“Well, she’s brought it all on herself,” he said. “There is no doubt whatever that she is guilty, and how the jury disagreed I’m sure I don’t know.”
Charles Osmond did not stay to discuss the matter, but made the best of his way to George Street, and sent in his card with a request that Lady Romiaux would, if possible, see him on a matter of business.
In a minute or two he was ushered into a drawing-room, which had the comfortless air of most lodging-house rooms; standing on the hearthrug was a young, delicate-looking girl; for a moment he did not recognize her as the Lady Romiaux whose portraits were so well known, for trouble had sadly spoiled her beauty, and her eyelids were red and swollen, either with want of sleep or with many tears.
She bowed, then meeting his kindly eyes, the first eyes she had seen for so long which did not stare at her in hateful curiosity, or glance at her with shrinking disapproval, she came quickly forward and put her hand in his.
“For what reason can you have come?” she exclaimed; “you of all men.”
He was struck with the wild look in her great dark eyes, and intuitively knew that other work than the delivery of little Swanhild’s letter awaited him here.
“Why do you say, ‘Of all men’ in that tone?” he asked.
“Because you are one of the very few men who ever made me wish to do right,” she said quickly. “Because I used sometimes to come to your church—till—till I did not dare to come, because what you said made me so miserable!”
“My poor child,” he said; “there are worse things than to be miserable; you are miserable now, but your very misery may lead you to peace.”
“No, no,” she sobbed, sinking down on the sofa and hiding her face in her hands. “My life is over—there is nothing left for me. And yet,” she cried, lifting her head and turning her wild eyes toward him, “yet I have not the courage to die, even though my life is a misery to me and a snare to every one I come across.”