It was only last
night that he asked me to marry him--that is--it had been my aunt who
had asked me, and I gave him the answer."
"You consented?"
"Yes. I consented--"
"That is why he killed himself," said the priest, sadly. "I knew he
would, if it came to that. It is a terrible story."
Veronica stared at him in silence, really believing that he was out of
his mind, and beginning to feel very nervous in his presence. He shocked
her unspeakably, too, by what he said about Bosio; for if the wound was
not deep, perhaps, it was fresh, and his words were brine to it. He saw
what she felt, and made haste to be plain.
"I am sorry that I am obliged to tell you this," he continued, after a
short pause. "I cannot help it. The only thing I can do for my dead
friend is to save you, if I can. I saw the account of his death in a
newspaper an hour ago, and I came at once. Will you please not think
that I am mad, until you have heard me? I was his friend, and I have
eaten your bread these many years. I must speak."
"Tell me your story," said Veronica, leaning back in her chair and
folding her hands.
He began at the beginning, and told her all, as Bosio had told him. He
omitted nothing, for he had the astonishing memory which sometimes
belongs to students, besides the desire to be perfectly accurate, and
to exaggerate nothing. For he knew that she would find it hard to
believe him.
She listened; and as he went on, describing the struggle in poor Bosio's
heart between the desire to save the woman he loved and the horror of
sacrificing Veronica as a means to that end, she leaned forward again,
drawing nearer to him, and watching his face keenly.
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