“I was in my bedroom writing,” she said, “When my mother came to me and told me that you and Captain Bennydeck had met in my sitting-room.  She dreaded a quarrel and an exposure, and she urged me to go downstairs and insist on sending you away—­or permit her to do so, if I could not prevail on myself to follow her advice.  I refused to allow the shameful dismissal of a man who had once had his claim on my respect.  The only alternative that I could see was to speak with you here, in private, as we are speaking now.  My mother undertook to manage this for me; she saw the servant, and gave him the message which you received.  Where is Captain Bennydeck now?”

“He is waiting in the sitting-room.”

“Waiting for you?”

“Yes.”

She considered a little before she said her next words.

“I have brought with me what I was writing in my own room,” she resumed, “wishing to show it to you.  Will you read it?”

She offered the letter to him.  He hesitated.  “Is it addressed to me?” he asked.

“It is addressed to Captain Bennydeck,” she answered.

The jealousy that still rankled in his mind—­jealousy that he had no more lawful or reasonable claim to feel than if he had been a stranger—­urged him to assume an indifference which he was far from feeling.  He begged that Catherine would accept his excuses.

She refused to excuse him.

“Before you decide,” she said, “you ought at least to know why I have written to Captain Bennydeck, instead of speaking to him as I had proposed.  My heart failed me when I thought of the distress that he might feel—­and, perhaps of the contempt of myself which, good and gentle as he is, he might not be able to disguise.  My letter tells him the truth, without concealment.  I am obliged to speak of the manner in which you have treated me, and of the circumstances which forced me into acts of deception that I now bitterly regret.  I have tried not to misrepresent you; I have been anxious to do you no wrong.  It is for you, not for me, to say if I have succeeded.  Once more, will you read my letter?”

The sad self-possession, the quiet dignity with which she spoke, appealed to his memory of the pardon that she had so generously granted, while he and Sydney Westerfield were still guiltless of the injury inflicted on her at a later time.  Silently he took the letter from her, and read it.

She kept her face turned away from him and from the light.  The effort to be still calm and reasonable—­to suffer the heart-ache, and not to let the suffering be seen—­made cruel demands on the self-betraying nature of a woman possessed by strong emotion.  There was a moment when she heard him sigh while he was reading.  She looked round at him, and instantly looked away again.

He rose and approached her; he held out the letter in one hand, and pointed to it with the other.  Twice he attempted to speak.  Twice the influence of the letter unmanned him.