bait of money!”