The word struck me like a blow. "Honora!" Great heaven! was that the name of this young girl?
"You are giving too free range to your imagination. You—"
I did not hear the rest. I was thinking of the name I had just heard, and wondering if my suspicions were at fault. They would never have called their child Honora. Who were these women, then? Friends of the Dudleighs? Avengers of the dead? I glued my ear still closer to the wall.
"We have cherished you." The mother was still speaking. "We have given you all you craved, and more than you asked. From the moment you were born we have both lavished all the tenderness of our hearts upon you. And all we ask in return is trust." The hard voice, hard because of emotion, I truly believe, quavered a little over that word, but spoke it and went on. "What we do for you now, as always, is for your best good. Will you not believe it, Honora?"
The last appeal was uttered in a passionate tone. It seemed to move the daughter, for her voice had a sob in it as she replied:
"Yes, yes; but why not enlighten me as to your reasons for a course so remarkable? Most parents desire their daughters to do well, but you, on the contrary, not only wish, but urge me to do ill. A noble lover sues for my hand, and his cause is slighted; an ignoble one requests the same favor, and you run to grant it. Is there love in this? Is there consideration? Perhaps; but if so, you should be able to show where it lies. I am not a child, young as I am; I will understand any reasons you may advance. Then let me have your confidence; it is all I ask, and surely it is not much, when you see how I suffer from my disappointment."
The restless steps ceased. I heard a groan close to my ear; the mother was evidently suffering frightfully.
"Papa is prosperous," the daughter pleadingly continued. "I know your decision cannot be the result of financial difficulties. And then, if it were, the marquis is rich, and—"
"Honora!"—the mother had turned. I heard her advance toward her daughter—"do you really love the marquis? You have seen him but a few times, have held hardly any intercourse with him, and at your age fancy often takes the place of love. You do not love him, Honora, my child; you cannot; you will forget—"
"Oh, mamma! Oh, mamma! Oh, mamma!"