Keenly as she felt
this, Mercy failed, nevertheless, to conquer the horror that
shook her when she thought of the impending avowal. Day followed
day, and still she shrank from the unendurable ordeal of
confession--as she was shrinking from it now!
Was it fear for herself that closed her lips?
She trembled--as any human being in her place must have
trembled--at the bare idea of finding herself thrown back again
on the world, which had no place in it and no hope in it for
_her_. But she could have overcome that terror--she could have
resigned herself to that doom.
No! it was not the fear of the confession itself, or the fear of
the consequences which must follow it, that still held her
silent. The horror that daunted her was the horror of owning to
Horace and to Lady Janet that she had cheated them out of their
love.
Every day Lady Janet was kinder and kinder. Every day Horace was
fonder and fonder of her. How could she confess to Lady Janet?
how could she own to Horace that she had imposed upon him? "I
can't do it. They are so good to me--I can't do it!" In that
hopeless way it had ended during the seven days that had gone by.
Pages:
204
205
206
207
208
209
210
211
212
213
214
215
216
217
218
219
220
221
222
223
224
225
226
227
228