She
dried her tears directly, and went to a bureau, unlocked it, and
produced the manuscript confession she had prepared for her husband.
She bade Reginald observe the superscription and the date.
When he had done so, she took her scissors and opened it for him.
"Read what I wrote to my beloved husband at a time when I expected soon
to appear before my Judge."
She then sank upon the sofa, and lay there like a log; only, from time
to time, during the long reading, tears trickled from her eyes.
Reginald read the whole story, and saw the facts must be true: more
than that, being young, and a man, he could not entirely resist the
charm of a narrative in which a lady told at full the love, the grief,
the terror, the sufferings, of her heart, and the terrible temptation
under which she had gone astray.
He laid it down at last, and drew a long breath.
"It's a devil of a job for _me,"_ said he; "but I can't blame you. You
sold that Dick Bassett, and I hate him. But what is to become of _me?"_
"What I offer you is a life in which you will be happier than you ever
could be at Huntercombe. I mean to buy you vast pasture-fields in
Australia, and cattle to feed. Those noble pastures will be bounded
only by wild forests and hills. You will have swift horses to ride over
your own domain, or to gallop hundreds of miles at a stretch, if you
like.
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