Maggie lifted up her wan face; the pupils of her eyes were dilated, her lips were dead white.  She looked straight at Mr. Buxton with indignant impatience: 

“Mr. Henry!  Mr. Henry!  What has Mr. Henry to do with me?”

Mr. Buxton was staggered by the wild, imperious look, so new upon her mild, sweet face.  But he was resolute for Frank’s sake, and returned to the charge after a moment’s pause.

“Mr. Henry is a good friend of mine, who has my interest at heart.  He has known what a subject of regret your engagement has been to me; though really my repugnance to it was without cause formerly, compared to what it is now.  Now be reasonable, my dear.  I’m willing to do something for you if you will do something for me.  You must see what a stop this sad affair has put to any thoughts between you and Frank.  And you must see what cause I have to wish to punish Edward for his ungrateful behavior, to say nothing of the forgery.  Well now!  I don’t know what Mr. Henry will say to me, but I have thought of this.  If you’ll write a letter to Frank, just saying distinctly that, for reasons which must for ever remain a secret...”

“Remain a secret from Frank?” said Maggie, again lifting up her head.  “Why?”

“Why? my dear!  You startle me with that manner of yours—­just let me finish out my sentence.  If you’ll say that, for reasons which must forever remain a secret, you decidedly and unchangeably give up all connection, all engagement with him (which, in fact, Edward’s conduct has as good as put an end to), I’ll go over to Woodchester and tell Mr. Henry and the police that they need not make further search after Edward, for that I won’t appear against him.  You can save your brother; and you’ll do yourself no harm by writing this letter, for of course you see your engagement is broken off.  For you never would wish to disgrace Frank.”

He paused, anxiously awaiting her reply.  She did not speak.

“I’m sure, if I appear against him, he is as good as transported,” he put in, after a while.

Just at this time there was a little sound of displaced china in the closet.  Mr. Buxton did not attend to it, but Maggie heard it.  She got up, and stood quite calm before Mr. Buxton.

“You must go,” said she.  “I know you; and I know you are not aware of the cruel way in which you have spoken to me, while asking me to give up the very hope and marrow of my life”—­she could not go on for a moment; she was choked up with anguish.

“It was the truth, Maggie,” said he, somewhat abashed.

“It was the truth that made the cruelty of it.  But you did not mean to speak cruelly to me, I know.  Only it is hard all at once to be called upon to face the shame and blasted character of one who was once an innocent child at the same father’s knee.”

“I may have spoken too plainly,” said Mr. Buxton, “but it was necessary to set the plain truth before you, for my son’s sake.  You will write the letter I ask?”