“Are you alone here?” he asked.
“Yes; my father and mother will have nothing to say to me—and there is no one else—I mean no one else that I would have.”
He breathed more freely.
“You must not say your life is over,” he replied. “Your life in society is over, it is true, but there is something much better than that which you may now begin. Be sure that if you wish to do right it is still possible for you.”
“Ah, but I can’t trust myself.” she sobbed. “It will be so very difficult all alone.”
“Leave that for God to arrange,” he said. “Your part is to trust to Him and try your best to do right. Tell me, do you not know my friend Donovan Farrant, the member for Greyshot?”
She brushed the tears from her eyes and looked up more quietly.
“I met him once at a country house in Mountshire,” she said, “He and his wife were there just for two days, and they were so good to me. I think he guessed that I was in danger then, for one day he walked with me in the grounds, and he spoke to me as no one had ever spoken before. He saw that my husband and I had quarreled, and he saw that I was flirting out of spite with—with—well, no matter! But he spoke straight out, so that if it hadn’t been for his wonderful tact and goodness I should have been furious with him. And he told me how the thing that had saved him all through his life was the influence of good women; and just for a few days I did want to be good, and to use my power rightly. But the Farrants went away, and I vexed my husband again and we had another quarrel, and when he was gone down to speak at Colonel Adair’s election, I went to stay, against his wish, at Belcroft Park; and when I had done that, it seemed as if I were running right down a steep hill and really couldn’t stop myself.”
“But now,” said Charles Osmond, “you must begin to climb the hill once more. You must be wondering through all this time what was the errand that brought me here. I brought you this letter from a little Norwegian girl—Swanhild Falck. In the midst of your great trouble I dare say her trouble will seem very trifling, still I hope you will be able to release her from her promise, for it is evidently weighing on her mind.”
“That’s another instance of the harm I do wherever I go,” said poor Blanche, reading the letter, “and in this case I was really trying to undo the past, very foolishly as I see now. Tell Swanhild that she is quite free from her promise, and that if it has done harm I am sorry. But I always do harm! Do you remember that story of Nathaniel Hawthorne’s about the daughter of the botanist, who was brought up on the juices of a beautiful poison-plant, and who poisoned with her breath every one that came near her? I think I am like that.”