"I hope you will do your duty, as I have done mine. Have I put it too strongly in saying that her presence here is a disgrace?"
"No. We are obliged to you for the unpleasant task you have performed. To-morrow, if she is strong enough, I will request her to take her departure."
"Too lenient by far. In your place I should bundle her out, neck and crop. If you wait till she says she is well enough to go you will wait a precious long time. I shall take care, for my part, that everybody knows the truth."
"Is it not strange," asked the lady, "that Mr. Paget has not called to inquire after her?"
"Not at all; he wishes to keep his name out of the disgraceful affair if he can. It is perfectly clear that he is ashamed of the connection, and wants to be rid of it. So long as it could be kept quiet he didn't mind, but now that it is made public--I can't help repeating, in the most providential manner--it is another pair of shoes. Why, the whole town is talking of it. When the creature shows her face, if she has the hardihood to do it, she will meet with a proper reception. I shouldn't at all wonder if it gets into the papers. Good-night."
Then there was a rustling of skirts, and Emilia knew that her cruel persecutor had taken her leave. She pressed her hands upon her eyes, and the scalding tears ran down her fingers. The horror of the situation was almost more than she could bear. She could not think clearly, but through her aching brain one conviction forced itself. She was disgraced, irretrievably disgraced. Her good name was lost forever. Nothing could restore it, nothing. If an angel from heaven were to declare it, no man or woman would hereafter believe in her purity and innocence. What should she do? Wait till the morning to be turned from the hospitable house of these kind sisters? Go forth into the broad light of day, and be pointed at and publicly shamed? No, she would fly at once, secretly and alone, into the hard, cold world, far, far from the merciless men and women who were ready to defame her. The story which Mrs. Seaton had related to the maiden sisters was false and malignant, but it was built upon a foundation of truth. If she herself had to give evidence in her own defence she would be pronounced guilty. She had been turned from Mrs. Seaton's house late in the night, but she had signed a paper saying that she went of her own free will. She and Gerald had been together in the streets--for how long? She could not remember, but it seemed to be hours. And as if that were not shame enough she had taken refuge in his house and had accepted his hospitality at an hour that would make virtuous women blush. He had pledged his faith to her, he had asked her to be his wife, and now, when she most needed a defender, he was absent. It was true, then, that he had deserted her. Had it been otherwise would he not have sought her long before this, would he not have been present to cast the malignant lie in Mrs. Seaton's face? She had believed so fully in his faith and honor, in his professions of love! But he was false, like all the rest of the world, from which sweetness and life had forever fled.