day I have helped to nurse him. Day after day I have
heard him say things to me--what is the use of repeating them? After
years of resistance I have given way; let that be enough. My one act of
discretion has been to prevent a quarrel between my father and Harry. I
beg your pardon, I ought to have said Lord Harry. When my father came
to the house, I insisted on speaking with him alone. I told him what I
have just told you. He said: 'Think again before you make your choice
between that man and me. If you decide to marry him, you will live and
die without one farthing of my money to help you.' He put his watch on
the table between us, and gave me five minutes to make up my mind. It
was a long five minutes, but it ended at last. He asked me which he was
to do--leave his will as it was, or go to his lawyer and make another.
I said, 'You will do as you please, sir.' No; it was not a hasty
reply--you can't make that excuse for me. I knew what I was saying; and
I saw the future I was preparing for myself, as plainly as you see
it--"

Hugh could endure no longer the reckless expression of her despair.

"No!" he cried, "you don't see your future as I see it. Will you hear
what I have to say, before it is too late?"

"It is too late already. But I will listen to you if you wish it."

"And, while you listen," Mountjoy added, "you will acquit me of being
influenced by a selfish motive. I have loved you dearly. Perhaps, in
secret, I love you still. But, this I know: if you were to remain a
single woman for the rest of your life, there would be no hope for Me.
Do you believe that I am speaking the truth?"

"You always speak the truth."

"I speak in your interest, at least. You think you see your future life
plainly--you are blind to your future life. You talk as if you were
resigned to suffer. Are you resigned to lose your sense of right and
wrong? Are you resigned to lead the life of an outlaw, and--worse
still--not to feel the disgrace of it?"

"Go on, Hugh."

"You won't answer me?"

"I won't shock you."

"You don't discourage me, my dear; I am still obstinate in the hope of
restoring you to your calmer and truer self. Let me do every justice to
Lord Harry. I believe, sincerely believe, that his miserable life has
not utterly destroyed in him the virtues which distinguish an
honourable man. But he has one terrible defect. In his nature, there is
the fatal pliability which finds companionable qualities in bad
friends. I