“There are notes for six hundred pounds,” she added, as I took it and felt the crisp paper inside.
“How did you obtain it?” I asked, hesitating to receive it.
“I have earned it honestly, every penny,” she replied. “Since we parted, I have become popular in America, and played ‘lead’ in nearly all the great cities. During the years that have gone I have many, many times wondered what had become of you, for in your writings I read plainly how soured and embittered you had become.”
“And where is Oranmore?”
“Dead. He contracted typhoid while we were playing in San Francisco, and it terminated fatally.”
“Ethel,” I said gravely, taking her hand in mine, “you have fascinated Dick Carruthers, my friend; and you will treat him as you treated me.”
“No, no. I love him,” she said in a fierce half-whisper, adding, “Keep secret the fact that we loved one another, and I swear before Heaven I will be true to him. If he marries me, he shall never have cause for regret—never!”
“Suppose I told him? What would he think of you?”
“You will not!” she cried, clinging to me. “You are too honourable for that. Promise to keep my secret!”
“For the present I will preserve silence,” I answered, my heart softening towards her. “But I cannot promise that I will never tell him.”