‘Hush!’ said Cyril, gently. ‘Why talk of that now? It was foolish of Mrs. Dulcimer. She has made a good many mistakes of that kind--out of kindness. But the error did not last long. I told her frankly that my heart had been given elsewhere--that you could never be more to me than a friend whose amiability and sweetness I admired. Why recall that? You have been happily married to a good man. He deserves all your pity in this dark hour--your affectionate consideration. And you have to think of God. You may have offended Him in many things. Give the short hours He has left you to prayer and meditation.’ ‘I must recall that wretched mistake,’ said Bella, feverishly. ‘I tell you it was that which made me wicked. I have been very wicked. I have injured my kindest friend.’ ‘What friend?’ asked Cyril, very pale. ‘Beatrix Harefield!’ ‘You have injured her?’ ‘Yes. Do you see a jewel-case on the dressing-table over there--a large morocco case? Take my keys from under my pillow. I have no power to move myself--but I made the doctor put my keys under my pillow. It is the smallest key of all,’ she went on, when Cyril obeyed her. ‘Now open the jewel-case, and press the little gilt knob at the right side of the tray. That opens a drawer, doesn’t it?’ ‘Yes, the drawer has come out. There is a letter in it,’ said Cyril. ‘Take that letter. I found it on the table in Mr. Harefield’s library the morning after his death. It is addressed to his daughter.’ ‘And you have kept it ever since? This letter--left for his daughter to read after his death. You are indeed a wicked woman.’ ‘I did not think how wicked it was at the time,’ faltered Bella. ‘But some devil prompted me to take it, and hide it--till--till I should feel inclined to give it up. And then--oh, why do you make me tell you all my wickedness? I knew that you loved her, and I thought--if--if people believed her guilty of her father’s death, you would not marry her. That awful suspicion would part you. The letter might have put an end to the suspicion, perhaps. I did not know what was in the letter. I never broke the seal, you see. Yes, I was steeped in wickedness when I did it. I would have sold my soul to Satan to part you and Beatrix. Do you think God will forgive me?’ ‘God’s mercy is infinite, and forgives even treachery,’ answered Cyril, coldly. He was standing by the dressing-table, holding Christian Harefield’s letter in his hand. ‘But it is a sin that man finds it hard to forgive. What you did was a vile and cruel act. I cannot palter with the truth because your hours are numbered. That is the reason why I should speak all the more plainly. If I were a stranger to Beatrix Harefield, I should look upon your conduct with horror--but I--I--who loved and wronged her--wronged her by a suspicion which this letter might have set at rest for ever--how can I think of your conduct calmly? How can you expect pardon or pity from me?’