Confessions of a Well-Meaning Woman
“You are accepting this girl’s tale?,” I asked.
“I believe her.”
“Without a shadow of evidence? If Will assured you—”
“I shouldn’t believe him,” he interrupted.
To Will’s mother, in her own house, at her own table! I could see that this was going to be war to the knife. . .
And then I’m afraid I threw all restraint to the winds. After urging Will to be careful, too. What I said. . . The words poured out of me in a torrent until my boy stared at me with round eyes. Sir Appleton just sat nodding like a mandarin. I told him how this girl had set her trap to catch Will, how she had evidently resolved to stop at nothing for the chance of marrying above her station, how she had persecuted and blackmailed us. Whatever she had got, I said, she richly deserved. Not that I believed her story! Oh, not for a single moment! As soon as she had forced Will to marry her, she would laugh in his face for the trick she had played him. And, if all this was true—her condition and so forth and so on—, what possible proof was there that Will was in any way responsible?
“Ask him,” said Sir Appleton.
“How should I know?,” said Will.
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