“You will now,” continued George, relieved to find that he had not provoked the outburst he had expected, “understand why I read you those extracts.  I am thoroughly determined upon marrying that girl at whatever cost, and I see very clearly that I shall not be able to do so without your help.  With your help, the matter will be easy; for no obstacle, except the death of the girl herself, can prevail against your iron determination and unbounded fertility of resource.”

“And if I refuse?”

“I must have read those extracts to very little purpose for you to talk about refusing.  If you refuse, the pangs of conscience will overcome me, and I shall feel obliged to place these letters, and more especially those referring to himself, in the hands of your husband.  Of course it will, for my own sake, be unpleasant to me to have to do so, but I can easily travel for a year or two till the talk has blown over.  For you it will be different.  Bellamy has no cause to love you now; judge what he will feel when he knows all the truth.  He will scarcely keep the story to himself, and, even were he to do so, it could easily be set about in other ways, and, in either case, you will be a ruined woman, and all that you have toiled and schemed for for twenty years will be snatched from you in an instant.  If, on the other hand, you do not refuse, and I cannot believe that you will, I will on my wedding-day burn these uncomfortable records before your eyes, or, if you prefer it, you shall burn them yourself.”

“You have only seen this girl once; is it possible that you are in earnest in wishing to marry her?”

“Do you think that I should go through this scene by way of a joke?  I never was so much in earnest in my life before.  I am in love with her, I tell you, as much in love as though I had known her for years.  What happened to you with reference to me has happened to me with reference to her, or something very like it, and marry her I must and will.”

Lady Bellamy, as she heard these words, rose from her chair and flung herself on the ground before him, clasping his knees with her hands.

“Oh, George, George!” she cried, in a broken voice, “have some little pity; do not force me to do this unnatural thing.  Is your heart a stone, or are you altogether a devil, that by such cruel threats you can drive me into becoming the instrument of my own shame?  I know what I am, none better:  but for whose sake did I become so?  Surely, George, I have some claim on your compassion, if I have none on your love.  Think again, George; and, if you will not give her up, choose some other means to compass this poor girl’s ruin.”

“Get up, Anne, and don’t talk sentimental rubbish.  Not but what,” he added, with a sneer, “it is rather amusing to hear you pitying your successful rival.”

She sprang to her feet, all the softness and entreaty gone from her face, which was instead now spread with her darkest and most vindictive look.