Margaret Cooper was summoned, and descended with slow steps and an unwilling spirit to meet their visiter.
“Daughter,” said the good old man, taking her hand, and leading her to a seat, “thou art, even as thy mother sayest, one of exceeding beauty. Few damsels have ever met mine eyes with a beauty like to thine. No wonder the young men look on thee with eyes of love; but let not the love of youth betray thee. The love of God is the only love that is precious to the heart of wisdom.”
Thus saying, the old man gazed on her with as much admiration as was consistent with the natural coldness of his temperament, his years, and his profession. His address, so different from usual, had a soothing effect upon her. A sigh escaped her, but she said nothing. He then proceeded to renew the history which had been given to him and which he had already detailed to her mother. She heard him with patience, in spite of all his interpolations from Scripture, his ejaculations, his running commentary upon the narrative, and the numerous suggestive topics which took him from episode to episode, until the story seemed interminably mixed up in the digression.
But when he came to that portion which related to the adventure of Ned Hinkley, to his espionage, the conference of Stevens with his companion—then she started—then her breathing became suspended, then quickened—then again suspended—and then, so rapid in its rush, that her emotion became almost too much for her powers of suppression.
But she did suppress it, with a power, a resolution, not often paralleled among men—still more seldom among women. After the first spasmodic acknowledgment given by her surprise, she listened with comparative calmness. She, alone, had the key to that conversation. She, alone, knew its terrible signification. She knew that Ned Hinkley was honest—was to be believed—that he was too simple, and too sincere, for any such invention; and, sitting with hands clasped upon that chair—the only attitude which expressed the intense emotion which she felt—she gazed with unembarrassed eye upon the face of the speaker, while every word which he spoke went like some keen, death-giving instrument into her heart.
The whole dreadful history of the villany of Stevens, her irreparable ruin—was now clearly intelligible. The mocking devil at her elbow had spoken nothing but the truth. She was indeed the poor victim of a crafty villain. In the day of her strength and glory she had fallen—fallen, fallen, fallen!
“Why am I called to hear this?” she demanded with singular composure.
The old man and the mother explained in the same breath—that she might reveal the degree of intercourse which had taken place between them, and, if possible, account for the absence of her lover. That, in short, she might refute the malice of enemies and establish the falsehood of their suggestions.
“You wish to know if I believe this story of Ned Hinkley?”
“Even so, my daughter.”