She had no longer the excuse which palliated her conduct eight years
ago; that heedlessness was innocent indeed compared with the blame
she would now incur, if she excited a vain hope merely to prove her
feelings, to read another chapter of life. Solemnly in this charmed
stillness of midnight, she searched her heart. It did not fail under
question.
A morning sleep held her so much later than usual that, before she
had left her chamber, letters were brought to the door by the child
who waited upon her. On one envelope she saw the Doctor's
handwriting; on the other that of her cousin, Mrs. Florio. Surprised
to hear from Olga, with whom she had had very little communication
for a year or two, she opened that letter first.
"Dear Irene," it began, "something has lately come to my knowledge
which I think I am only doing a duty in acquainting you with. It is
very unpleasant, but not the first unpleasant piece of news that you
and I have shared together. You remember all about Piers Otway and
those letters of my poor mother's, which he said he bought for us
from his horrid brother? Well, I find that he did _not_ buy them--
at all events that he never paid for them. Daniel Otway is now
broken-down in health, and depends on help from the other brother,
Alexander, who has gone in for some sort of music-hall business! Not
only did Piers _cheat_ him out of the money promised for the letters
(I fear there's no other word for it), but he has utterly refused to
give the man a farthing--though in good circumstances, I hear.
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