Then she stood up also.

“John,” she said, “if you have condemned me, say so. I shall defend myself for the sake of my character, but I shall not ask you to come back to me.”

But he had not condemned her. He had not condemned her altogether, neither had he acquitted her. He was willing enough to hear her defence, as he had heard his mother’s accusation; but he was desirous of hearing it without committing himself to any opinion.

“I have been much surprised,” he said, “by what my mother has now told me,—very much surprised indeed. If Mr Maguire had any claim upon your hand, should you not have told me?”

“He had no claim; but no doubt it was right that I should tell you. I was bound by my duty to tell you everything that had occurred.”

“Of course you were—and yet you did not do it.”

“But I was not so bound before what you said to me in the shrubbery last night? Remember, John, it was but last night. Have I had a moment to speak to you?”

“If there was any question of engagement between you and him, you should have told it me then, on the instant.”

“But there was no question. He came to me one day and made me an offer. I will tell you everything, and I think you will believe me. I found him holding a position of respect, at Littlebath, and I was all alone in the world. Why should I not listen to him? I gave him no answer, but told him to speak to me again after a while. Then came my poor brother’s illness and death; and after that came, as you know, the loss of all my money. In the meantime Mr Maguire had written, but as I knew that my brother’s family must trust to me for their support—that, at least, John was my hope then—I answered him that my means were not the same as before, and that everything must be over. Then he wrote to me again after I had lost my money, and once I answered him. I wrote to him so that he should know that nothing could come of it. Here are all his letters, and I have a copy of the last I wrote to him.” So saying, she pulled the papers out of her desk,—the desk in which still lay the torn shreds of her poetry,—and handed them to him. “After that, what right had he to come here and make such a statement as he did to my aunt? How can he be a gentleman, and say what was so false?”

“No one says that he is a gentleman,” replied John Ball, as he took the proffered papers.

“I have told you all now,” said she; and as she spoke, a gleam of anger flashed from her eyes, for she was not in all respects a Griselda such as she of old. “I have told you all now, and if further excuse be wanting, I have none further to make.”