“There was nothing dishonourable about it.”
“A thing does not need to be dishonourable to be ruinous. The dishonour would have been in my speaking when I was pledged to silence.”
“Was it more honourable, think you, to allow a young girl to live in a world of mock affection, and to expose her to what I have gone through?”
“But did I ever by word or sign make the slightest move to engage your affections, after I discovered the truth?”
“Pardon me, if I say that question could only serve to embarrass a child. I will answer it by another. Does a man need to speak to declare his love?”
“No, by heavens, he does not, Margaret!” I cried, throwing all defence to the winds. “It speaks in every tone of his voice, in every glance of his eye, and I would be a hypocrite beneath contempt were I to pretend I did not always love you. I loved you from the moment I first saw you, a girl, before Temple Bar, and I will love you, God help me, till I die!”
“If this be the case, then, had I not a higher claim on you than any woman living? Were you not bound to protect me against my ignorance of such a barrier?”
“Absence, and I had hoped forgetfulness, would prove your best protection,” I replied, with happy inspiration.
“The implication is skilful,” she said, quietly, without a trace of the emotion I expected from my allusion, “but no mistake on my part can serve to lessen your want of good faith towards me. Do you think a woman would have considered any point of personal honour where the life of one dearest to her hung on her sacrifice?”
“It is quite beyond my poor powers to judge of what a woman might do.” I replied, with a sudden rash indiscretion. “I find I have but little knowledge of women or the motives which sway them.”