She exchanged a quick glance with Shuttleworth, I noticed.
Then it seemed as though a great weight were lifted from her mind by my words, for, turning to me, she smiled sweetly, saying—
“Ah! how can I thank you sufficiently? I am helpless and defenceless. If I only dared, I could tell you a strange story—for surely mine is as strange as any ever printed in the pages of fiction. But Mr. Shuttleworth will not permit it.”
“You may speak—if you deem it wise,” exclaimed the rector in a strangely altered voice. He seemed much annoyed at my open defiance. “Mr. Biddulph may as well, perhaps, know the truth at first as at last.”
“The truth!” I echoed. “Yes, tell me the truth,” I begged her.
“No,” she cried wildly, again covering her fair face with her hands. “No—forgive me. I can’t—I can’t!”
“No,” remarked Shuttleworth in a strange, hard, reproachful tone, and with a cruel, cynical smile upon his lips. “You cannot—for it is too hideous—too disgraceful—too utterly scandalous! It is for that reason I forbid you to love!”