When all was quiet, Marion returned.
“Open the door,” she said; “and stand there close beside me, while I speak to him, outside.”
Timid as her manner was, it still evinced a resolute and settled purpose, such as Clemency could not resist. She softly unbarred the door: but before turning the key, looked round on the young creature waiting to issue forth when she should open it.
The face was not averted or cast down, but looking full upon her, in its pride of youth and beauty. Some simple sense of the slightness of the barrier that interposed itself between the happy home and honoured love of the fair girl, and what might be the desolation of that home, and shipwreck of its dearest treasure, smote so keenly on the tender heart of Clemency, and so filled it to overflowing with sorrow and compassion, that, bursting into tears, she threw her arms round Marion’s neck.
“It’s little that I know, my dear,” cried Clemency, “very little; but I know that this should not be. Think of what you do!”
“I have thought of it many times,” said Marion, gently.
“Once more,” urged Clemency. “Till to-morrow.”
Marion shook her head.
“For Mr. Alfred’s sake,” said Clemency, with homely earnestness. “Him that you used to love so dearly, once!”
She hid her face, upon the instant, in her hands, repeating “Once!” as if it rent her heart.