“My husband’s godson—­we must remember he is that, Mabel!—­could never be guilty of the infamous conduct ascribed to this Chilton by Winston Aylett’s anonymous friend.  I am accounted a tolerable judge of character, and I maintain that it is a moral impossibility for my instincts and experience to be so utterly at fault as these two men would make you believe.  As to the corroboration of your ‘impression,’ that would be consummate nonsense in the eye of the law.  Let us sift the pros and cons of this affair as rational, unprejudiced beings should—­not jump at conclusions.  And I must say, Mabel”—­was the consistent peroration of this address, uttered in a mildly-aggrieved tone, while the blue eyes began to shine through a rising fog—­“it seems to me very singular—­really wounds me—­is not what I looked for in you—­that you should rank yourself with my poor boy’s enemies!”

“I, his enemy!” The word was a sharp cry—­not loud, but telling of unfathomed deeps of anguish, from the verge of which the listener drew back with a shudder.  “I would have married him without a single glance at the past!  Let him but say ’it is untrue—­all that you fear and they declare,’ and I would disbelieve this tale, instantly and utterly, though a thousand witnesses swore to the truth of it.  Or, let him be all that they say, I would marry him to-night, if I had the right to do it.  But I promised—­and to promise with an Aylett is to fulfil—­that I would be ruled by my guardian’s will, should the investigation, to which Frederic himself did not object, terminate unfavorably for my hopes, and contrary to his declaration.”

“It was a rash promise, and such are better broken than kept.”

“Your Bible, Aunt Rachel—­to-night, I cannot call it mine!—­commends him who swears to his own heart and changes not,” replied the niece, with restored steadiness.  “It would have been the same had I refused my consent to Winston’s proposal.  I am a minor, and who would wait two years for me?”

“Anybody who loved you, provided your trust in him equalled his in you,” said Mrs. Sutton, slyly.

Mabel’s answer was direct.

“You want me to say that I do not believe this tale of Mr. Chilton’s early errors; to brand it as a mistake or fabrication.  You insinuate that, in reserving my sentence until I shall have heard both sides of it, I show myself unworthy of the love of a true man; betray of what mean stuff my affection is made.  I suppose blind faith is sublime!  But for my part, I had rather be loved in spite of my known faults, than receive wilfully ignorant worship.”

The daring stroke at Mrs. Sutton’s hypothesis of the inseparable union between esteem and affection, excited her into an impolitic admission.

“My child, you make my blood run cold!  You do not mean that you could love a man for whose character you had no respect!”