“Listen, and I’ll tell you,” she continued determinedly. “You know that I have certain evidence in my possession, which it is most desirable that you should destroy—you know to what I refer. Were it ever placed in the hands of the police, you would spend the remainder of your days in a convict’s cell. Well, my proposal is that it shall be placed in your hands on the day I marry Hugh Trethowen.”
“You—marry him! You intend doing so?” he asked in abject astonishment, for he had not believed her desirous of an honourable union.
“Of course I do. And I repeat that, in consideration of your preserving silence regarding my past I am ready to do what I have told you. If not, there is but one alternative, as I have already explained—imprisonment and ruin. It is for you to decide.”
This suggestion, the desperate device of a crafty woman, presented matters in a different light. It appeared to him that, after all, if she married Hugh she might reform and become an honest woman, while he himself would, by accepting her terms, render his own position secure. The proposal, he reflected, was one that required careful consideration, for he could not dispute the fact that he really feared her. He knew she could wreck his life.
“What is your answer?” she asked, watching his thoughtful face narrowly, and noticing with satisfaction his perplexity.
“I cannot give one now. I must think,” he replied.
“Very well. Think well over the matter and its consequences before acting rashly. I fancy you will come to the same conclusion as myself—that a policy of silence is wisest.” Turning to the young man beside her, she said, “Come, Pierre, we will return and leave him to his solitary reflection.”
Rouillier laughed at the other’s discomfiture, and turned upon his heel.
“Bon jour, monsieur,” she said, addressing the artist, making a stiff curtsey, which he acknowledged with an impatient gesture.
Then she joined her companion, and they retraced their steps through the fir plantation towards the drowsy little town.