Here was a dying girl whose passage to the grave would be rendered brighter by my marrying her; who would die in a few days, or weeks at most, and know no difference. Nobody need be aware of this strange midnight adventure, or the manner in which I had been bought. I hesitated.
“I give you my word that none know of her insanity except myself, and that she is upon her death-bed,” said my tempter.
Still I paused. I was wondering what could be the Earl’s ulterior motive. Besides, I had no desire to enter the ranks of Benedicts.
“Come, decide. I have a clergyman ready and a licence. Some one shall make my darling’s last moments happy. Is not the money enough? Well, here’s another thousand. Will you accept it?”
I summoned courage, and drawing a long breath, stretched forth my hand and grasped the notes, which I thrust hastily into my pocket.
I had sold myself. I had offered myself as a sacrifice to Mammon, as others had done. My purchaser opened the door, and called softly, “It’s all right.”
“Is it?” asked the clergyman who entered. “You are, I understand, the affianced husband of Lady Muriel?” he asked, addressing me.
“Yes,” I replied. Was it not true? Had I not three thousand pounds in my pocket as evidence of the fact?
“Come,” said the old man impatiently, as he led the way upstairs to a large bedroom on the first floor, where the light was so dim that I could hardly more than distinguish the shape of the bed and the form of some one closely covered up in it. The footman, who had accosted me in the street, entered behind us, and we took our places at the bedside.