She rose, feebly, only to fall back again;
her hands were held out in pitiful appeal, and tears moistened her
cheeks. Beholding this sad picture, Irene forgot the doubt that
offended her; she was all soft compassion. The suffering woman clung
about her neck, hid her face against her bosom, sobbed and moaned.
They spoke together till dusk. The confession which Mrs. Hannaford
made to her niece went further than that elicited from her either by
Olga or Dr. Derwent. In broken sentences, in words of shamefaced
incoherence, but easily understood, she revealed a passion which had
been her torturing secret, and a temptation against which she had
struggled year after year. The man was unworthy; she had long known
it; she suffered only the more. She had been imprudent, once or
twice all but reckless, never what is called guilty. Convinced of
the truth of what she heard, Irene drew a long sigh, and became
almost cheerful in her ardour of solace and encouragement. No one
had ever seen the Irene who came forth under this stress of
circumstance; no one had ever heard the voice with which she uttered
her strong heart. The world? Who cared for the world? Let it clack
and grin! They would defend the truth, and quietly wait the issue.
No more weakness Brain and conscience must now play their part.
"But if it should go against me? If I am made free of that man
----?"
"Then be free of him!" exclaimed the girl, her eyes flashing through
tears.
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