He gave out the words with sharp emphasis, and, bending towards her, he laid an emaciated hand upon her arm.

“What use is there, papa, in going back to these things?” she said, driven to bay, her colour going and coming.  “I may have been wrong in a hundred ways, but you never understood that the real reason for it all was that—­that—­I never was in love with Mr. Raeburn.”

“Then why did you accept him?” He fell back against his pillows with a jerk.

“As to that, I will confess my sins readily enough,” she said, while her lip trembled, and he saw the tears spring into her eyes.  “I accepted him for what you just now called his position in the county, though not quite in that way either.”

He was silent a little, then he began again in a voice which gradually became unsteady from self-pity.

“Well, now look here!  I have been thinking about this matter a great deal—­and God knows I’ve time to think and cause to think, considering the state I’m in—­and I see no reason whatever why I should not try—­before I die—­to put this thing straight.  That man was head over ears in love with you, madly in love with you.  I used to watch him, and I know.  Of course you offended and distressed him greatly.  He could never have expected such conduct from you or any one else.  But he’s not the man to change round easily, or to take up with any one else.  Now, if you regret what you did or the way in which you did it, why shouldn’t I—­a dying man may be allowed a little licence I should think!—­give him a hint?”

“Papa!” cried Marcella, dropping her work, and looking at him with a pale, indignant passion, which a year ago would have quelled him utterly.  But he held up his hand.

“Now just let me finish.  It would be no good my doing a thing of this kind without saying something to you first, because you’d find it out, and your pride would be the ruin of it.  You always had a demoniacal pride, Marcella, even when you were a tiny child; but if you make up your mind now to let me tell him you regret what you did—­just that—­you’ll make him happy, and yourself, for you know very well he’s a man of the highest character—­and your poor father, who never did you much harm anyway!” His voice faltered.  “I’d manage it so that there should be nothing humiliating to you in it whatever.  As if there could be anything humiliating in confessing such a mistake as that; besides, what is there to be ashamed of?  You’re no pauper.  I’ve pulled Mellor out of the mud for you, though you and your mother do give me credit for so precious little!”

He lay back, trembling with fatigue, yet still staring at her with glittering eyes, while his hand on the invalid table fixed to the side of his chair shook piteously.  Marcella dreaded the effect the whole scene might have upon him; but, now they were in the midst of it, both feeling for herself and prudence for him drove her into the strongest speech she could devise.