She came quaking, and found Josephine all alone.
Josephine rose to meet her, and casting a furtive glance round the room first, threw her arms round Jacintha’s neck, and embraced her with many tears.
“Was ever fidelity like yours? how COULD you do it, Jacintha? and how can I ever repay it? But, no; it is too base of me to accept such a sacrifice from any woman.”
Jacintha was so confounded she did not know what to say. But it was a mystification that could not endure long between two women, who were both deceived by a third. Between them they soon discovered that it must have been Rose who had sacrificed herself.
“And Edouard has never been here since,” said Josephine.
“And never will, madame.”
“Yes, he shall! there must be some limit even to my feebleness, and my sister’s devotion. You shall take a line to him from me. I will write it this moment.”
The letter was written. But it was never sent. Rose found Josephine and Jacintha together; saw a letter was being written, asked to see it; on Josephine’s hesitating, snatched it out of her hand, read it, tore it to pieces, and told Jacintha to leave the room. She hated the sight of poor Jacintha, who had slept at the very moment when all depended on her watchfulness.
“So you were going to send to HIM, unknown to me.”
“Forgive me, Rose.” Rose burst out crying.