John Christie would
not listen to his vindication any longer. "By your own account," he
said, "you permitted lies to be told of you injest. How do I know you
are speaking truth, now you are serious? You thought it, I suppose, a
fine thing to wear the reputation of having dishonoured an honest
family,--who will not think that you had real grounds for your base
bravado to rest upon? I will not believe otherwise for one, and
therefore, my lord, mark what I have to say. You are now yourself in
trouble--As you hope to come through it safely, and without loss of
life and property, tell me where this unhappy woman is. Tell me, if
you hope for heaven--tell me, if you fear hell--tell me, as you would
not have the curse of an utterly ruined woman, and a broken-hearted
man, attend you through life, and bear witness against you at the
Great Day, which shall come after death. You are moved, my lord, I see
it. I cannot forget the wrong you have done me. I cannot even promise
to forgive it--but--tell me, and you shall never see me again, or hear
more of my reproaches."
"Unfortunate man," said Lord Glenvarloch, "you have said more, far
more than enough, to move me deeply. Were I at liberty, I would lend
you my best aid to search out him who has wronged you, the rather that
I do suspect my having been your lodger has been in some degree the
remote cause of bringing the spoiler into the sheepfold.
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