“Great God! could my dream be true?” said Harman, placing himself in the chair.
“Listen to me,” she continued.
“I listen; be brief—for I am in no humor for either falsehood or imposture.”
“I never bore you ill-will,” she said, “and yet I have—and may God forgive me for it I—scalded the very heart within you.”
Harman again covered his face with his hands and groaned.
“Will it relieve your heart to know that Mary M'Loughlin's an innocent and a slandered girl?”
“Prove that,” said Harman, starting to his feet, “oh, prove that, Poll, and never whilst I have life shall you want a—but, alas!” he exclaimed, “I am a beggar, and can promise you nothing.”
“And I'll tell you who beggared you before all is over—but, as I said, listen. It's now fifteen years since Brian M'Loughlin transported my son Dick, for stealin' a horse from him; he was my only son, barrin' poor Raymond, who was then a mere slip. He was a fine young man, but he was wild and wicked, and it was in Squire Deaker's house, and about Squire Deaker's stables, that he picked up his dishonesty and love of horses—he was groom to that ould profligate, who took him into sarvice for a raison he had.”
“Be as brief as you can,” said Harman, “brief—brief.”
“On the contrary, Mr. Harman,” said Clement, “let her, if you will be advised by me, take her own time, and her own way.”