He looked at her wistfully; but he shook his head.
"I can't do that," he said, in a low voice. "Here, I see I shall have to
put the case to you." He sank into the chair and leant his head on his
hand, and, still with his eyes covered, he continued, in little more
than a whisper: "Supposing there was someone you cared for more than
anything else in the world, more than life, more than honour. Is there
someone?"
Celia did not blush, and without a sign of embarrassment, shook her
head.
"I beg your pardon for asking. I am sorry there is not; because, you
see, you would understand more readily. Well, there is someone I care
for like that, and I am doing this to save her--I mean him," he
corrected quickly, "from all that I should suffer if I stood up and
faced the music, as you want me to do."
"Whoever she is, she is not worth it," said Celia, her voice thrilling
with indignation and scorn.
"I said 'him,'" he corrected, almost inaudibly.
"You said 'her,' first," retorted Celia. "Of course, it's a woman--and a
wicked, a selfish one. No woman who had a spark of goodness in her would
accept such a sacrifice."
"You wrong her," he said. "There are always exceptions, circumstances,
to govern every case. In this case, she does not know. I tell you that,
if I take your advice, I should blast the life of the woman I--I love."
"Then you are screening a man for her sake?" said Celia.
"That's it," he admitted; "and you would do the same, if you stood in my
place. Oh, you would say you would not; perhaps you think at this moment
you would not; but you would. You're just the sort of girl to do it." He
laughed again, bitterly. "Why, one has only to look at you----"
For the first time, Celia coloured, and her eyes dropped. As if ashamed
of having caused her embarrassment, he bit his lip, and muttered, "I
have been offensive, I am afraid. But you see how it is? And now you
know the truth, have guessed something of it, you will see that I have
either to face the music, plead guilty to the charge and go to prison,
or get out of it by the only way."
It was she who hid her face now. He saw that she was trembling; he knew
that she was struggling with her tears; he went round to her and laid
his hand on her shoulder, very gently, almost reverently. "Don't cry,"
he said. "I'm not worth it. I am sorry you should be so distressed. I
wish--for your sake, now--that you had not come in. Hadn't you better go
now?"